summary: adopting a retired police dog from the local station seemed like a good idea. late night cuddles on the couch, early morning barks to start the day, and long runs in the park are now a normal part of bradley's routine. but what happens when his furry friend takes off one morning, leash slipping through his hand, and instead barreling towards someone new?
warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, unprotected sex, semi-public sex (not really but kinda), dry humping (i'm a freak), hand job, fingering, reader is shorter/smaller than bradley (he looks down at reader and picks reader up), strangers to lovers (guys don't fall for the cute guy with a dog ruse unless it's bradley), no use of y/n
word count: 11.1k
a/n: been a fiend for bradley ever since watching topgun again in theaters. that mustache does things to me... also this a very bradley centered fic! loved exploring him as a character in this! enjoy! :)
masterlist
Bradley doesn't know what stopped him on his way off base. Usually, he's barreling towards the exit, can't wait to get home and start his weekend, even if that means reruns of old sitcoms and quiet nights on his back patio alone. Maybe it was the bright pink of the poster, contrasting against the dark navy blue, kaki tan, and army green of the base. Or maybe it was the fact that the piece of paper was dead center on the communal bulletin board. But, ultimately, Bradley's pace slows as he gets closer to the board and catches sight of a picture of a group of German shepherds, all lined up in perfect order, but still somehow looking so happy.
Adopt me! Come by the Coronado Police Station this weekend to meet your new best friend!
Bradley pauses as he reads over the text, taking in the place, date, and time. Tomorrow morning, a fifteen-minute drive from his small two-bedroom house. He doesn't know why, but he reaches into his back pocket to take out his phone, snapping a quick picture. Bradley looks over his shoulder, seeing if anyone has caught him in the act. And just as quickly as he had stopped, he was off again.
The drive home should feel like any other; wind in his hair, aviators over his eyes blocking the rays of the setting sun, and soft classic rock from the radio. But Bradley couldn't help but feel like something was missing.
Phoenix went on and on today about how her family is visiting her for the weekend, saying how excited she is to see her parents again. Bradley smiled at her, genuinely happy at the news.
Bob had talked about staying in with his girlfriend this weekend, saying they were going to try out a new recipe of banana bread they saw on the Food Network earlier this week. Bradley had hummed, telling Bob to save him a slice and to bring it in on Monday.
Jake had even told Bradley about the long run he was going on with a few of the newest TOPGUN class recruits, saying he was going to put them through hell this weekend. Bradley just laughed and grimaced at this, thankful his time in the program hadn't been led by someone as ruthless as one of his best friends.
But as the keys hit the small dish on his counter, Bradley couldn't help but tune into the creaks and groans of his house. Nothing else, just the small and quiet sounds. Even as he cooked dinner that night, the boiling of the pasta seemed drowned out by the stillness of the kitchen, of everything that surrounded Bradley. The episode he had seen at least three times now seemed to go in one ear and out the other. Bradley only heard his breathing and the occasional dripping of the faucet.
The hot summer nights were grueling. Not only due to the heat of his sticky skin against the now warm sheet, but also because Bradley could hear every little bug from the window above his bed. Cicadas seemed to chirp, grasshoppers seemed to sing, and if he listened closely, he could even sometimes hear the buzzing of the fireflies. Too quiet, but so loud. Loudness from the wrong sounds, the ones nobody noticed. Loudness from the beating of his heart from underneath his skin. Loudness of the crinkling sheets beneath his grasp. Loudness from the unsteady breath that escaped his lips.
Reaching for his phone, Bradley looked at the most recent picture in his camera roll. Swiping out and clicking the clock icon, he set an alarm for 8 AM sharp.
ąŖāā“
Bradley pulls into the parking lot and takes in the sight around him. Cars are already packed in the lot, despite it only being 5 minutes since the adoption event started. Minivans and SUVs are taking up most of the spots; his Bronco seems out of place among the other cars. The California sun is barely starting to warm up the air, but Bradley knows in an hour he'll be thankful for the loose Hawaiian shirt he wears.
Off to the right side of the building, he can hear children laughing and dogs barking. Tucking his keys in his back pocket, he makes his way towards the noise.
Like he suspected, families are standing around chatting with volunteers in bright pink shirts, the same pink on the poster from the base. Kids are wide-eyed and fascinated with all of the dogs they see. It's not just German shepherds, but smaller dogs too, and all types of breeds. He wonders why his poster only had the proud-looking line-up when there were so many other options.
But like a man on a mission, Bradley peers over the crowd of people and spots K-9 in big black letters near the middle of the scene. Sending small smiles and tapping his left hand anxiously on the side of his thigh, Bradley weaves through the crowd. Taking in the well-behaved group of dogs before him, he settles down a bit. There's only one volunteer over in this area, a woman with her back turned away from him. It only settles him more, giving him the space to really look over the animals. Some of the dogs are panting, as if being out on the grass has somehow exhausted them. Others are playing with each other, rolling around, and showing their bellies. But one dog sits near the woman, curled in on itself, head tucked into her side.
Without meaning to, Bradley watches this dog, missing the way the woman looks at him fondly.
"He's just a little shy, but I promise he's a good boy," your voice snaps him out of his trance.
Bradley doesn't think he's ever thought so hard about what to say next. You have a soft look on your face, eyes darting back and forth between him and the dog that sits so close to you. The morning light is peeking out from beneath the tree branches, golden rays dancing across your skin. Bradley is glad he doesn't have his sunglasses on right now.
"What's his name?" Bradley walks closer to you, and you turn your body towards him. The dog next to you perks up a bit at the movement.
You smile a little before saying it, "Ducky." Seeing the way his brows raise, you laugh a bit. "He's just a bit of an odd pup out, thought the name suited him."
Bradley couldn't help but feel like it was fate. Ducky and Rooster. It was almost laughable.
"You said he's shy," Bradley led on, looking up to you as he sat on his haunches next to the dog.
"Yeah," you hummed. "Definitely my sensitive boy out of the group. These guys are retiring K-9, but Ducky has a bit of a soft side, wasn't trained properly as a puppy." Your voice seemed to waver a bit at the end of your sentence.
Bradley watched as your throat bobbed before you spoke again. He could tell where this conversation was going, but didn't want to interrupt. The look in your eyes was fiercely protective.
"He was abused by his first owner. So he has some PTSD tendencies. Hyper vigilant, can get really avoidant and shy, whines a lot when he's feeling anxious," you tell Bradley, petting the dog softly.
But nothing in your expression tells him that you don't care for this dog, that you think he's broken because of all of these things. It makes his heart beat a little quicker.
"But Ducky's a good boy. You just have to put some work in to see that." As you say his name again, Ducky peeks out from where he's hiding in your side. You smile a bit at this, ruffling his ears. "You wanna say hi to the sweet man?" you ask in a soft voice, like you're talking just to the dog, like Bradley's not right next to you, hearing every word.
He holds his hand out slowly, knowing not to move too fast. "Hey, Ducky. I'm Bradley." As soon as he says it, he feels a bit silly. But the way your smile deepens makes him continue. "Looking for a home, buddy? I got a nice backyard."
"Oh, he'll love that. Runs around like a bunny when he's all riled up," you told him with a smile on your face, now looking only at Bradley.
Bradley smiles at that, only imagining the life this dog could bring to his quiet house.
Finally, Ducky nudges his outstretched hand, sniffing it first, then licking it softly. He hears you gasp lightly at the action, nothing big though, trying not to disrupt the moment.
"He never does that," you offer. Bradley can see your head shaking slowly as Ducky continues to push into the man in front of you.
Bradley feels his heartbeat steady. It's quiet around him. Even with the squealings of the children around him and the barking of the other dogs, Bradley only hears the little laps of Ducky's tongue against the skin on his hand. But this quiet is something he can get used to, something that grounds him.
"It's a 150 dollar adoption fee, right?" Bradley asks, not tearing his eyes away from the dog in front of him. Ducky's big brown eyes seem to bore into his soul, making him ask the question before even thinking about what he's saying.
You bite your lip before speaking, trying to hide the big grin on your face, even though you know Bradley can't see it. "Um, no fee for him. I already took care of it."
Your words confuse Bradley. He looks over to you for an answer but sees clearly why you had paid the fee yourself.
Quickly, a hand comes up to your cheek as you wipe the stray tear away from your face. "I just didn't want anything to deter someone from taking him home." Bradley's heart clenches at this as you offer him a smile and you fan your eyes.
"Well, what do you say, Ducky? Wanna come home with me?" Bradley finds himself talking to the dog again, not feeling as silly this time around.
ąŖāā“
Bradley looks at the large, fluffy cream colored dog bed lying next to his and the brown wicker box overflowing with colorful chew toys with a small smile. Ducky had been a little hesitant to leave your side at first when he realized what was happening, but with some whispered assurance and a kiss on the tip of his wet nose from you, he jumped into Bradley's Bronco, settling in the passenger seat.
Ducky had whined when Bradley peeled out of the parking lot. The man had glanced over at Ducky as he stuck his head out of the window and looked in your direction. His eyes found your figure in the mirror, blue denim, and a sweet pink-colored top catching his eye. He saw the way you brought one hand up to your heart, and as the other wiped at your cheeks. You loved this dog, every bit of your being told him that.
Bradley couldn't help but feel bad as the dog's whines continued throughout shopping for essentials, the drive home, and the arrival at his house.
Ducky had opted to lie in Bradley's brown leather chair as soon as they got into the house, and he decided to take it as a good sign. But as the day continued, Ducky had barely left the spot, and small cries were coming every few minutes.
Opening up the sliding glass door to his backyard, Bradley called Ducky over, beckoning him to come out and play. But the swings of the bright blue and purple rope and the energetic movements from Bradley weren't doing anything to move Ducky from his spot.
Even when making dinner, Ducky had barely budged from his spot on the recliner. With the wafting scent of the food on the stovetop, Bradley was sure that Ducky would appear by his side sooner rather than later. But nothing came of it, even with the temptation of a seared ribeye with Ducky's name on it.
He had tried speaking softly like he had seen you do earlier that day, but Bradley didn't want to push the poor dog more than it seemed like he already did. Instead, he turned on the television and sat in the company of the shy dog.
It wasn't until Bradley was tucked under his sheets that he heard the faint noise of shuffling paws on his hardwood floors. Ducky sat next to the side of the bed, noticeably avoiding lying on the dog bed next to him. Bradley laughed quietly at this, furrowing his brows a bit.
He wasn't quite sure what to do, to be honest. Growing up, he never had dogs or cats or anything of that sort in the house. He figured it was hard enough being a single mother of a toddler; the added stress of an animal just wasn't feasible in his situation.
Sure, his friends growing up had dogs. He recalled throwing around a tennis ball with one of his friends and their black lab in their backyard almost every day during the summer before 7th grade. But Bradley had never lived with a dog. Never had to deal with big brown eyes looking at him as he lay underneath the sheets.
"You okay, buddy?" he asked in the otherwise quiet room.
To this, Ducky started whining.
"Oh, come on. I thought we got over that a few hours ago," Bradley groans, rolling up to sit in his bed now.
Bradley was man enough to admit it was hard to drag Ducky away from you during the adoption this morning. Ducky's whines as you gave him a few last pets and spoke gently to him, did tug on Bradley's heartstrings. Bradley was sure the dog next to him couldn't stop thinking about your kind eyes and sweet disposition; he certainly couldn't.
Bradley's hands were rougher than yours. He felt the softness as you handed the leash to him this morning. You had explained to him a routine that Ducky usually had with the unit, your hands animated as you looked between the pair in front of you with a smile. Occasionally, one would come down to rub the top of his head. Ducky was probably missing that, missing you.
On top of that, when Bradley smiled at the dog next to him, he couldn't help but think of how goofy he looked compared to you. Your smiles were gentle, drawing him and Ducky in from a few feet away. He could tell you had that kind of magnetism, that kind of energy that just took hold of people and didn't let go. Bradley struggled to think of what the dog in front of him thought as he shot him another small smile.
And Bradley couldn't let go of the way you switched from talking to him to Ducky. How you had described Bradley with a soft tone and warm look in your eyes. You didn't even know him. How did you settle on "sweet man" from what Bradley was giving you this morning? It was a little too mind-boggling to think about for too long.
Shaking away the memories of this morning, Bradley was brought back to the dog that sat at his side. With a small sigh, he pointed to the bed next to him. "That's your bed, Ducky. It's time to go to sleep."
This only got him louder whines.
Bradley sighed and shook his head. He felt clueless.
"Do you want to come up here?" he tried, patting the comforter near his feet.
Within seconds, Ducky was jumping onto the bed and taking claim to the opposite side of the bed.
"Unbelievable. I try to get you to listen all day, and this is what you respond to," Bradley laughed as he looked at Ducky with a smile, not able to get mad at the dog as he cuddled up similarly to this morning with you.
The whines had stopped now, replaced with steady breathing and a small huff. The buzzing of the bugs outside his window that seemed so loud yesterday was now quiet. Bradley was only keying in on the ups and downs of Ducky's chest, something more grounding than he realized.
"Alright, Ducky. Time for bed," Bradley spoke again to the dog, stroking the fur on his back gently. Lying his head back down on his pillow and continuing his movements, Bradley was asleep within minutes. Soft snores from both him and Ducky fill the house with a comfortable, peaceful energy.
ąŖāā“
It was a bit daunting at first. That first week with Ducky was definitely a learning curve. Trying to adjust his routine to best suit the dog's needs hadn't been quick or easy.
The first morning, Bradley woke up to licks on his face and playful growling. At first, Bradley thought Ducky wanted attention, some pets, and cuddles. But as soon as he sat up in bed, Ducky was bolting to the front door.
Sitting in front of the door with the green leash in his mouth, Ducky whined as Bradley slowly made his way down the hallway.
Still adorned in his slippers and ratty college football shorts, Bradley closed the front door and took off with Ducky as the sun rose in the distance. After a few minutes of tugging Bradley down the block, Ducky broke out into a trot, urging Bradley to keep up with him.
That's how Bradley ended up running barefoot in his neighborhood at 5 in the morning, slippers in one hand and leash in the other. He had passed Mrs. Greene, Mrs. Johnson, and Mrs. Nguyen on their morning aerobic walk with a small nod and smile. The older ladies had laughed at the scene, something Bradley couldn't help but join in on.
An hour later, they ended up back at Bradley's house. This time, Ducky barked happily as he opened the sliding glass door out to his backyard, running circles in the yard much like you had said he would. Bradley found himself watching with a disbelieving smile on his face, wishing he could somehow tell you that you were right.
A few weeks later, Bradley runs shirtless, tennis shoes on his feet now, with Ducky on an early May morning. The sun is just starting to peak out from the greenery lining the trail they take every morning. Bradley's grateful for the cool morning air as sweat wicks at his lower back and hairline. A combination of the morning dew and perspiration rolls down the muscles of Bradley's body as he jogs.
Suddenly, Ducky pauses once they reach the familiar park. Bradley looks down at his dog and then up to see what he could possibly be stopping for.
Seeing nothing but the group of older women with small hand weights and crows in the trees, Bradley bends down to Ducky's level. "What's up, buddy? What do you see?"
But as soon as Bradley settles down next to the dog, Ducky's leash is slipping through his fingers. He reaches out to grab onto anything, his dog, his collar, his leash, but ends up grasping at the air instead. Ducky is taking off in a sprint before him.
Rising to his feet and going after him. Bradley swears under his breath and calls out loudly, "Ducky!"
He finds himself weaving through the playground, wood chips kicking up in his wake. But his eyes widen as Ducky zeroes in on a group of women at the edge of the park.
He sees them all stretched down in downward dog as Ducky gets closer and closer. Again, Bradley calls out, "Ducky!"
At this, he sees a few heads turn towards the sound of his voice. But only one woman looks in the direction of the blur of fur coming straight for her. A yelp is heard as Ducky barrels into her, knocking her from her place on the mat. Gasps are heard from the surrounding women, and Bradley's chest heaves as he sprints to catch up to his dog and pull him off the stranger.
But as he gets closer, his heart calms at the sound of laughter. Ducky is lying on top of this poor woman, but at least he's not attacking or barking or anything of that sort. No, he's just licking and nuzzling into the figure on the ground.
"I am so sorry. I don't," Bradley gets out quickly, stuttering a bit as he looks around at the group with an apologetic smile. "He never runs away like that, I'm sorry. Ducky, get over here!"
But the dog stays put, and the laughter doesn't stop. But finally, Ducky is pushed up from the figure on the ground, and Bradley's heart races once more when he sees your face peeking out from behind the ball of fur.
"Oh, it's you." He doesn't know why he says it, but it comes from him like a breath of relief.
You laugh at this, not even taking in the way Bradley scolds himself at the odd behavior.
"And it's you and Ducky!" Your attention is on the dog in front of you, petting him and smiling brightly, only glancing up at Bradley once before returning to the panting dog rather than the panting man.
Bradley kneels down next to you, sweat still rolling down his skin. He doesn't catch the way your cheeks flush as you take in his build. Muscles are a mix of the perfect summer tan and red rosy dusting, no doubt from the sprint he took off on to get here. His arms strain as they go behind him, veins jumping out from his skin. From this position, his tight stomach is also on full display, ridges and divots begging for your attention.
What you don't realize is that Bradley is doing the exact same thing to you, drinking you in fully. You're in flow yoga pants, calves peeking out from the wide-legged flare of the pants. And your top half is barely hidden, only wearing a sports bra, pretty and pink like the top he had seen you in a month ago. The straps dig into your shoulders, and Bradley takes in the swell of your breasts as he follows the scoop of the top.
A bark from Ducky snaps you both back into reality. Some of the women around you laugh.
"You guys seem to be doing well," you spoke softly, voice just as sweet as Bradley remembered.
"Mm, yeah. We've got our routine now, he's been great," Bradley tells you, reaching to pet his dog.
You watch the action fondly, seeing the way Ducky leans into his touch now. The moment is sweet and completely yours, at least that's what it feels like as you and Bradley make eye contact and share small smiles. But a voice clearing is heard as you and Bradley remember where you are.
You turn to a young woman next to you, speaking quicker than Bradley has ever heard before from you. "I'm gonna go with them, I'll be back soon." She nodded at you with a gleaming look in her eye that Bradley didn't quite understand. But you turned quickly towards him, grabbing Ducky's leash and apologizing to the other women around you.
As soon as you had walked away from the group, they resumed their positions, some of them craning their necks to watch the scene a few feet away from them unfold.
"I'm so sorry about that, again," Bradley told you, grimace on his face as you handed him the leash.
But you just shook your head and smiled. "No, no. It was nice seeing you guys again. I was wondering how he was doing with you," you told him. Bradley hoped you didn't catch the way he swallowed hard at your words. Leaning down a bit, your hand came down to Ducky's face. "But you like the sweet man, huh? I knew you would."
Bradley's cheeks flush at the repetition of your description of him, yet again.
The sun paints everything a nice golden color, pinks in the sky still dancing a bit in the distance. But Bradley can't peel his eyes away from you, and it seems like you are having the same problem.
"I should probably get back." Your head is pointing in the direction of the class, now moving through another pose.
"Yes, yeah. Sorry," he doesn't know why he apologizes, but the smile on your face doesn't make him think about it for long.
"Well, bye, Ducky. And bye..." you lead off, looking for him to pick up the end of your sentence.
"Bradley," he says, hoping you say it back to him.
"Bye, Bradley," you tell him, turning away from the pair, but not before sending them one last glance over your shoulder. And Bradley doesn't realize how long he stands there and hangs onto your words, only focusing on the way his name sounded coming out of your mouth. It had never sounded better, sounded sweeter from you.
Begrudgingly, he turns, ushering Ducky to follow him.
"I know, Ducky. Come on," he says, starting off in a slow jog as his dog turns back and begins to follow him. But as the day continues, Ducky's whining starts up again, and Bradley can't help but think of you.
ąŖāā“
Pool balls clack up against each other as Bradley misses yet another wide-open shot.
"Jesus, Rooster," Jake laughs loudly. "Missing your dog so much you can't even focus on one little game of pool?"
It was partly true. It was Bradley's first night out since getting Ducky; he had been opting to spend the nights and weekends at home with the dog rather than out drinking with the squad.
But before Bradley could defend himself, mouth already opening to fire back, Bob had cut in, "No, he's definitely distracted because of the girl."
Bob sipped his soda innocently as the group of pilots turned in his direction with peaked interest.
Looking at Bradley, Bob grimaced; he was always a little loose-lipped after his 3rd soda of the night. "Shoot. Sorry, Bradley."
This set off a chain of questions from the group as Bradley's head hung low, hand coming up to the back of his neck to rub harshly at the skin.
Bradley had confessed his feelings to the WSO earlier this week, not being able to get the image of you out of his brain the entire weekend after Ducky had run you down in the park. He just had to tell someone, and Bob seemed like the logical choice. Smart, level-headed, in a stable relationship. But the words from the WSO only sent him into a spiral as he had finished describing you.
"Sounds like your perfect woman."
Bob's voice seemed to be on repeat the entire week. And God, he was right. You were perfect. More importantly, Bradley felt like he was going through withdrawal. Every time he looked at Ducky, he thought of you. He reasoned that getting out of the house and spending some time with his friends would be good for him.
Evidently, his secret being outed wasn't what he had in mind for tonight.
"Idiots, shut it!" Phoenix's voice rang out above the others. The group was now silent, all looking to the woman. "What girl?" she asked hesitantly.
With a sigh, Bradley's shoulders slumped. "The woman who I got Ducky from. I ran into her again last week, doing yoga at the park on one of our morning runs. And I don't know," he says, face twisting, not even sure why he's volunteering this information to his friends. "I just... I can't stop thinking about her."
The group is silent, understanding and hearing the sincerity in Bradley's voice.
Jake lets out a whistle at this. "Let's get you another drink, lover-boy." And at this, the group seems to hum in agreement.
The blonde clamps a hand down on his shoulder, guiding him to the bar.
"And you don't have her number?" Jake asks as they weave through the crowds of people.
"No, man. I mean, I don't even know her name. The adoption paperwork happened quicker than I expected, and I was just standing there like a dumbass the second time," Bradley grumbles, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
"Yikes. Any chance she's gonna do yoga again this week?" Jake asked as they sat at two open seats.
"I looked, it said the yoga happens the first Saturday of every month. So, I just have to wait," Bradley explained, feeling a little embarrassed at the admission.
"A month?! Good luck, my friend. You've gone crazy after only a week," Jake laughed. Bradley rolled his eyes at this and groaned, knowing Jake's words held some truth to them.
"Hello, gentlemen. I've got a drink here for you, Lieutenant Bradshaw," Penny's voice makes Bradley's head snap up. Her hand is pointing in across the bar, and when he follows it, he can't help but swear.
"Holy shit," Bradley laughs, turning to Jake with a smile and wide eyes.
"Holy shit, that's her?" Jake asked, looking at you and your friend at the opposite side of the bar, taking in the way she poked your sides and laughed.
"That's her," he spoke breathlessly. Penny grinned at the scene unfolding in front of her.
"Go, dumbass. Go!" Jake pushed him off the barstool, both hands guiding him in your direction.
Bradley recognized the girl sitting next to you, the same one at the yoga class the other day; she was probably your best friend if he was guessing. The way you smiled at her, cheeks flushing as she spoke, and sent you a wink made Bradley giddy. She grabbed her purse and hopped off the stool, gesturing for him to come take her spot before squeezing your hand and leaving.
"Hey," he says, sitting next to you, disbelief on his features.
"Hey, you," you tease back. "Are you in the Navy?"
Bradley takes in the way your eyes narrow at him, like you're trying to put pieces together. He nods and smiles, "I am, TOPGUN graduate."
"So you saw the poster I put up? For the K-9 unit?" You were smiling brightly now, like you had guessed correctly.
"I did. The pink's what got me." Bradley's eyes met yours. This conversation seemed different than all the other you had in the past. Before, you were calm and collected, but here you were excitable and giggly.
"I totally thought you were a firefighter," you spoke honestly. "I put the K-9 posters up at the base, the fire station, and places like this," your finger wagged as you spoke, gesturing to the bar.
"Disappointed?" he asked, a teasing smile on his face.
You held your hands up in faux surrender. "No! Not at all. Impressed actually."
He grinned at this, settling into the conversation more and more. "And what do you do? Not a police officer, right?"
"No, vet actually. I just work pro bono with the police department, specifically for the K-9 unit. Those guys are hard workers, and usually get roughed up after big jobs," you told him with a small smile.
Bradley put together some pieces of his own. How you knew so much about Ducky, why you had gotten so close to him. You had probably gotten to see the pup at his lowest.
Bradley nodded, "Now I'm impressed." You smiled wider at this, laughing at his words.
For the first time since sitting with you, Bradley fully took you in. Your denim shorts that rode up just a bit and your white tank top, the V-neck framing your collarbones and chest perfectly. Your cheeks had a slight blush to them; he couldn't tell whether it was from him or from the fruity drink you seemed to be working on.
Again, you did the same thing. This time, though, Bradley was in a tight white T-shirt and jeans that seemed to strain against his thick biceps and thighs. His hair wasn't as windswept as it had been that day in the park; now it was pushed back slightly, a single curl coming down on the left side of his face.
The squad watched as the two of you talked, Jake practically skipping back to the group to tell them the good news. Every time they glanced over, you and Bradley had gotten closer and closer, fully leaning into each other.
You both sported matching smiles and flushed cheeks the entire night, despite letting both of your drinks sit and become lukewarm. The alcohol couldn't be to blame for the way you were acting.
They saw how Bradley's eyes softened as they met yours. How his shoulders relaxed after each laughing fit. How he opened himself completely in front of you.
You had talked about everything. It seemed to flow so easily out of Bradley, even the hard things. When you asked about his family, you must have noticed the way his face dropped slightly, instantly placing a supportive hand on his thigh. He had told you about his family, the squad, about Maverick. It was nice. You asked questions, not the kind that he had an automatic response for, but ones that made him think.
"Who on the squad is most like a sibling to you?"
"What dish instantly brings you back to childhood?"
And his favorite, "What's your favorite story about your dad?"
He asked you about school, and you indulged him in crazy stories from your early days in the profession. How you had worked out on a farm in Wyoming one summer and helped with the births of calves. It had been a lot more physically exhausting than you would've imagined. How you had studied in Australia for an exchange year, learning all about marine wildlife and how to care for them. The way your eyes lit up when you told him about a baby turtle hatching you had witnessed had him giddy.
You had told him about all the adventures you had gone on and all the ones you wanted to do in the future. Swimming in Baja, Mexico, with the Whale Sharks was at the top of your bucket list, and while Bradley was a bit scared of deep waters like that, he had to admit it didn't sound as scary if you were going to be by his side.
In exchange, he told you a few things about his time in the academy. The risks he had to take on missions, the close calls that happened more often than he would like. He saw the pain this job caused his mom, and he didn't want you to go into this without knowing the risks. But the way you bit your lip and told him that you thought what he was doing was so brave made his heart race and a wide grin break out on his face. You had hit his shoulder lightly at this, saying you were serious, but Bradley just smiled wider.
"Is there anything else I can grab you two tonight?" Penny asked, wiping down a glass as she looked at the pair, effectively popping their bubble.
"Oh gosh, I'm sorry. We stayed way too late," you spoke, digging into your wallet to pull out some bills to give the kind woman.
"Sorry, Penny," Bradley chuckled, handing her a handful of cash before you could even finish fumbling with you wallet. Your eyes met him, mouth about to open to argue, but he just offered you a hand as he hopped off the barstool.
"Goodnight, you two," she called as you both walked out with sheepish smiles.
You hadn't dropped Bradley's hand as you led him through the parking lot to your car. He relished in the warmth and softness; the feeling was vaguely familiar as he recalled the earlier touches from when you had first met.
"This is me," you told him, as moonlight danced across your features. Bradley couldn't help but run his eyes over your face, thinking to himself how beautiful you looked.
"Can I get your number?" he asked brazenly, a tad louder than he needed to. You giggled at this but nodded regardless, hands reaching for his phone as he stared at you.
Despite the cold breeze that came from the ocean just a few meters away from you both, Bradley felt a deep warmth spread in his chest. He opened your car door, closing it softly as you waved through the window. And once you backed out of your spot, Bradley found himself smiling all over again at the paw print stickers on your back window.
ąŖāā“
3 months later...
You and Bradley sprawled out on his couch as the movie finished up in front of you, Ducky sitting by your feet. Lying on Bradley's chest, you couldn't help but listen to his heartbeat beneath you.
These past few months with Bradley had been nothing short of perfect. He had texted you the morning after you had sat at the Hard Deck for hours, asking if you were free for dinner that same night. You remember laughing at his eagerness to yourself, but agreeing nonetheless.
He appeared at your door at 6:30 PM sharp, taking you out to a nice dinner on a beach patio. You teased him about not bringing Ducky, saying you thought they were a package deal, but you quickly paused the teasing after seeing how nervous he was by the way his cheeks flushed brightly.
He asked you about your career out here, only really talking about school last night with you. He said he wanted to learn more about you now. It was more thoughtful than you had expected.
Halfway through the dinner, you moved your chair over to Bradley's side of the table, something that caught a glare from the hostess. But you had to, as you scrolled through pictures and pictures of animals on your phone. You told him each of their names and all the little quirks they had, told him about the family you had worked with, and how much each of these animals meant to people. You hadn't noticed, but he smiled the entire time, not really looking at your phone but instead at the way you lit up when you spoke about the animal you've worked with.
When the date wrapped up, you told him that you'll just have to see his dog another time, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before you closed the door to your apartment. He hadn't seen you peek through the curtains, but you saw the way he pumped his fists like a dork while walking to his car. You couldn't help but fall even harder for the man.
Two days after your first date, Bradley had asked you to meet him in a little coffee shop near your apartment. He had apologized countlessly for the timing, seeing as he had requested 6 AM as the time, saying it was okay if you wanted to wait for the weekend, but his training schedule was just a little hectic at the moment. But you insisted it was okay, saying you had your own share of early mornings too and that you wanted to see him.
As he walked you to your car after a quick coffee and pastry, you smiled at him. Leaning against your car, you tugged him down by the collar of the familiar plain white tee he wore, pulling him in for a kiss. Bradley's hands found purchase on your hips, fingers giddy against your scrubs.
It was the fifth date, and both of you opted for a night in, where he promised to cook for you. It had also been the first time you had been in his apartment, Ducky clinging to your side the entire night.
Bradley had asked you to be his girlfriend before dinner was even finished, too distracted by the way you sat on the countertop to focus on the food simmering around him. You laughed as he flushed from the question and the sound of the smoke alarm going off, but ultimately said yes with a smile as he leaned down, caging you against his firm chest and the cabinets, to capture your lips in a deep kiss before waving a towel in front of the alarm. You couldn't help but laugh as you moved to open the sliding glass door to let the smoke out of the little house and to get some fresh air for yourself, too, after feeling how Bradley's hands rested on your thighs.
Recently, though, you had been having your fair share of sleepovers with the tall aviator. The first time he had slept over, you had shared one too many glasses of wine over sushi takeout from your favorite place downtown. After glancing at the clock and the empty bottle between you, you asked quietly if he wanted to spend the night.
Bradley hadn't ever seen you so shy before, but he figured the rosiness of your cheeks definitely matched his own and said nothing. Instead, he nodded, kissing your forehead sweetly as you further pushed into his hold.
He remembers feeling your soft face up against his bare chest as you dozed off, not being afraid to lean into his side once you had settled under the covers. The smell of your shampoo and lotion was strong, wafting off of you after your shower. Bradley lay there for a few minutes. Not daring to close his eyes, he instead wanted to take you in as you slept on top of him. The combination of your sweet smell and soft skin had the man reeling.
Now you lie on the couch at his apartment, and Bradley sees your eyes blinking away sleep as you curl up to his side. With a kiss pressed to your hair, your eyes widened as Bradley ushered you to the bedroom. Big hands coming up to your sides to support you, strong chest pushed against your back to guide you.
It was the first time you had slept over at his. But after grabbing a quick shower, inspecting all of the hair and body care products he had available, you took your place in bed. Bradley's sheets were softer than yours, and you wondered why it had taken so long to sleep over at his.
But before you were about to call out and ask him, the answer came jumping onto the bed next to you, taking Bradley's spot. You laughed softly as Ducky turned on his back, urging you to rub his tummy.
Getting out of the bathroom, with nothing but a tight towel around his waist, Bradley groaned. You giggled at this, but Bradley shook his head you and Ducky all cuddled up already.
Walking into the small closet on the other side of the room, your eyes tracked Bradley. The way the small towel around his hips was working to show off his deep V-line had you squirming in your spot on the bed. You watched his back muscles push and pull as he rolled his neck and stretched a bit while walking. Maybe you could offer to work out the knots; it'd be a win-win situation for you and your boyfriend.
As he emerged from the closet in nothing but a pair of boxers, you urged yourself to calm down. It wasn't like it was your first time seeing him in this state; you did have sleepovers at your apartment quite often. But it was the first time that you could actually do something about it.
There had been countless times when you and Bradley had been pretty handsy, but all of them seemed to be interrupted. Whether it was an emergency call from the clinic or an alert on Bradley's phone that Ducky had knocked over another vase in the house, something always tore you away in those moments.
You had felt Bradley's frustration, seen it firsthand. The way his jaw ticked each time, and his hands got all grabby before either of you had to leave. You didn't blame him, often finding yourself rubbing your thighs together after your time together was interrupted. Maybe even having a wandering hand shoot down your panties if he was the one who had to go.
But tonight you might have him all to yourself, whether that means deep kisses or holding each other tightly and finding sleep. That was until Ducky refused to move.
"Come on, Ducky, off the bed tonight," Bradley told the dog, standing over him.
"You let him sleep on the bed regularly?" you asked with a playful look on your face. Bradley caught your tone quickly, sending you a lighthearted eye roll.
"Yes, because I love my dog," he spoke, ruffling Ducky's ears.
"But what's the big bed for then?" you questioned again, smile growing bigger with every second.
Bradley wanted to lean over and kiss it off your face. But with the big dog in his way, he just shrugged. "He didn't like it."
You giggled at this, Ducky turning to you at the sound. "Gosh, he's a big softy, huh?" you told Ducky in a sweet tone, something that made Bradley suck his teeth and grin.
But with Ducky's attention elsewhere, Bradley was able to shift the dog to the end of the bed. Getting under the covers, Bradley reached for you automatically. Instead of feeling the cotton of your pajama pants that you usually wear, he instead felt your warm skin.
Seemingly watching the confusion spread across his face, you offered an explanation, "Your sheets are nice. And it's a little hot out."
If nice sheets and 90-degree weather were what it took to get you in the little lacy pink underwear your wore now, Bradley would buy a set in every color and run his heating system even on hot nights like tonight.
But instead, he just hummed, fingers tracing over the lacy trimming of your panties.
On top of this, you wore one of his old Navy shirts. Not expecting to sleep over, you had limited options available. Bradley had never been more thankful.
"Let's go to bed, pretty girl," Bradley told you as he saw the way your eyes started to blink closed again. You nodded sweetly at this and settled under the covers as he turned off the lamp on his nightstand.
Settling under the covers, Bradley's big hands found your stomach, pulling your back into his chest. From this position, sure, his hands could roam all over you, and he could touch anything that begged for his attention. But what stopped him in his tracks was the smell of his body wash on your skin.
It made logical sense. You had showered before getting in bed while he washed up the dishes and straightened the living room, but it didn't hit him until this very moment that you were fully his. The woman he had pined over for a month, not even knowing your name, only remembering your kind eyes and soft touch. Now, you were in his bed, falling asleep next to him in his shirt after washing yourself with his body wash.
What did he do to deserve you? You who cared for animals so much that you made a career out of it. You who held his hand and kissed away his tears when he finally told you about what happened to his father. You, who at every chance were unapologetically yourself, either dancing in the kitchen while making dinner or sobbing your eyes out while watching Marley & Me for the hundredth time.
He loved you. Bradley realized in that moment that he loved you. More than he had ever loved anyone like this before.
At the thought, his hands had squeezed your waist tightly, and you stirred next to him.
"Baby, are you okay?" you asked, voice laced with sleep.
Letting his grip on you loosen, he was quick to come down and kiss your neck in an apology. "Sorry, just thinking about you. Didn't mean to wake you up."
You hum, shifting against him slightly. Your neck is now on full display, and Bradley just couldn't help himself.
Feeling his warm mouth work against your sensitive neck made you squirm against him. Bradley's mouth was relentless, biting and licking underneath your jaw and down the side of your throat. Your breath hitched as he moved a spot near your pulse point, chest rising and falling dramatically.
Bradley's hands wrapped around your stomach once more, but this time, one of his hands snaked underneath your shirt. "Can I touch you like this?" his voice was deep, breath hot against your ear.
"Yes, please," you whispered.
Suddenly, his mouth was back on your throat, and your hips pushed back further into his now hard length. His hand came up to grab your tits. They were in the perfect position for Bradley, who was able to pinch and roll your nipples in between his big fingers.
"Oh gosh, Bradley," you huffed, eyes fully rolled back into your skull as his hand worked against your puffy nipples and he ground his length into your ass.
"Yeah, baby, feels good?" he asked in a cocky coo, watching the way you bit down on your bottom lip and nodded up and down at his words.
Your mouth opened, not quite knowing exactly if you could speak with the way his touch seemed to intensify in mere seconds. But still, you tried, aching for him now, "Touch me, please. Down-"
A loud bark had you jumping out of your skin. Ducky growled at Bradley, starting to shield you protectively.
You laughed at his dog's actions, and Bradley looked at you in disbelief.
"Ducky, down! Off the bed!" Bradley's voice was loud, but it carried no real weight to scare the dog. Ducky instead settled down in between you two, almost pushing Bradley off the bed.
You laughed again.
"This is unbelievable," Bradley scoffed as he threw the covers off his body and got out of bed. From here, you could see the way his length strained under his boxers.
But it wasn't long before Bradley was over at your side of the bed and scooping you up into his arms.
"What are you doing?" you asked, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.
"Trying to give my girl what she wants. This time uninterrupted," Bradley huffed, sending a glare at Ducky on the bed as he carried you outside the bedroom.
But when Bradley closed the door, Ducky only started scratching and barking even louder. You looked at him with a small smile, pressing a kiss to his temple to calm him.
"I've got an idea," he spoke, something dancing in his eyes. "Go open the door to the patio."
"Bradley, no! You can't leave him out there!" you chastised with a small frown on your face.
He hummed, head falling into your shoulder. But just as quick as it fell, it came back up again.
"Okay, you go outside then. Wait for me," he told you, planting a searing kiss on your lips that made you forget any questions you had. Bradley placed you down softly and watched as you padded over to the back patio, underwear now clinging to your skin in a way that almost looked uncomfortable.
But as soon as he heard the click of the sliding glass door shutting. He opened the bedroom door and let Ducky inspect the living room.
"I don't know where she is, buddy," he told the dog, shoulders shrugging, really trying to sell the bit. Ducky sighed and made his way back into the bedroom after a few sniffs and laps around the couch.
After seeing him settle back into the bed and toss and turn for a few minutes, Bradley crept out the back door, swiping the big, soft blanket you liked so much, on his way.
"What'd you do?" you asked the man as he came up to you and draped the blanket around your shoulders.
"He's sleeping. Do you really think so poorly of me?" he teased, hands once again coming to your waist.
"I never said anything," you shot back, failing to hide the small smile on your face.
Bradley walked backwards until he reached the little love seat on his back patio, pulling you down so you were sitting on his lap. You smiled at the eager look on Bradley's face, giggling to yourself.
"Hi," he said, leaning in to press his lips against yours.
"Hi," you teased back, meeting his lips halfway.
Bradley's mouth moved in a delicate, yet passionate way. His hands were planted firmly on your hips; you could feel his thumbs pressing into your skin as the kisses turned more intense. You gasped as Bradley dragged your core across his hard length, cotton rubbing together to create a dizzying friction.
Taking advantage of your open mouth, Bradley pushed his tongue into your mouth, licking into it with urgency. The noise that came out of your throat at his movements was quiet, but Bradley heard it nonetheless. Groaning into your mouth, Bradley moved your hips once more, going a bit crazy at the feeling of your heat against him.
"Come on, baby. Show me how much you need me, huh?" he broke the kiss to speak, eyes searching yours. But all he saw was the gloss already over them as you nodded quickly and threw your arms over his shoulders.
Bradley kissed down your neck as your hips started to move back and forth against his length. Your pace was slow, but he heard the hitches of your breath and decided not to push you just yet. His hands instead crawled up underneath your shirts and began to toy with your nipples again. At this, you captured your bottom lip between your teeth and nuzzled your head into the crook of Bradley's neck.
"So sensitive for me. Doing so good. You like it when I touch you like this?" he asked, nudging your head out from its hiding place.
With another nod of your head, Bradley grabbed your chin, quickly swiping your bottom lip out of its hold.
"Wanna hear you, please, baby," he begged, kissing your face sweetly. It was the exact opposite of how his other hand moved under your shirt, twisting and rubbing your pebbled nipples like they were his own special toys.
"Feels so good, Bradley," you said breathlessly. At the sound of his name falling from your lips, Bradley's hips jumped to meet the steady rhythm of yours. You yelped as he did so, but he was quick to capture your lips in another deep kiss, keeping his hips pressing harshly into your heat through the cotton of both your underwear.
"You're driving me crazy," he confessed, hand coming up to the hem of the old Navy shirt you were wearing. Looking to you for permission, you nodded wordlessly and felt the shirt being taken off your body.
Bradley threw the shirt across the patio and drove straight into your chest, taking one of your nipples between his lips. He lapped and sucked, feeling your hips roll with more urgency across his length at his ministrations.
"So beautiful, baby," he spoke in a low tone before switching to your other breast. One hand snaked around to hold onto your lower back, helping you with the drag. The other pinched at your now wet nipple softly.
"Bradley," you warned, eyes rolling to the back of your head at the combined feeling of his mouth, hands, and hips. The new pressure from the hand on your back was now pushing your hips in the perfect position, feeling his tip make contact with your clit through the cotton.
The man watched as you became consumed with pleasure, lip wobbling as your hips moved back and forth. He felt your fingernails dig into his shoulder blades, surely leaving marks.
His mouth popped off your nipple and made its way up to your open mouth, licking into it once again.
"Gonna come for me, baby? It's okay, I wanna feel you come. I'm right here," he spoke softly to you, watching your brows furrow and face twist.
The words and the intense look in Bradley's eyes made the tension in your tummy snap, hips moving fast to chase your high. You tried collapsing into your boyfriend, but with a firm hand that stayed on your jaw, you were forced upright, looking straight at Bradley as you came on his lap.
Your bare chest heaved as you came down from your high, pressing into Bradley's warm figure. His hand traveled from your lower back up to your hair, stroking it sweetly while placing soft kisses on your hairline.
"Can I feel you?" Bradley asked, fingers now toying with the lace on your underwear again.
"Yeah, but I wanna feel you too," you told him with a small smile on your face, bringing your fingers down to the waistband of his boxers. He chuckled at your actions, but still brought you into a sweet kiss.
Your hands pushed down his waistband and grasped his length in your hands. He was heavy in your hold, twitching as you rubbed a finger down the side of his member, tracing a prominent vein.
"So big," you whispered, more so to yourself, but the way Bradley's fingers moved to push into the front of your underwear made you think he must have heard you, too.
You felt one hand plant firmly on your waist while the other cupped your heat softly. His middle finger circled your entrance, rubbing little circles and spreading the wetness around, something that had you squirming in his hold. Bradley's thumb rubbed similar circles on your clit as you hunched over into his hold.
Your hands worked to rub at his tip, one hand coming up to your mouth to collect some spit, making the movements more fluid. Bradley shuddered as you found a steady pace, feeling your fingers continuously working over his sensitive head.
A finger pressed into your entrance, stretching you in an unfamiliar way. You whined into Bradley's neck at the feeling, tensing up for a moment. But he was quick to keep rubbing little circles against your nub, relaxing your muscles.
The finger pumped in and out of you at the same pace as your hand. Bradley's lips find your neck once more, now breathing heavier and lapping at more of your skin. As you ground down on him further, he moved to push another finger inside your wet entrance.
"Jesus, baby. Feel so fucking good around my fingers. Can't wait to have you on my dick," he groaned, feeling you clench and squeeze around his fingers. You moaned at his words, pushing further into him to rub your breasts against the hard muscles of his chest. Your nipples rubbed harshly against him as you moved your hand more quickly to keep up with the rhythm of his fingers.
"Need you, please, Bradley. Now," you gasped, feeling your stomach wind up again. He nodded at your words, pulling his fingers from your entrance and instead picking you up off his hips, pushing you up against the wood railing of the patio.
"This okay, baby? You okay with me taking you like this?" Bradley asked, referring to your back meeting his chest, taking you from behind. Your stomach jumped at his words as you braced your hands against the railing.
"Yes, please, Bradley." The words were barely off the tip of your tongue when you felt Bradley tug down your underwear, leaving you completely bare in the warm summer breeze. He quickly did the same with his own underwear, fully allowing his member to spring free and rub on your ass.
One of his large hands came to wrap around your hips while the other guided his cock into your entrance. Feeling your breathing pick up, Bradley placed sweet kisses on your neck before whispering, "Breathe for me, baby. I got you."
Taking a deep breath, you exhaled as Bradley pushed into you. It was only his tip at first, but the way you pushed your hips back at the feeling of him drove his hips further, pushing in fully.
Gasping at the stretch, your head lay back on Bradley's broad chest as he snuck his other hand around to toy with your tits. Your nipples were still sensitive from his actions earlier, so this only caused you to push further into his hold.
"Can I move? Are you okay? Need to hear you, talk to me, baby," Bradley told you, kissing the top of your head softly.
"Feels really good, please, Bradley. Need you to move," you complied, as he nodded, pressing his hips into you before drawing out and pushing in again.
You whine as he sets a steady pace. His hands roam all over your body, trying to grab onto every part of you. Your tits, your thighs, your throat. You feel your eyes cross once his thumb lands on your clit once more, squirming and crying out in a nonsensical plea.
Bradley watches as you start to fall apart on him. His hips are moving to piston his hard length into your warm heat, finding it hard not to fully bend you over the railing and have his way with you. Instead, setting a pace that had you crying out every few seconds, mouth open, and eyes closing at his deep movements.
The crude sounds of his hips meeting your ass were filthy and the loudest thing in contrast to the otherwise quiet night. The extra squelching sounds surely come from the previous orgasm you had. Bradley wondered what you tasted like, but he'd have to save it for next time.
"So good, feels so good. My pretty girl," Bradley groaned, head dropping to kiss along your exposed jaw line, hand pushing your tummy to arch you even further into his hold.
You moaned in response, feeling him deeper, feeling more pressure. "For you, only you, Bradley," you told him, head turning to capture his lips in a kiss.
Bradley felt a surge of energy at your words. His thumb worked in tighter circles against your clit, the kind that had you shaking earlier on the loveseat.
"Yeah? This is my pussy, baby? Gonna let me fill you up?" he asked, spit mixing with yours as he bit harshly on your bottom lip.
"Mhm, please. All yours," you cried out as his other hand came to hold across your hips, helping him push you to the edge by bending your frame even more than it already was. Your back arched away from Bradley as your hips and head pushed back to meet his solid body.
"Fuck, baby. Can't say shit like that," he scolded, but his hips kept pounding into you.
Bradley's filthy mouth was somewhat shocking to you. The only other time he had cursed around you was when he had stubbed his toes on the corner of your bed 3 weeks ago. So his words sent a chill down your spine despite the heat of the summer air.
Bradley's thumb stayed in its spot, working your clit and making you twitch and begin to thrash in his hold. But his other arm thrown around your hips made sure that you still felt his deep thrusts.
"Bradley," you breathed out, head tilting back to look at the man. Sweat dripped from his hairline, but he still moved to swoop down and catch you in a searing kiss.
"I got you, I got you. Come for me, baby. Wanna feel you come on my dick." His words pushed you over the edge as he licked into your mouth once more after speaking. The constant rub from his thumb and deep thrusts had you shaking as you worked through your high with him.
Seeing the way your body tensed, your tits bouncing with every movement, and your thighs shaking, had Bradley releasing in you with a low groan. His hips canted into you, slowing down slightly with each thrust, only moving to help you both work through your respective highs.
He had neglected to turn on any porch lights to not alert any neighbors or even Ducky, but the way the moonlight streamed through the trees and painted your features was something Bradley wished he could remember forever. Your lips were still parted, taking labored breaths. Your eyes were glossy, like you were trying to focus and come back into your body. Your cheeks flushed a deeper shade of rosy pink than he had ever seen on you before.
You were beautiful.
Bradley leaned down to kiss your cheek, and he felt you smile against his lips.
"Feeling okay, that wasn't too much, pretty baby?" he asked, genuine concern making his brows furrow.
You moved a thumb up to smooth the creases, kissing him softly on the nose with a small giggle. "Felt really good, Bradley. Gonna need some help walking, for sure though."
He chuckled at this, kissing your lips this time, deep and slow.
"I can help with that," he told you as he pulled out, both of you wincing at the loss. He quickly picked you up bridal style and carried you into the house, only letting your feet touch the ground as he set you down on the edge of the guest room bathtub.
Bradley moved to start the water, running his fingers under it to make sure it wasn't too warm or too cold before plugging the tub.
His big hands came down to frame your face, fingers a little wet, but you leaned into his touch regardless. "Gonna go grab our stuff outside and start a pot of tea and come back, okay?" he asked, searching your eyes. You smiled at him, and he leaned down once more to capture your soft lips between his own, the brush of his mustache making you giggle into the kiss.
"I love you, Bradley," you told him, lip now pulled between your teeth as you looked sheepishly at him.
But the man smiled wider than you had ever seen as he began to pepper kisses all over your face and head. You giggled at this, hands coming up to hold his which still framed your face.
"I love you so much," he told you, coming down to peck your lips once more, but the sound of the whine made you and Bradley turn towards the entrance of the bathroom.
Ducky huffed, lying on the cool hardwood, making you and Bradley laugh.
"We love you too, Ducky," the man teased, sending you a wink as you bit back a grin at the sight in front of you.
summary: you've spent years convincing the bau that your love life is chaotic, casual, and completely detachedāwhile quietly dying every time aaron hotchner looks at you. but when your dating profile attracts the wrong kind of attention and your unit chief is forced to look a little closer, it turns out there are very few things more dangerous than being profiled by the man you're hopelessly in love with.
notes: i've been a little conflicted about posting lately, but... it's my birthday, and i want aaron hotchnerāso here you go! i've been working on this for a while and had a very very smart friend help me with the "profiling" parts (especially reid) so i hope y'all enjoy! i also really wanted to actually write the smut, but this fic hit the block limit so hard and fast it actually hurt. as always, please please let me know what you think!
warnings: swearing / cursing, blushing, italics, reader wears a skirt (and heels), reader has a cat, implied age gap, best friend!reid, some pretentious ranting, horny thoughts, likely incorrect behavioural and psychoanalytical information, likely incorrect technical information (sorry garcia), canon-typical themes (homicide, etc. referred to off page), stalker / stalking behaviour, ambiguous use of "online dating" (because i tried to keep it vaguely around s6/s7 era), kind of rushed ending? and... fade to black / implied sex (iām so sorry) 18+ only still, mdni.
word count: 19001
MONDAY 9:25AM
Working for the FBI means having secrets is difficult. Working with the BAU makes it downright impossible.
Not because your colleagues are nosyāno, theyāre justā¦ perceptive. Which means if you want to keep something to yourself, you need to know how to manipulate their perception. Even if it doesnāt work on all of themāyou glance at Reid, already seated at the round table with his nose buried in a bookāat least it works on most of them.
At least, it works on Aaron Hotchner.
Your boss. Your unit chief. The man who absolutely cannot find out about your big, fat, massively inconvenient, deeply inappropriate crush on him.
Reid glances up from his book as you drop into the seat beside him. āYouāre wearing a skirt.ā
You cross your legs and lean back. āExcellent observation, Reid.ā
āItās impractical,ā he says simply. āEspecially with heels. Your centre of gravity shifts forward by almost fifteen degrees, which shortens your stride length and reduces balance recovery time. Youāre significantly more likely to trip while running.ā
You roll your eyes. āGood thing Iām not planning on fleeing the scene of a crime today.ā
āIgnore boy genius, baby girl,ā Morgan says as he steps into the room, heading straight for the espresso machine. āYou look good.ā
You flash him a grin. āSee? Somebody appreciates me.ā
Reid hums as he glances back down at his book. āInteresting how your clothing choices become statistically less practical in direct correlation to Hotchās proximity.ā
Your stomach flips. āSpence.ā
He lifts one shoulder. āWhat? Heās not listening.ā
You glance back at Morgan, whose eyes are glued to his phone, brow furrowed just slightly as he waits for the whirring coffee machine to fill his cup.
āThatās not the point, Spencer,ā you mutter, turning back to him. āYou need toāā
The conference room door swings open again and Hotch walks ināfiles tucked under one arm, the rest of the team trailing behind him.
āMorning,ā he says, dropping the files on the table. āHope everyone had a good weekend.ā
Morgan snorts. āWhat weekend?ā
āYeah,ā Prentiss mutters, dropping into the seat beside Reid. āI was here until five on Saturday finishing geographical profiles.ā
āThatās because you alphabetise your paperwork,ā you point out.
She gives you a look. āI enjoy being proficient.ā
āWell,ā you say lightly, leaning back in your chair āsome of us managed to finish our paperwork on Friday and still have a very enjoyable weekend.ā
Garcia gasps dramatically as she falls into the last empty chair, coffee in hand. āOoh, look at you. Was there a man involved?ā
You shrug one shoulder, biting back a smile. āIām choosing to plead the fifth.ā
Morgan points across the table. āThat means yes.ā
āOr,ā Reid says without looking up from his book, āit means she enjoys making people speculate.ā
āAw, Spence,ā you tease. āDonāt sound so bitter.ā
He finally looks up from his book and fixes you with a look so flat it borders on threateningābecause he knows what youāre doing. Itās what you always do. Itās how you manipulate their perception. How you keep your secret.
You perform.
You swipe through dating apps, talk about men, brag about your weekends without ever being too specific. You flirt with almost everyone on the teamāReid more than the rest, because heās your scapegoat... and your best friend.
Heās the only one who can see through the charade. Not because heās emotionally perceptive, but because he did the math. He noticed the pattern. He realised very quickly that every time Hotch walks into a room or says your name, you react in a way that can only mean one thing:
Hotch is the secret youāre trying so hard to hide.
Because if you give a team of profilers an easy explanationāharmless flirting with a messy dating life and a weakness for attentionāthey wonāt notice the way your entire body betrays you whenever your infuriatingly gorgeous boss gets too close.
Hotch clears his throat. āWell, lucky for all of you, itās a quiet week.ā
Reid shuts his book and sets it on the table.
āNo active cases as of this morning,ā Hotch continues. āWhich means weāll be catching up on consults, court reports, and the mountain of paperwork everyoneās apparently been neglecting.ā
His eyes meet yours for the briefest second, and your pulse skitters.
āIām bored already,ā Morgan sighs, leaning back in his chair.
Hotch ignores him. āWeāve got two local consult requests from Fairfax County and a follow-up review from the Richardson case. Dave, Iāll need your notes finalised by this afternoon.ā
Rossi nods once. āYouāll have them.ā
āGarcia,ā Hotch continues, āthe Milwaukee office wants that digital forensic review by Wednesday.ā
Garcia gasps softly, pressing a hand to her chest. āBut I already colour-coded my entire week. That review wasnāt supposed to be due for another fortnight.ā
Morgan blinks. āYou colour-code your schedule?ā
āObviously,ā Garcia says. āHow else would I maintain my sparkling personality under crushing institutional pressure?ā
Reid straightens. āTechnically, organising information activates the same reward pathways asāā
āDonāt,ā Prentiss says immediately.
Reid frowns slightly. āI was just going to say gambling.ā
You snort softly before you can stop yourself, covering it quickly with your hand. Reid shoots you a look. Prentiss just shakes her head. And when your eyes finally flick back to the front of the room, Hotch is already watching you.
Not the team. You.
Your stomach twists.
That signature Hotchner scowl should not be as hot as it is. It shouldnāt make you cross your legs a little tighter or make your heart race the way it does. You should be used to that scowl by now. Youāre on the receiving end of it often enoughāwhenever you crack a poorly timed joke or flirt a little too hard with Morgan.
Yet somehow, you still feel like you canāt breathe until his gaze finally shifts.
āMoving on,ā he says evenly, āJJ will forward the consult details after the meeting.ā
He spends the next thirty minutes briefing the team on consults and court appearances while you do your best to stay focusedābut itās hard. Itās hard because every time you look at him, your gaze drops to his mouth and your mind fills with all sorts of filthy ideas. Then he starts moving his hands as he explains something and you canāt help but wonder what they might feel like wrapped around your waist, your thighs, your throat.
His voice is a low rumble at the back of your mind, warm and firm, but you have no idea what heās actually saying. All you can do is think about how that voice might sound, wrecked and rough, telling you how pretty you look when youā
āThe briefing ended three minutes ago,ā Reid says.
You blink hard. āWhat?ā
He closes his notebook with a sigh. āThe meetingās over. You can stop internally monologuing now.ā
You frown. āIām notāā
He gives you a look.
āUgh,ā you groan. āYouāre so annoying.ā
You push up from your chair and walk out of the conference room without waiting for him, but youāre not surprised that heās right behind you by the time you reach the bullpen. You drop down at your desk with another indignant huff, watching Reid do the same from the corner of your eye.
Everyone else is already settled at their desksākeyboards clicking, pens scribblingāand thereās a fresh stack of files next to your computer with a sticky note on top that reads: Fairfax files. Prioritize pages 12ā18. ā Hotch.
You want to laugh at the little sign-off, as if anyone else would have put these files on your desk. Your fingers trace over the note once before you peel it off and stick it to the bottom corner of your computer screen.
Reid snorts. āYou know most people throw those away, right?ā
You glance sideways at him. āI donāt want to forget the page numbers.ā
He hums. āSure.ā
āYou know,ā you say, turning your chair to properly face him, āyouāre being particularly judgemental today. Whatās your problem?ā
He stares at you for a moment, then glances back at the sticky note still attached to your monitor.
āIām experiencing prolonged second-hand embarrassment,ā he says plainly. āAnd repeated exposure tends to increase irritability.ā
You roll your eyes. āYeah, wellāyouāre increasing my irritability.ā
āExactly,ā he says, already turning back to his computer.
You glare at the side of his head for a long moment, searching for a comebackābut your mind is completely blank. So with another irritated sigh, you turn back to your own screen, scoot your chair into the desk a little harder than necessary, and settle in for whatās shaping up to be a very boring Monday.
The next two hours pass by in a blur of interview transcripts, witness statements, and crime scene photos. The Fairfax County PD files detail the death of a woman in her late thirties who accidentally overdosed in her Reston home early last week. No prior history of substance abuse, financial instability, or high-risk behaviourāuntil forty-eight hours before her death.
In just two days, she withdrew a large amount of money, missed work without explanation, visited several bars sheād never been to before, and bought herself thousands of dollarsā worth of expensive jewellery and lingerie.
To anyone else, it might look like some sort of breakdownāan impulsive spiral that led to the kind of recklessness you canāt come back from. But to you, the behaviour feels too... artificial. As if someone is trying to construct the narrative of a troubled womanāchecking all the right boxes to give investigators an easy explanation for a tragic overdose.
Only there isnāt enough concrete evidence to support your instinct. No stalker. No ex. No clear unsub who could have orchestrated this kind of ruse to cover what might actually be homicide.
You sigh. āReid.ā
āHm?ā
āTell me if Iām overthinking this.ā
Reid pushes back from his desk and scoots across the narrow stretch of carpet between your workstations. He doesnāt stop until his chair bumps the side of your desk, causing your pen cup to topple over and spill across the files youāve got carefully laid out.
āOops,ā he says absently, pushing the pens aside.
You roll your eyes and start gathering them while he scans the files.
āThe behavioural shift feels manufactured,ā you say, dropping the pens back into their cup. āBut thereās enough legitimate stressors here that I canāt tell if Iām forcing a pattern because itās too clean.ā
Reid examines the highlighted timeline for another few seconds.
āYouāre focusing too much on the existence of the stressors,ā he says. āStress explains escalation. It doesnāt explain inconsistency.ā
You frown slightly.
āShe suddenly becomes impulsive socially, financially, and sexually, but her organisational habits never change.ā He taps the timeline. āShe still pays bills early. Still meal preps. Still attends a dentist appointment two days before her death. Real behavioural deterioration isnāt usually selective.ā
Your brows lift. āSo, Iām right?ā
Reid nods, leaning back in his chair. āYouāre right.ā
āWhatās she right about?ā
You nearly jump at the sound of Hotchās voiceālow and even, a little rough around the edges in that way that always makes your stomach tighten.
āShe thinks the behavioural shift is staged,ā Reid says. āAnd I agree.ā
He scoots back slightly as Hotch leans in, one hand braced on the back of your chair while the other pulls the file closer so he can read it properly. His tie falls forward, brushing lightly against your thighāand suddenly, you canāt breathe.
Heās close. Way too close. You can feel the heat of his breath on your skin. Smell the bitterness of coffee beneath his cologne. Hear the quiet creak of leather from his belt as he leans in further.
āItās too compartmentalised,ā Reid says, his voice more distant than it was just a second ago. āReal behavioural spirals usually bleed into every aspect of a personās routine. Sleep disruption, missed payments, changes in grooming habits, social withdrawalāsomething.ā
Hotch lifts his hand off the desk and presses his thumb to the tip of his tongueāthen flips the page.
Your pulse jumps so hard it almost hurts. Heat crawls up the back of your neck. Your whole body feels too hot, your clothes suddenly too tight, the bullpen too smallābut you canāt move. Not with Hotchās hand still on the back of your chair.
āBut this is curated,ā Reid goes on, tapping the timeline with the end of his pen. āThe impulsive behaviour escalates while the foundational routines stay completely intact, which suggests intentional narrative construction.ā
Hotch turns his head just slightly, dark eyes finding yours. āYou caught that?ā
You clear your throat. āI just... thought the escalation pattern felt off.ā
āHer behavioural analysis is spot on, actually,ā Reid says. āI canāt find a flaw in it.ā
Hotch hums quietly as his eyes move back over the file.
āGood girl,ā he says absently.
Your entire nervous system short-circuits.
āKeep it up,ā he adds, smoothing his tie as he straightens.
You donāt say anything as he turns and walks away. You couldnāt even if you wanted to.
Reid just sits there, hands folded in his lap as he watches Hotch disappear into his office before slowly turning back toward you.
āYou know,ā he says thoughtfully, āthe age-gap preference is actually more interesting than the authority fixation.ā
You finally blink. āWhat?ā
āBecause the authority thing makes perfect sense. High-pressure careers tend to reinforce attraction to competence, decisiveness, emotional restraintāespecially in workplace environments where leadership qualities become psychologically linked with safety and stability over long periods of exposure.ā
You frown. āWhat are youāā
āBut the older man preference is statistically more complicated because you donāt actually display the attachment markers usually associated with paternal absence or instability.ā
Your eyes go wide. āSpencerāā
āYou have a healthy relationship with your father, no documented authority issues, and relatively secure interpersonal attachment patterns, which suggests the preference is less psychologically compensatory and more rooted in behavioural reinforcement.ā
āReid.ā
āFor example,ā he goes on, ignoring you completely, āyou spent your formative professional years surrounded almost exclusively by older men in positions of intellectual and behavioural authority. Gideon, Rossi, Hotchāwhich likely created a reinforcement pattern where emotional competence became unconsciously associated with attraction, arousal, and sexual interest.ā
You freeze. āReid, I swear toāā
āYou donāt react this strongly to older men generally,ā he continues. āYou react strongly to Hotch because heās emotionally controlled, professionally authoritative, intellectually intimidating, andāā
He pauses, tilting his head.
āVery obviously your type.ā
You glance frantically around the bullpen, scanning the desks for the rest of your team.
Morgan has his headphones on, completely focused on whatever report heās typing. JJās desk is empty, as usualāsheās probably with Garcia. And Prentiss is only halfway back from the kitchen, still stirring her fresh cup of coffee.
Your gaze cuts back to Reid. āYou are so lucky no one heard that, Spencer.ā
He shrugs. āWouldnāt matter if they did.ā
Your brows pull together. āWhatās that mean?ā
āYouāre good at redirecting attention,ā he says, slowly pushing his chair back toward his desk. āYouāre less good at hiding physiological responses.ā
Your hand flies up to your cheek, palm pressing flat against the burning skin.
āWhatever,ā you mutter. āItās warm in here.ā
Reid glances around the bullpen. āItās sixty-eight degrees.ā
āI hate you.ā
āNo you donāt.ā
You shoot him one last glare before turning back toward your computer, aggressively waking up the monitor with your mouse.
You stay chained to your desk for the next few hours, finishing up the victimology report for the Fairfax files before taking them to Rossi for final review. Then you head out with JJ to grab a late lunch from the deli down the street, and when you get back, thereās a brand-new stack of files on your deskāonly this time, with a tall takeaway cup of coffee set on top.
āHotch got dragged into some last-minute Section Chief meeting across town,ā Morgan says, pushing his headphones down. āSaid he needs those cross-referenced before tomorrow morning.ā
āGreat,ā you mutter, dropping into your chair.
Morgan chuckles softly as he pulls his headphones back up, turning back to his own pile of reports.
You grab the coffee from the top of the files and find a sticky note stuck beneath itāwritten quickly but still in his unmistakable handwriting: I owe you one. ā Hotch.
Your stomach flips.
God. Thatās pathetic.
You peel the note off and drop it into the top drawer of your desk, not wanting another psychoanalytic lecture from Reid if he were to spot that note stuck to your monitor.
The rest of the day passes the way every other caseless Monday afternoon does. JJās the first to head outānot long after fiveātaking advantage of the slow week to spend a little extra time with Henry. Rossi leaves about an hour later, announcing to the bullpen that heās got a date with a bottle of wine and reruns of his favourite medical drama. Morgan manages to clear the files on his desk before seven, finally putting his headphones away before bidding the rest of the team farewell.
Prentiss and Reid linger until nearly nine, and only when the motion sensor lights blink out does Prentiss finally glance up, realising how late it is. She gathers her things and nudges Reid, whoās been firmly stuck in hyperfocus mode despite the rest of the world quietly slowing down around him.
āYou coming?ā he asks, adjusting the strap of his satchel.
You look up slowly, your brain buffering as it untangles itself from the files spread across your desk.
āNot yet,ā you reply, blinking tiredly. āHotch needs these by morning.ā
Reid tilts his head. āWant me to wait?ā
You wave a hand. āNah, go ahead. Iāll get security to walk me to my car.ā
āAlright,ā he says, already turning away. āJust remember that positive reinforcement loses effectiveness when the subject becomes emotionally dependent on it.ā
You glare at his back. āIām reporting you to HR.ā
āYouād have to explain the context,ā he calls over his shoulder.
You roll your eyes as you turn back to the last file on your desk, taking a deep breath and flipping it open.
With the bullpen almost completely silent and the promise of sleep so close you can taste it, you manage to get through it in record time. You even give it a quick second pass to make sure you didnāt miss anything glaringly obvious in your tired stateābut youāre used to working through sleep deprivation, and by ten p.m., you finally start packing up.
You organise the files back into a neat pile, then open the top drawer of your desk for Hotchās note. You stick it to the top file and grab a pen, scribbling just below the words he wrote: Dangerous thing to promise me.
And, just as he did, you sign off with your name.
Then you gather the whole stack in your arms and cross the bullpen toward his office. Unlocked, as usual. You nudge the door open with your foot, warm lamplight casting an orange glow over the quiet space. It smells faintly like coffee and his cologneāenough to make your heart start racing the second you step inside.
You set the files neatly on his desk, trying not to linger on the quiet traces of him scattered throughout the room.
Thereās still half a mug of cold coffee abandoned beside some paperwork, and the cashmere sweater heād been wearing beneath his jacket this morning is draped haphazardly over the back of his chair. Quiet evidence of just how suddenly heād been called away.
It makes you feel a little better knowing you really have helped him out.
You adjust the files until theyāre perfectly straight, then take the sweater from the back of his chair and fold it neatly before setting it on the chest of drawers beside his desk. You hesitate for just a second before grabbing the mug of cold coffee and heading out of his office, straight for the break room. You empty it, wash it, dry it, then return to his office, placing it back on his desk exactly where you found it. Then you switch the lamp off on your way out, pulling the door most of the way shut behind youāthe way itād been before you stepped inside.
It doesnāt take long for you to gather your things, head down to security, and badge out. One of the guards escorts you to the parking garage, waiting until youāre safely inside your car with the engine running before he takes the elevator back up.
Once home, you quickly feed the yowling Leiaāyour cat, whoās very unimpressed by your late arrivalātake a quick shower, change into your comfiest, threadbare sleep shirt, then crawl into bed with your laptop balanced on your knees. You know you should just try to get some sleep, but youāve been ignoring a few personal messages and emails for a couple days now, and you know that if you donāt get to them soon, youāll start to feel guilty.
You open your emails, reply to a couple, then pull up a new browser tab and type in the login address for the dating site Garcia set you up for. Not that you couldnāt have set up your own profile if youād really wanted to.
Noāthis profile is just the unintentional byproduct of your ongoing attempt to redirect attention.
One slow Thursday evening in the bullpen, while youād been loudly complaining about how impossible it was to meet men with a job like yours, Morgan had the brilliant idea of making you a dating profile. Garcia immediately lit up at the idea, pulling the site up on her computer while Reid launched into a rambling statistical analysis about the probability of finding genuine compatibility online.
Hotch hadnāt contributed to the conversation, but youād known he was listening.
That had been the whole point. You always perform a little harder when Hotch can hear.
The site finally loads and you type in your credentials, waiting a few seconds for your profile to pop up.
Twelve notifications.
You click on the āmessagesā tab and start scrolling. There are a few old conversations that fizzled out and youāve long since decided not to reply to. There are a couple of messages from people you never intend on starting a conversation with. Then there are two new messagesāones youād seen pop up on your phone but couldnāt be bothered to engage with over the weekend.
After all, youāre not actually looking to date anyone.
But one of the messages catches your eye.
DCRunner00: You seem like the kind of person whoās either very funny or very mean. Iām willing to risk it.
You snort, then type out a reply.
You: Unfortunately for you, those traits arenāt mutually exclusive.
Just as you hit enter, Leia leaps up onto the bed.
āHey, sassy girl,ā you coo, moving your laptop to reach for her.
Your fingers graze her soft coat, and she gives you an incredibly disapproving look.
You roll your eyes. āAlright. Sorry for loving you.ā
You settle back against the pillows as she makes her way to the other side of the bed, curling up as far as she can possibly get from you.
Ping! Ping! Two more messages pop up.
DCRunner00: Thatās probably the best possible answer you couldāve given.
DCRunner00: So whatās your worst personality trait? I feel like thatās more interesting than hobbies.
That answer comes a little too easily.
You: Workaholic. You?
DCRunner00: I get bored easily.
DCRunner00: Which usually means I either start running or annoying people for entertainment.
You: Sounds like a public safety issue.
DCRunner00: Depends who you ask.
DCRunner00: You should probably get some sleep, Workaholic. Itās late.
You glance over at Leia as she rolls onto her side, stretching her front legs, and only then do you realise you were actually smiling at your screen.
You shake your head, typing quickly.
You: Yeah, I should.
You: Night, Running Man.
Then you shut your laptop before he can send another message.
TUESDAY 9:50AM
āMorgan, youāre with me at district court this afternoon,ā Hotch says, closing the file in front of him. āThe defence attorneyās pushing back on the Richardson testimony, so weāll need to review our timeline before the hearing.ā
Heās wearing a grey suit today.
You can never think straight when heās wearing a grey suit.
Morgan sighs dramatically. āNothing says excitement like four hours in a courthouse basement.ā
Hotch ignores him completely.
āJJ, I want the media requests filtered through Straussās office before lunch. Reid, finish the geographic overlays from the Fairfax case and send them to Rossi when youāre done.ā
He glances once around the table.
āIf anything urgent comes in, youāll be notified. Otherwise, continue using this downtime to catch up on reports.ā
Then he gathers the files into a neat stack and stands, turning toward the door.
The rest of the room starts moving slowly. Morgan mutters something to JJ about the court hearing, Prentiss turns to Reid, asking something about a case you donāt quite catch, and Garcia is already explaining something on her laptop to Rossi, whoās watching the screen with quiet concentration.
Which leaves you to shamelessly stare at your bossā ass as he walks out of the room.
āYou should probably blink.ā
Your head snaps toward Reid, frown already forming. āIāll blink when I want to blink.ā
He presses his lips together to keep from laughing, and you know heās fighting the urge to launch into some deeply unwanted psychoanalysis of your behaviourābut thankfully, the rest of the team is still too close for him to risk it.
Eventually, everyone starts filing out of the conference room and back into the bullpen. You end up being the last to leave, behind Reid and Garcia who are chatting animatedly about some new phone app theyāre both obsessed with.
Youāre just about to pass Hotchās office door whenāyou hear your name.
You turn your head, and he gestures for you to come in.
Reid glances briefly over his shoulder, an irritatingly knowing look on his face as you turn and step into Hotchās office.
You clear your throat, stopping a few feet from the desk. āSir?ā
āHow late were you here last night?ā he asks.
You lift a shoulder. āAbout ten.ā
His jaw shifts as he leans back in his chair. āThatās late.ā
āMorgan said you needed them done by the morning.ā
āI didnāt mean first thing,ā he says, smoothing the end of his tie. āYou couldāve finished the rest before lunch.ā
You blink. āOh.ā
His gaze holds yours for a second too long.
āYou donāt need to stay late to impress me.ā
Your eyes widen slightly before you force out a small, awkward laugh. āOhāuhāgood to know.ā
He glances briefly at the navy-blue cashmere sweater still folded neatly on the chest of drawers.
āStill,ā he says, lower this time. āI appreciated it. The files, andā¦ everything else.ā
Your breath catches softly in your throat.
āAnytime, sir,ā you manage.
He nods once, then drops his gaze back to the paperwork on his desk.
You donāt need any more of a dismissal than that, so you turn quickly and step out, pulling the door shut behind you. He prefers it closed, even if he wonāt admit it because he doesnāt want the team to think heās shutting them out. Heās just more comfortable in privateāit helps him focus.
By the time you get back to your desk, everyone else is already settled and working quietly. Not even Reid glances up or offers a teasing remark.
You drop into your chair and wriggle your mouse, grabbing your phone while you wait for the screen to wake up.
Two new messages from DCRunner00.
DCRunner00: Running Man?
DCRunner00: Great book. Slightly concerning nickname, though.
You canāt help yourself, so you type out a quick reply.
You: Better than āWorkaholicā.
You: You read Stephen King?
āHey, you busy?ā
You glance over at Reid. āArenāt we all?ā
He tilts his head. āYouāre on your phone.ā
āI could be working.ā
āAre you?ā
āNo.ā
āGood,ā he says, shuffling the files on his desk. āHotch wants us to prep the full geographic and timeline package for the Fairfax files in case it turns into an active investigation.ā
You sigh, already pushing back from your desk. āAnd by āusā you mean...?ā
āI could use your help.ā
āFine,ā you mutter, setting your phone down.
He scoots over as you roll your chair toward his desk, settling in beside him. The files are all laid out, including your victimology report with Rossiās few annotations. There are crime scene reports, autopsy summaries, witness statements, geographic overlays, and mapsāeverything needed to justify escalating the case into a full BAU investigation.
āWhere do you want to start?ā
āIām trying to rebuild the geographic timeline digitally,ā he says, ābut half the field reports were logged out of sequence and now the movement patterns donāt align.ā
You nod. āOkay, walk me through where it stops making sense.ā
Three hours later, you feel like your eyeballs are bleeding. Youāve read the same witness statement at least twenty times now, but with every pass it only makes less sense. How could Annabelle Hutton possibly be placed in two different counties less than forty minutes apart?
āItās physically impossible,ā you mutter, rubbing your eyes.
āWell, depending on traffic conditions, inaccurate timestamp reporting, and the reliability of eyewitness memory retention, there are at least four scenarios where the timeline could still technically work.ā
You sigh, leaning back in your chair and staring up at the ceiling. āIf you know so much, then why canāt you figure this out?ā
He still doesnāt turn away from his screen. āI will. Eventually.ā
You groan softly, dragging both hands down your face just as a familiar voice cuts through the quiet bullpen.
āNo, listen to me carefully.ā
Both you and Reid glance up automatically.
Hotch is walking slowly past the desks with his phone pressed to his ear, expression calm but impossibly stern in a way that immediately makes heat crawl beneath your skin.
āYou donāt need to explain the problem again,ā he says evenly. āYou need to tell me how youāre fixing it.ā
He pauses briefly beside Reidās desk, listening.
āThen prioritise the transfer first,ā he says. āIf the paperwork isnāt filed before opposing counsel reviews discovery, the timeline becomes vulnerable and the entire testimony gets picked apart.ā
He rests a hand on the partition between the desks, gaze fixed somewhere distant as he listens to the person on the other end.
āNo,ā he says after a moment, voice lower now. āIām not asking you to stay late. Iām telling you this needs to be finished tonight.ā
Your stomach flips.
This absolutely should not be as hot as it is.
āGood,ā he says calmly into the phone, straightening again. āCall me when itās done.ā
Then he keeps walking, cutting through the bullpen before turning sharply toward his office.
You stare after him, the thought slipping out before you can stop it. āDo you think he talks you through it?ā
āProbably,ā Reid says, turning back to his screen. āHigh-control personalities usually prefer maintaining verbal direction in intimate situations because it reinforces predictability and compliance dynamics.ā
You go still. You hadnāt actually expected an answer.
āSomeone like Hotch would probably place a pretty high psychological value on responsiveness,ā Reid continues. āThe immediate compliance aspect reinforces authority, which means verbal direction would likely become part of the overall intimacy dynamic rather than just communication.ā
Your face heats.
āEspecially because heās not impulsive enough to rely on unpredictability. Heād want constant awareness of how the other person is responding emotionally and physically, so talking them through things would help maintain control of the situation while also reinforcing trust.ā
Oh my God.
āAnd honestly,ā Reid goes on, āpeople with highly structured leadership personalities usually develop pretty strong positive associations with obedience because it confirms stability, attentiveness, emotional investmentāā He pauses briefly. āWhich means heād probably find it disproportionately attractive when someone follows instructions immediately or responds well to praise because it validates both the authority dynamic and the emotional trust beneath it, so statistically speaking heādāā
He stops.
Then slowly turns toward you.
ā...I crossed a social boundary somewhere in there, didnāt I?ā
You nod slowly, your voice coming out unnaturally high. āJust a couple.ā
He sighs, dropping his chin slightly as he turns back to his screen.
You huff out a breathless laugh and lean back in your chair again. You need a minute to recover from that, because now youāre hot all over and the only thing you can think about is your boss hovering over you, praising you in that low, steady voice while his hand settles around your throatā
Fortunately, it doesnāt take Reid long to start rambling about geographic overlays again. You do your best to focus on what heās saying, but after another hour of scrutinising the timeline inconsistencies, you decide you need an actual break.
You grab your phone and your jacket and head out of the office, sending a quick text to the team chat asking if anyone else would like a coffee from the cafe down the road. Itās a thousand times better than break room coffee.
When you step out of the elevator on the ground floor, you bring up your messages with DCRunner00. Youāre not sure why, because normally you only check your profile when you feel like you need to keep up the act, but something about this guy keeps making you want to reply.
DCRunner00: Iāve read a few.
DCRunner00: What does a workaholic do for fun?
You type your reply as you step out of the building.
You: Work, mostly.
You: And sleep.
By the time you return to the office with a tray of four coffees, you have two new messagesābut you canāt reply to them until you set the tray down at your desk.
āThanks, pretty girl,ā Morgan says as he takes one, flashing you a grin.
You smile back. āAnything for you, gorgeous.ā
Then you pull your phone out of your pocket and bring up the message thread.
DCRunner00: Whatās your schedule even like?
DCRunner00: You strike me as an āanswers emails at midnightā type of person.
You: Nah. Thatās my boss.
You: My schedule is chaos, though.
āThanks,ā Reid says as he takes his coffee, leaving only two.
You set your phone down and take the last two coffees out of the tray, leaving one at your desk before taking the other to Hotchās office. You can see through the window that heās not on the phoneāfor onceāso you knock twice on the slightly ajar door before stepping inside.
He glances up, his brows pulling together slightly. āI didnāt ask for coffee.ā
āI know,ā you say quickly. āBut itās almost three, and you always need another coffee around three, and I figured you probably didnāt answer the team message because you still feel bad about me staying so late last night, which you shouldnāt, by the way.ā
He straightens, brows drawing tighter.
āAnd I know youāve got court with Morgan this afternoon, and youāre going to try to leave early, but someoneās definitely going to call at the last second and derail that plan, so youāll only have enough time to get to the courthouseānot enough time to stop for coffee.ā
You set the cup down in front of him.
āSo,ā you tilt your head, ācoffee.ā
He leans back in his chair, studying you for a second.
āThatās some pretty solid profiling, Agent.ā
Your face heats instantly.
āWell,ā you say, backing slowly toward the door, āmaybe now you owe me two.ā
The corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly, but itās enough for the butterflies in your stomach to explode. You canāt help but grin as you turn away, slipping quickly out the door before your lungs forget how to work entirely.
You spend the rest of the day at Reidās desk, finishing the case package for the Fairfax files and complaining about unreliable witnesses. Hotch and Morgan head off to court just after three, announcing to the rest of the team that they wonāt be back. JJ is the first to head home again around five, followed by Prentiss, then Rossiāthen you and Reid finally decide to call it a day just after six.
Which is also when you finally check your messages again.
DCRunner00: Chaos how?
You type a quick reply while you wait for your carās AC to warm up.
You: Long hours.
You: Weird hours.
You: And a deeply unhealthy relationship with caffeine.
Then you tuck your phone away and head out of the parking garage.
Leia is already yowling by the time you step through your apartment door. Sheās always hungry, even though she has an automatic feeder for dry foodābut apparently that isnāt good enough. She prefers the wet stuff.
You quickly peel open a packet of fishy-smelling chicken jelly sludge and drop it into her bowl before washing your hands and moving into your bedroom. You flip the ensuite light on and start the shower, pulling your phone out of your pocket while you wait for the water to warm.
DCRunner00: Ah. So youāre one of those people.
You: Rude.
He replies almost immediately.
DCRunner00: Accurate, though?
You: Unfortunately.
You drop your phone on the bed and start undressing.
Ping!
DCRunner00: What do you actually do?
You hesitate. Itās not like you can just say youāre in the FBI. Contrary to what some people might think, real FBI agents canāt just go around bragging about their highly classified work status. Itās dangerous.
You: Mostly admin.
You: Governmental stuff.
You toss your phone back onto the bed and turn into the steamy ensuite. You shower quickly, dry off, run product through your damp hair, then pull on a shirt and a pair of sweatpants before heading back out into the kitchen.
Youāre not in the mood to cook tonight, so you grab a protein bar out of the cupboard and start boiling the kettle while you check your phone for what feels like the hundredth time.
DCRunner00: Sounds boring.
DCRunner00: Do you get days off, though?
You drop a teabag into your mug before typing out a reply.
You: Sort of.
You: But if my boss calls, I answer.
He replies instantly again.
DCRunner00: Iām starting to think you secretly enjoy being overworked.
You: I think Iād get bored otherwise.
You pour the boiling water into your mug and watch his next reply pop up.
DCRunner00: That sounds suspiciously unhealthy.
You: Probably.
What about you? What do you do?
You tuck your phone into your pocket, then grab your tea and protein bar and head to the couch. Thereās nothing youāre really interested in watchingāsince you donāt usually have the time to keep up with any showsāso you turn on the nightly news before grabbing your laptop and pulling up a new browser.
Heās already replied by the time you log in.
DCRunner00: Run.
DCRunner00: Read.
DCRunner00: Annoy people professionally.
You: That sounds made up.
You open your protein bar.
DCRunner00: It mostly is.
DCRunner00: So your boss actually calls you outside work hours?
You hesitate at the sudden redirection. Most men on dating apps prefer talking about themselves. Their jobs, hobbies, gym routines, childhood dogsāwhatever makes them seem interestingābut this guy seems far more interested in observing than being observed.
You type out a vague response.
You: Sometimes.
You: Occupational hazard, I guess.
DCRunner00: And you always answer?
You: Pretty much.
You: Heād only call if it mattered.
His next reply takes almost two minutes to come through.
DCRunner00: Hm.
DCRunner00: Iām starting to think your boss gets more attention than I do.
You almost choke on your tea.
Thatās... weird.
Maybe you have mentioned your boss a little more than strictly necessary, but heās the one asking all the questions about your job. Itās a little hard not to mention your boss when your life practically revolves around himāin more ways than you care to admit.
You: Jealous already, Running Man?
DCRunner00: Should I be?
You sit up straighter, suddenly a little nauseous.
You: I think youāre spending too much time talking to strangers online.
DCRunner00: Maybe.
DCRunner00: You still replied, though.
āOkay,ā you say, startling Leia who was half-asleep on the other end of the couch. āThatās enough.ā
You: Iām going to sleep.
You: Try not to spiral while Iām gone.
His last message pops up just before you shut your laptop.
DCRunner00: No promises.
WEDNESDAY 8:10AM
āCome on,ā you mutter, mashing the elevator button for the doors to close.
Youāre a whole thirty minutes earlier than usual this morning. You didnāt even make a coffee in your travel mug before running out the door. You just woke up, brushed your teeth, checked your messagesāand decided you needed to talk to Garcia immediately.
āHeyāwoah.ā Reid steps out of your way as you rush into the bullpen. āYouāre early.ā
You drop your bag on your desk and quickly shrug off your jacket.
āIs Garcia in yet?ā
He frowns slightly. āI think so. Why?ā
You pull your laptop out of your bag.
āI justāI need her.ā
Youāre already walking away before he can press any further, moving back through the bullpen with your laptop hugged against your chest. Youāre just about to round the corner toward the elevators whenā
āHeyāā Hotch stops short just as you nearly run into him. āSlow down. You alright?ā
His hand is hovering near your waistānot quite touching, but close enough for you to feel its warmth.
You blink up at him. āSorry. Yeah. Uhātotally fine. Just going to see Garcia about... a case.ā
His brows pull together slightly.
āAlright, well, Garciaās not going anywhere,ā he says evenly. āTake a breath.ā
You nod slowly, already stepping around him.
āRight,ā you mutter. āBreathing. Got it. Sorry, sir.ā
You can almost swear you see the corner of his mouth liftābut then the elevator dings behind you, and you have to hurry to slip through the doors before they slide shut.
It feels like an eternity before they finally open again, but once they do you practically sprint down the hall to Garciaās lair and burst through the door without warning.
She startles so hard she nearly drops her coffee. āSweet mother of encryption, knock first!ā
āSorry,ā you say, breathless. āI need you.ā
āWell, obviously,ā she mutters, checking her shirt for any spills. āIām the backbone of this entire operation.ā
You drop down into the spare chair and open your laptop, setting it on her desk.
āYou cannot judge me for what Iām about to show you.ā
She glances up, brows lifting. āOh. So this is serious?ā
You grimace. āI donāt know.ā
āOkay,ā she says slowly. āSlightly less reassuring than I was hoping for. Tell me whatās happened.ā
You take a deep breath, then let it out in a rush.
āYou remember the dating profile you set up for me?ā
She nods.
āAlright, so, I wonāt lie, I havenāt really met anyone on there yet, but I check the messages occasionally. When Iāve got time, you know? And I donāt have a whole lot of ongoing conversations, but this one guy sent me something that was kind of funny, so I responded, and the conversation was pretty normal for the most part. I couldnāt reply all that quickly, but he didnāt seem to mind.ā
You shift awkwardly, scooting your chair closer to her desk.
āNothing really felt out of place untilāwell, he wouldnāt talk about himself much, which is strange because most people on dating apps are usually more interested in presenting themselves than gathering information. He kept asking questions about my job, actually. Not that my job is on my profile, but he was really curious about my schedule, orāI guessālack of schedule.ā
You wince.
āSo now that I think about it, that was probably the second sign something might be off. Or maybe he just wanted to meet up, I donāt know.ā
You hesitate.
āBut then he sent me this message at like... two a.m.ā
She squints at the screen.
DCRunner00: Bet you answer your boss faster than you answer anyone else.
āMmm. Nope. Donāt love that,ā she says, shaking her head. āThat is not a normal amount of emotional investment for a stranger.ā
You sink back in your chair. āThatās what I thought.ā
She starts scrolling back through the messages.
āHave you told Hotch?ā
āNope.ā
She glances at you from the corner of her eye. āYou answered way too fast for that to be a normal response.ā
āBecause the answer is no,ā you say firmly, leaning forward again.
āMm-hm.ā She keeps scrolling. āOkay, well... technically this could still be nothing. He could just be some lonely basement cryptid with Wi-Fi and poor social skills.ā
You groan, dragging both hands over your face.
āYou do mention Hotch kind of a lot.ā
Your head snaps up. āHeās my boss.ā
Garcia gives you a long look.
āOkay,ā she says slowly. āSure.ā
āGarcia.ā
āIām just saying, if a man talked about a woman this much online, weād all be making faces.ā
You point at the screen. āFocus.ā
āRight. Yes. Creepy internet man. Sorry.ā
Her expression settles into something more focused as she turns back toward her array of monitors.
āOkay. Hereās what weāre going to do. Donāt block him yet.ā
You sigh. āI donāt love that idea.ā
āNeither do I, babycakes, but if heās routing through the website normally, I might be able to pull connection data if we keep him talking long enough.ā
You frown. āIn English?ā
She gives you another look. āTimestamps, login patterns, regional pings, possible VPN usage, device signatures if he slips upābasic digital stalking fun.ā
āOh, of course,ā you say sarcastically. āNormal stuff.ā
āFor me, it is normal.ā She points toward the laptop. āNow reply to him. Something casual. I want to see if he responds immediately again.ā
Your fingers hover over the keys for a second before you type out your reply.
You: I thought I told you not to spiral.
He replies so fast that even Garcia flinches.
DCRunner00: Relax. It was a joke.
DCRunner00: Mostly.
She stares at the screen. āOkay, I officially donāt like him.ā
You lean back in your chair again, nausea twisting low in your gut. āI feel sick.ā
Garciaās expression softens slightly. āMaybe you should tellāā
āNo.ā
She sighs quietly. āOkay. Fine. Can you keep replying from your phone?ā
You nod.
āGood. Donāt overdo it, just enough to keep him engaged.ā Her fingers start flying across the keyboard. āIāll work my magic down here and call you if I find anything.ā
You push yourself out of the chair, clutching your phone a little tighter.
āYouāre the best, Pen.ā
āI know.ā She waves a hand without looking away from her screens. āNow go pretend to be emotionally stable upstairs.ā
By the time you get back to your desk, almost everyone is already in the conference room ready for the morning briefing. You drop your phone beside your keyboardātoo anxious to have it with you during the meetingāthen quickly unpack your things and grab a notebook before making your way up.
Reid nods at you from his usual seat, gesturing to the empty one beside him.
āHey,ā you mutter as you drop down next to him.
His brows pull together. āEverything alright?ā
You nod. āYeah. Fine. Iāll explain later.ā
Hotch keeps the morning briefing quick. He goes over yesterdayās court hearing, outlines the Fairfax briefing package in case it escalates into an active investigation, then gets JJ to run through the highest priority consultation requests.
You spend most of it toying with a loose thread on the cuff of your blouse. Youāre pretty sure itās the first briefing in years where you havenāt spent at least part of it staring at Hotch instead of your notesāand when the room finally relaxes and everyone starts to filter out, Reid turns to you.
āOkay, now Iām concerned,ā he says.
You glance at him. āWhy?ā
āYou didnāt look at Hotch once during that entire meeting.ā
You roll your eyes. āSpenceāā
āSomething must be seriously wrong.ā
You let out a long exhale, glancing briefly around the almost empty room. Only Morgan and Rossi are left, halfway to the door, deep in discussion about something that happened at the court hearing yesterday afternoon.
āOkay,ā you say quietly, turning back to Reid. āIām having some... trouble, I guess, with a guy.ā
His brows shoot up. āA guyāā
āOnline,ā you add quickly.
He tilts his head. āIām confused again.ā
You sigh. āRemember that dating profile Garcia set up for me?ā
āYou mean the profile you allowed Garcia to create as part of your increasingly unsustainable performative dating strategy?ā
You glare at him. āYes. That one.ā
āThen yes, I remember it very clearly.ā
āWell,ā you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose, āI had this guy message me a couple days ago. It was normal at first but now itās gotten... weird. So, Iām getting Garcia to look into it.ā
His forehead creases. āHave you toldāā
āNo.ā
āMaybe you shouldāā
āI said no.ā
āAlright.ā He raises both hands in surrender. āOkay. Iām dropping it. Itās justā¦ā
You narrow your eyes at him.
āWell, statistically speaking, the majority of uncomfortable online interactions donāt escalate into actual stalking behaviour. Most people displaying premature emotional fixation online are socially isolated rather than violent.ā
You lift a brow, waiting for the punchline.
āHowever,ā he adds, ācyberstalking offenders also tend to develop parasocial attachments disproportionately quickly because the perceived emotional intimacy bypasses a lot of normal social barriers, which means escalation patterns can become highly personalised in a very short period of time.ā
You stare at him.
āIn cases where the fixation becomes grievance-oriented, the offender is usually highly organised rather than impulsive, so the behaviour tends to be significantly more deliberate and psychologically targeted.ā
He pauses, frowning faintly.
āThat was supposed to be reassuring.ā
āā¦Thanks, Reid,ā you mutter, turning away from him slowly. āNow I feel so much better.ā
When you get back to your desk, you decide itās time to reply again. You grab your phone and bring up the messages, taking a minute to think about what to typeāknowing Garcia will be seeing the conversation too.
You type out the only mildly casual response you can think of.
You: Youāre weird.
He replies just as fast as usual.
DCRunner00: You disappear a lot.
You: Workaholic, remember.
You: I told you my schedule was chaos.
Youāre about to turn your phone over on your desk when a different notification pops upāfrom Garcia.
Garcia: If this is your version of flirting, baby girl, I think I just figured out why youāre still single.
You snort softly, typing out a quick reply.
You: Trust me, thatās not the reason.
Garcia: So there IS a reason?
You: Shh. Iām working.
Garcia: Boo!
You huff another quiet laugh as you turn your phone over, nudging it toward the edge of your desk in the hopes that you might be able to focus on work rather than creepy internet man for at least a few hours.
It doesnāt work.
Barely half an hour later, you lift your phone to check for another notificationābut thereās nothing there. You pull up the message thread again and scroll up, checking the timestamps to see if heās ever gone quiet on you beforeābut he hasnāt. Not really. So you type another message.
You: You went quiet. Should I be concerned?
Itās a calculated move. If heās paying attention to response patternsāand at this point youāre pretty sure he isāthen following up first helps maintain the illusion that nothing has changed. No sudden distance. No obvious discomfort. No reason for him to think youāre pulling away.
If he is dangerous, the last thing you want is for him to feel rejected.
An hour later, Rossi drops a legal pad onto your desk, asking you to take another look at a witness timeline that doesnāt feel rightāwhich keeps you occupied for a good forty-five minutes. Then Morgan leans over the partition between your desks, asking if you can translate Reid into English. That takes up another hour of your day, and by the time you grab your first afternoon coffee, youāve got three notifications.
One is a missed call from Garcia. The other two are from creepy internet man.
DCRunner00: Depends. Are you worried about me?
DCRunner00: Blue looks good on you, by the way.
Your stomach drops. āOh my God.ā
You immediately call Garcia back.
She answers on half a ring. āAre you wearing blue?ā
āYou saw me this morning.ā
āI canāt remember,ā she says. āAre you?ā
You drag a hand through your hair. āYes.ā
āHoly shit,ā she whispers. āYouāve got to tellāā
āNo.ā
āAre you insane?ā
āMaybe, butāā You squeeze your eyes shut for a second. āOkay, justāhear me out. Blue is a statistically safe guess. Itās a neutral professional colour with high frequency in workplace attire, especially in government buildings.ā
Garcia goes quiet for a second.
āAnd does this unsub know you work in a government building?ā
āDonāt call him that,ā you snap. āAndāwell, kind of. I didnāt tell him exactly, but I said... government adjacent.ā
āI swear to God,ā she mutters, āif I have to identify your body next week, Iām going to kill you.ā
You press your free hand against your forehead.
āYou wonāt,ā you say firmly. āAlright? Weāre getting ahead of ourselves.ā
Garcia scoffs loudly.
āSeriously,ā you insist. āIt could still be nothing. A weird coincidence, maybe an awkward guy with boundary issues and too much free time. We deal with actual predators every day. I can handle a few creepy messages.ā
The line goes quiet againāthen she sighs.
āWhy are you so against telling Hotch?ā
āBecause I donāt want to bother him,ā you say quickly. āWeāve got a quiet week, he finally seems slightly less stressed, and I donāt want to cause a whole fuss over something that might turn out to be nothing.ā
She sighs again, louder this time. āFine. I wonāt go to Hotch.ā
Your shoulders sag. āThank you.ā
āOn one condition,ā she adds. āIām sleeping over tonight.ā
You nearly choke. āWhat?ā
āNon-negotiable.ā
āPenelope, thatās insane.ā
āNo,ā Garcia says firmly, āwhatās insane is you trying to casually explain away potential stalking behaviour while actively refusing to inform your unit chief.ā
āHe is not stalking me,ā you protest, keeping your voice low.
āMm-hm.ā
āYouāre overreacting.ā
āAnd yet,ā Garcia says, āif you die, I become morally complicit because I knew about creepy internet man and failed to intervene.ā
You frown. āā¦Morally complicit?ā
āAccessory to murder-adjacent,ā she corrects. āAnd my guilty conscience requires eight hours of sleep minimum, so congratulations. Weāre having a slumber party.ā
You let out a long sigh. āOkay. Fine.ā
She hums, satisfied.
āI need to reply to him again.ā
āWell, donāt ask me,ā she mutters. āYouāre the one whoās apparently fluent in creepy internet freak.ā
You laugh despite yourself. āThanks, Pen.ā
āMm-hm. And just so weāre clear, tonight we are watching wholesome romantic comedies and eating enough sugar to kill a Victorian child.ā
āI was actually thinking psychological thriller marathon.ā
āAbsolutely not.ā
You smile faintly, leaning back in your chair. āFine. Romantic comedies it is.ā
āGood,ā Garcia says firmly. āNow hang up before I change my mind and march upstairs to Hotchās office myself.ā
You roll your eyes as you hang up, then open the message thread again. You donāt have to think too hard about what to type. You donāt want to escalate or accuse him, but you need him to stay engaged. You want him to explain himself to see how he reframes the behaviour.
You: Lucky guess.
The next few hours slip by in a strange blur of routine tasks and fragmented conversations.
At about three oāclock, Prentiss drops a file on your desk and asks if you can double-check a victim timeline while sheās stuck on the phone with Chicago. Then Rossi calls you into his office to sanity-check a profile theory heās working through out loudāwhich means fifteen minutes of listening to him argue with himself while you sit there trying not to focus on Hotchās voice through the wall.
When you finally get back to your desk, Reid spends twenty minutes walking you through a probability model nobody asked for but everyone somehow ends up listening to anyway. He only stops when Hotch appears, carrying a stack of files from the Richardson case he wants Morgan to look over before he signs them offāand for the first time in God knows how long, you donāt stare shamelessly at his ass as he walks out of the bullpen.
By six p.m., JJ and Rossi are gone, Prentiss is helping Morgan with the Richardson files, and Reid is building a tiny tower out of paperclips while he reads over a file Rossi dropped on his desk before he left.
At exactly six-fifteen, your desk phone rings.
āHello?ā
āPack your things, baby girl. Your government-issued sleepover is about to begin.ā
You snort softly. āAlright. Iāll see you soon.ā
You hang up the phone and start clearing your desk, organising paperwork into piles and packing away stationery while you wait for your computer to shut down.
āSee who soon?ā Reid asks.
You glance at him. āGarcia.ā
He tilts his head.
āSheās staying over tonight.ā
His brows lift. āBecause of your stalkāā
āGirlās night,ā you interrupt, eyes widening. āThatās all.ā
His gaze narrows. āShould I be worried?ā
You scoff. āAbout me? Never.ā
You slide your arms into your jacket then finally pick up your phone, finding two new notifications from creepy internet man waiting for you.
āReally?ā Reid asks, turning his chair to face you. āBecause youāve spent most of the day staring at your phone like itās a bomb, you spent most of Rossiās profile discussion peeling the label off your water bottle instead of contributing, and you reorganised the same stack of paperwork three separate times.ā
You pause mid-motion.
āAlso,ā he continues, āyou usually correct Morgan when he misquotes case statistics and today you let him do it twice, which honestly might be the most concerningāā
āOkay!ā you cut in quickly, slinging your bag over your shoulder. āGood talk. Love the observational skills. Bye.ā
He doesnāt say anything else as you walk away, murmuring goodbyes to Morgan and Prentiss as you pass, but you can still feel him watching you. Youāre just about to press the button for the elevator whenā
āAgent.ā
You stop automatically, turning to find Hotch with a file tucked under one arm and that signature frown etched between his brows. Only this time it isnāt frustrated or disapprovingāitās curious.
You force a small smile. āSir.ā
His eyes move over your face briefly. āYou alright?ā
You nod once. āOf course.ā
He takes a step forward, his voice dropping lower. āYou sure?ā
Your breath catches.
Heās close now. Too close. You have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. You can smell his cologne, feel his warmth, count the beauty marks dotted across his cheek.
āYouāve seemed distracted today,ā he says.
You swallow hard. āUhāno. No. Sorry, I justāI didnāt get much sleep last night.ā
His brows draw a little tighter, and he opens his mouth as if heās about to say something elseāpress harder, maybeābut then seems to think better of it.
āAlright,ā he murmurs. āGet some rest tonight.ā
Then he nods once and steps back, his jaw tightening for just a second before he turns away.
You donāt move immediately. You canāt. Your mind is reeling, your pulse is still hammering, and your breath is caught somewhere between your ribs while your lungs try to remember how to work.
āHello?ā Garcia calls from behind you. āI cannot hold these doors forever, babycakes.ā
You shake your head. āShit. Sorry.ā
You turn and hurry into the elevator, slipping in beside her just before the doors slide shut.
For a moment, neither of you says anything.
Thenā
āSo, that thing you said earlier about there being a reason youāre still singleā¦ā
You shut your eyes. āPenelope.ā
āIām just saying,ā she continues lightly, āunless I hallucinated whatever just happened in that hallway, Iām starting to develop theories.ā
You ignore her, watching the numbers on the elevator slowly descend like counting down the days you have before the entire team figures out your secret. Because if this guy really is a creep, if you do have to tell Hotch, then itās only a matter of time before the BAU are dissecting your dating life and realising what a ruse it really is.
And you know better than anyone that once these profilers start looking too closely at something, they rarely stop until theyāve pulled it apart completely.
The second you step through the door to your apartment, Garcia rushes past you to sweep the place. Leia startles almost immediately, running from the couch to your bedroom while Garcia complains about the fact that Leia is the only cat sheās ever met that doesnāt like her.
āLeia hates everyone,ā you tell her, kicking your shoes off by the door. āEven me.ā
Garcia just rolls her eyes, continuing from room to room to check the window locks and balcony doors.
Once sheās satisfied that everything is secure, she sets her laptop up on your kitchen counter and starts running a program that looks like hieroglyphics to you.
āHave you seen his latest messages?ā she asks.
You shake your head, setting your phone on the counter. āNo.ā
She opens your laptop and logs into the dating siteābecause apparently she knows your password now.
DCRunner00: Maybe.
DCRunner00: Or maybe youāre just easier to read than you think.
You type out the first response you can think of, not wanting to seem like youāre overanalysing this.
You: Or maybe Iām just not trying so hard to be mysterious.
Garcia then spends the next ten minutes trying to explain her process to you in terms that almost make sense. So far sheās managed to narrow him down to a general region through login patterns and routing behaviour, but she still canāt lock onto a direct IP address. Not because she canātāapparently that part would actually be pretty easyābut because doing it properly would mean running requests through systems that leave a trail. And right now, this definitely isnāt an official investigation.
āThe second I start pulling the fun federal strings,ā Garcia says, typing furiously, āthereās paperwork, access logs, oversight, and approximately twelve thousand ways for this to become a whole thing.ā
You lean against the counter. āWe donāt want that.ā
āNot yet.ā Her expression sharpens slightly. āAlso, if creepy internet man is more sophisticated than he seems, thereās always a chance heās monitoring for targeted tracing attempts. If he realises someoneās looking too closely at him before we know who he is, he could disappear completely.ā
Your stomach twists. āOr escalate.ā
You spend the next couple of hours keeping creepy internet man engaged while Garcia rambles tech jargon that makes less sense the longer the night wears on. At some point, you order pizza, then you migrate to the couch, and eventually you both end up sitting through the credits of Two Weeks Notice while waiting for one last reply in the hopes that he might finally answer something about himself.
DCRunner00: Refreshing
DCRunner00: Most people hide too much.
You: Depends what theyāre trying to hide.
DCRunner00: What are you trying to hide?
You: Besides the fact that Iām exhausted? Nothing.
DCRunner00: You seem distracted tonight.
You: Long day.
DCRunner00: I noticed.
You: How was yours?
You wait until almost midnight before finally deciding to call it a night.
Garcia checks all the windows and doors again while you brush your teeth and change into pyjamas. When you step back out of your bedroom to say goodnight, Garcia is trying her hardest to lure Leia onto the couch with her, but Leia is very stubbornly curled up beneath the TV unit.
āNight, Pen,ā you murmur, rubbing your eyes. āThanks again... for everything.ā
āNight, gorgeous,ā she calls, peering over the back of the couch. āWake me up if you hear literally anything suspicious. Or if Leia finally decides itās my time.ā
You laugh softly, blinking slowly as you turn back into your room and fall face first into bed.
THURSDAY 6:45AM
Youāre not sure whether to be relieved or concerned when you wake up to no new messages from creepy internet man. He hasnāt gone quiet for this long beforeābut if he is just a normal, slightly awkward guy with boundary issues and an internet connection, well... itās not that hard to believe he might just be sleeping.
Garcia is already up making coffee by the time you step out of your room, trying to bribe Leia out from under the couch with a tube of tuna paste.
The second she sees you, she jumps up and launches into another long-winded explanation about login activity and movement patterns across different access points. Apparently, creepy internet man logged in from three different geographical locations over the course of a few hours last nightāwhich is normal, right? That means he was out doing normal human things, not just lurking in his motherās basement, stalking women online.
Garcia isnāt entirely convinced that him moving locations is enough to get him off the hook as the BAUās next unsub, but it at least shuts her up until youāre both back at the office.
āHey,ā Reid says as soon as you walk into the bullpen. āYou havenāt been murdered.ā
You frown slightly. āGood morning to you too, Spence.ā
Morgan glances up from the file on his desk. āUhāwhy are we getting murdered?ā
Reid gestures vaguely in your direction. āBecause sheās potentially being cyberstalked by aāā
āOh, wow, look at the time,ā you interrupt, glaring at Reid. āWouldnāt it be such a shame if we all started minding our own business right about now.ā
Prentiss turns in her chair, brows raised. āCyberstalked?ā
āNobody is cyberstalking anybody,ā you say as you drop into your chair. āAnd nobodyās getting murderedābut great start to the morning, everyone. Love the energy. Now leave me alone.ā
Morgan chuckles quietly. āDamn. Thought you said you got laid last weekend.ā
Your hands slip off the desk as you try to pull yourself closer.
āTechnically,ā Reid says, āshe only implied it by refusing to answer Garciaās question during Monday morningās briefing.ā
āAh.ā Morgan leans back in his chair. āI knew this was a drought issue.ā
You scowl at him. āA drought issue?ā
āStatistically speaking,ā Reid adds, āpeople experiencing prolonged romantic or sexual dissatisfaction often display lower frustration tolerance and increased agitation in familiar social environments.ā
Morgan looks at him. āMan, just say she needs to get laid.ā
āOh my God,ā you snap. āI do not need to get laid. I am having a completely normal amount of sex already, thank you very muchāand frankly I think itās deeply inappropriate that youāre all this invested in whether or not Iām orgasming regularly.ā
Reid tilts his head. āYouāre having sex?ā
Morganās brows shoot up, Prentiss chokes on her coffee, and you open your mouth to fire back at him whenā
Someone clears their throat behind you.
Heat crawls violently up your neckābut you donāt turn around. You canāt.
āBriefing room. Five minutes,ā Hotch says, his voice dangerously even. āJJās got an update on the custodial interview with Wallace.ā
Morgan presses a fist against his mouth, tryingāand failingāto smother the strangled sound of laughter.
Very slowly, you turn in your chair.
Hotch is standing at the edge of the bullpen with a coffee in one hand and a file in the other. His expression is almost perfectly composed, but thereās something dangerous lurking beneath itāsomething suspiciously close to amusement in the tightness of his mouth.
āBe right there, sir,ā you blurt, lifting two fingers to your forehead in the most ill-timed attempt at a salute the FBI has ever seen.
Hotch just looks at you, the muscle in his jaw jumping once before he turns away.
You want to die.
The second his office door clicks shut behind him, Morgan drops his fist and smacks his palm flat against the desk with a choked laugh.
āOh, you are never recovering from that,ā Prentiss mutters, smirking behind her coffee cup.
Morgan leans back in his chair, grinning. āBaby girl, that was painful to watch.ā
You drop your head into your hands.
āYou somehow escalated the situation at every possible opportunity,ā Reid says thoughtfully.
āI hate you all,ā you mumble into your palms.
You spend the next half hour with your nose buried in your notebook, avoiding eye contact with the entire team while JJ explains the month-long back-and-forth that it took to finally get approval for the Wallace interview.
Apparently, the prison is limiting the interview to a single hour and reserving the right to terminate it early if the inmate becomes uncooperativeāwhich Rossi thinks is less about policy and more about Wallace trying to dictate the terms of the interaction.
Itās not ideal, especially considering you were the one who convinced Hotch to push for the interview before Wallace is transferred to death row. His case was one of the first you ever studied during the BAU training programme, and there isnāt much you wouldnāt give to pick the sociopathās brains. One hour with him feels dangerously shortāthat is, assuming Hotch actually picks you to be in the interview with him.
āWe donāt have enough time to waste managing personalities in the room,ā Hotch says, gathering the files in front of him. āIāll decide on a second agent and send out the interview schedule later today.ā
Chairs start scraping back almost immediately, files and notebooks snapping shut as everyone gathers their things and starts filtering out of the roomābut you donāt move. You stay firmly planted in your seat, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of your cheek while you debate whether to follow Hotch into his office and ask to be part of the interview. You donāt even have to be asking the questions, you just want to be there. You were the one pushing for it in the first place.
But then your brain very helpfully reminds you that Aaron Hotchner heard you say the word orgasming less than an hour ago and suddenly, being on death row yourself feels infinitely preferable to making eye contact with your unit chief.
You sigh heavily, finally closing your notebook. āYep. Just thinking about how Iāll probably have to fake my own death and change my name after this morning.ā
He shrugs. āHotch probably isnāt even thinking about it anymore.ā
You glance up at him hopefully.
āMorgan definitely is, though.ā
You roll your eyes, letting out another resigned sigh as you stand up and follow him out of the briefing room.
The rest of the morning manages to pass without incident. You stay chained to your desk, reviewing reports and processing any files that come your way while very deliberately not glancing up any time Hotch steps out of his office. At around eleven, Morgan and JJ head out to the cafe down the street and come back with coffees for the whole team. Then thereās a printer jam that gives the rest of the office a rare glimpse at just how angry Emily Prentiss can get when frustrated.
It isnāt until just before midday that you finally get up to go to the bathroom, and when you return to your desk, thereās one new notification in your inbox.
From: Aaron Hotchner
Subject: Wallace Interview
Youāre with me next Thursday. We leave at 0700.
Your stomach flips.
āWow,ā Reid says, suddenly standing right beside your desk. āHe picked you pretty quickly.ā
You shoot him a warning look. āSpence.ā
āIām just saying, he usually deliberates longer.ā
You glance back at the screen, rereading the first five words that make your pulse skip a little faster.
āYou and Hotch do work unusually well together in confined conversational environments,ā Reid adds.
You turn back to him, frowning.
He tilts his head. āThat sounded more suggestive than I intended.ā
You open your mouth to tell him how deeply unhelpful heās being when your phone buzzes twice against your deskālike it does several times a day, but something about it feels different this time. Wrong.
You reach for it slowly, your stomach twisting tighter as you turn it over.
Two new notifications from creepy internet man. The first since last night.
You open the message threadāand your stomach drops.
DCRunner00: [Image attachment]
DCRunner00: Did you and your friend have fun last night?
The image is of your apartment building. Itās grainy, slightly crooked, clearly taken from somewhere across the streetābut your living room windows are unmistakable. Warm light glowing through the glass. The blurred silhouette of someone inside.
Ice floods your bloodstream.
You stop breathing.
āIs that... your apartment?ā Reid asks, leaning over your shoulder.
You donāt answer him. You canāt.
The bullpen dissolves into white noise around you.
Untilā
āIām done!ā Garciaās voice cuts through the static. āI canāt do this anymore!ā
Sheās marching right toward you, your laptopāthat sheād still been monitoringātucked under one arm.
Reid gasps. āWait. Is thatāā
Morgan straightens in his chair. āWhatās happening?ā
āHotchās office,ā Garcia says, her expression dangerously stern as she stops beside your desk. āNow.ā
You nod slowly, your shoes almost slipping against the carpet as you push your chair back. Reid steps aside just enough to let you stand, but before he can get too far, you reach out and wrap your fingers around his wrist, silently dragging him with you as you follow Garcia back through the bullpen.
Hotch glances up the second Garcia pushes open his office door.
āWhatās going on?ā
His tone is calm, automatic, already slipping into that low, calculated cadence he uses when heās trying to talk someone down from the ledge. His gaze moves from her to youāand something in his expression shifts. Hardens. That muscle in his jaw ticking just once before he turns back to Garcia.
āWhat happened?ā he asks, sharper now.
Garcia crosses the room quickly, opening your laptop and sitting it on his desk while you hover uselessly in the doorway with Reid still caught in your grip.
Hotch glances at the screen, his eyes flicking through the messages.
Then he looks back upāright at youāand something unreadable settles across his face. Something dangerous.
āWho sent this?ā
Garcia spends the next five minutes explaining the entire situation at hyper speed while you just... stand there, leaning slightly against Reid like the whole world has tilted on its axis.
Itās funny how you can spend years building a career around finding bad people. Thinking like them. Predicting them. Profiling them. But the moment something happens to youāsomething realāthatās when all the theory suddenly stops feeling theoretical. And maybe itās because you know exactly what people like this are capable of, or how quickly situations like this can escalate once someone decides theyāre emotionally invested in you.
Or maybe itās just the horrifying realisation that some part of you knew where this was heading all along. And you still didnāt do anything about it until now. Not until you put yourselfāand your friendāin danger.
āGet everyone in the briefing room,ā Hotch says the second Garcia finishes. āNow.ā
Garcia nods once before slipping back out the door, and only then do you finally let go of Reidās wristāmaking a mental note to apologise later for the excessive physical contact.
Hotchās eyes drop down briefly, following the movement almost automatically. Something tightens in his expression for half a second before his attention snaps back to the laptop still open in front of him.
āReid,ā he says. āPrint the entire message history and document everything. Full timeline, screenshots, attachmentsāall of it. I want copies ready for the team in ten.ā
You swallow hard. āTheāthe entire message history?ā
Fifteen minutes later, youāre back in the briefing room with the entire team flipping through printed copies of your dating profile and messages. It almost feels like an out-of-body experience. Like one of those mortifying dreams where you watch everything unfold from above without any real ability to stop it.
āOkay,ā Prentiss says. āWhere do we start?ā
āVictimology,ā Morgan answers immediatelyāthen he glances at you. āSorry, baby girl.ā
You wave him off. āReidās been profiling me all week. Go for it.ā
Thereās a quiet ripple of laughter around the table, but Hotch barely blinks. Heās sitting on the opposite side, between Prentiss and JJ, with his arms folded tightly across his chest and gaze fixed on the copies spread out in front of him like heās trying very hard not to look directly at you.
āWe need to be careful building a victimology this early,ā he says evenly. āEspecially considering how well we know the victim. Personal familiarity creates bias.ā
Reid tilts his head. āNormally, yes. But stalking crimes are often highly individualised.ā He starts flipping through the printed messages as he talks. āStatistically speaking, stalking victims are usually targeted for a very specific reason. The motivation is generally rooted in either resentment, fixation, revenge, or romantic obsession.ā
You grimace. āFantastic.ā
āMost victims also know their stalkers,ā Reid continues. āApproximately seventy-five percent of stalking cases involve some form of prior relationship or perceived emotional connection.ā
āOkay,ā JJ says carefully, looking toward you. āIs there anyone you can think of who might hold a grudge against you? Someone you arrested, rejected, testified againstāanything like that?ā
You snort quietly. āDoes every criminal Iāve ever interviewed count?ā
The room goes still for half a second.
āWait,ā Prentiss says, sitting forward slightly. āActually, that makes sense.ā
Hotchās eyes flick up as Prentiss pushes one of the printouts into the middle of the table, tapping the page.
āThis escalation happened fast. Less than a week. Thatās not somebody slowly building emotional trust from scratchāthatās somebody who already came into this interaction emotionally invested.ā
āOr angry,ā Morgan adds.
āExactly,ā Prentiss says. āHe doesnāt lash out until she has Garcia over. Thatās jealousy. Possessiveness.ā
You sink lower in your chair.
āAnd he starts reacting every time she brings up her boss,ā Rossi says, flipping through the printouts. āThatās territorial behaviour. Heās fixating on a prominent male figure in her life.ā
āNot the only one fixating on him,ā Reid murmurs beside you.
You elbow him immediately.
āOw.ā
Hotch glances up sharply. āSomething to add, Reid?ā
Reid straightens. āUhāno. No, I think Rossi covered it.ā
Hotchās eyes narrow slightly, like he knows thereās something heās missing, but he lets it go.
āGarcia,ā he says instead, ātell me you found something useful.ā
āOh, I found things,ā Garcia says immediately, the rapid clacking of her keyboard echoing loudly through the conference room speaker. āDeeply unsettling things. Our creepy little internet goblin has been very busy.ā
Prentiss frowns slightly, mouthing āinternet goblinā across the table to JJ.
āOkay, soāprofile was created nine days ago using a burner email and a VPN bouncing between three different states, which normally would make me want to set my computer on fire, but our boy got sloppy.ā
Hotch leans forward slightly. āHow sloppy?ā
āSloppy enough that one login pinged off a public Wi-Fi network less than six blocks from her apartment last night,ā she says. āAnd before anybody asks, yes, Iām already pulling traffic cams.ā
Hotch nods once, already shifting into command mode.
āMorgan, Prentissāstart canvassing within a ten-block radius of her apartment. Garcia will feed you anything useful from the traffic cams. JJ, coordinate with local PD and see if thereāve been any complaints of suspicious activity in the area. Peeping, prowlers, stalking complaintsāanything that fits this escalation pattern. Rossi, start pulling names from old cases. Anybody with a history of fixation, stalking behaviour, or inappropriate attachment to investigators. Garcia, keep digging and keep me posted.ā
Everyone starts moving immediately, papers shuffling and chairs scraping back as the room shifts into motion.
āI want to help,ā you say suddenly. āThis is my mess, let me fix it.ā
āYou can help,ā he says evenly, āby going home, locking your doors, and staying there until we know exactly what weāre dealing with.ā
You open your mouth to argue.
āI mean it,ā he adds, voice low.
āIāll take her,ā Reid offers immediately.
āNo,ā Hotch says, gathering the printouts into one neat pile. āYou go with Morgan and Prentiss.ā
Then his eyes flick up, meeting yours.
āIām taking her home.ā
The next hour is one of the strangest of your life.
Hotch tells you to take your laptop back down to Garcia, whoās already in full FBI investigation modeāher screens covered in maps, metadata, CCTV stills, and enlarged screenshots of your own dating profile staring back at you in horrifying definition. When you finally make it back to your desk, Rossi spends twenty straight minutes walking you through every violent offender youāve interviewed in the last three years, forcing you to revisit dozens of interactions youād long since filed away as routine.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, Morgan drops a schematic of your apartment building onto your desk and starts questioning you about entrances, exits, blind spots, and security cameras while Reid quietly replaces the coffee you forgot existed an hour ago. It isnāt until Morgan leaves and JJ immediately takes his place beside you that you realise nobody has let you out of their sight for more than a few minutes at a time.
Then, finally, Hotch steps out of his officeāfiles in one hand and his go-bag in the other, like he fully intends on staying the night if necessary.
āReady?ā he asks, stopping beside your desk.
You stare at the go-bag for one long, deeply horrified second.
āYep,ā you manage, voice tight as you slowly push out of your chair.
Hotch drives. You donāt even try to argue. You just sit in the passenger seat with your knees pressed together and your heart beating out of your chest. Itās not like you havenāt been in the car with him before. You have, plenty of times. This just feels... different.
Neither of you speak until he cuts the engine in the parking garage of your building, and you have to try very hard not to dwell on the fact that he hadnāt asked for directions the whole way here.
āWait,ā he mutters before climbing out of the car.
He grabs his bag from the back, then moves around the car and opens your door.
It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to unbuckle your seatbeltāyour hands are shaking and your pulse is still pounding hard enough to make you dizzyābut once you finally do, you slip out of the car and lead him toward the fire stairs.
He never leaves more than a foot of distance between you. Never checks his phone. Never glances down. He stays glued to your side like a real protection detail. And thanks to your avid and wildly inappropriate imagination, youāve already mentally written an entire bodyguard romance plot starring Aaron Hotchner and yours truly by the time you finally reach your apartment door.
āIāuhāwasnāt really expecting company,ā you say as you push the door open. āSorry.ā
The second you step inside, Leia leaps off the couch with a loud, rumbling trillāprobably wondering why youāre home before dark for the first time in years.
Hotch pauses, his brow furrowing slightly. āYou have a cat.ā
You glance back at him as you kick your shoes off and nudge them out of the way. āIs that really the most surprising thing youāve learned about me today?ā
He watches Leia for another second before glancing back at you. āItās unexpected.ā
You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the way your heart skips when he quietly toes off his shoes beside the door without even asking. Like he already expects to stay awhile.
Leia chirrups again as she pads through the living room toward you, no doubt about to demand an early dinnerāuntil she catches sight of Hotch and abruptly stops short. Her ears flicker, her tail waving from side to side as she assesses the new man in her apartment.
Hotch crouches slightly, holding one hand out toward her.
āOh, she doesnāt really like people,ā you say quickly. āSo donāt take it personally if sheāā
Leia immediately walks straight up to him. She sniffs his hand once before pressing directly into his palm with a loud purr rumbling through her entire body.
Your eyes go wide.
Traitor.
Hotchās mouth twitches faintly as Leia leans harder into his hand.
Oh my God. Are you jealous of your cat right now?
He gives Leia one final scratch behind the ears before straightening, the softness in his expression fading almost immediately as he slips back into work mode. He scans the apartment briefly before setting the files down on your tiny dining table and shrugging his jacket off, draping it over the back of a chair.
You stand there for a second longer than you probably should, watching him move through your apartment with the same calm focus he brings to crime scenes and briefing rooms and interrogation tables. He checks the windows, the balcony doors, glances brieflyāthank Godāinto your bedroom, then double-checks the locks on the front door.
The whole thing feels weirdly surreal. Youāve imagined Aaron Hotchner inside your apartment a thousand times in a thousand different waysājust not like this. And nothing you imagined could have possibly prepared you for the reality of it. The way everything feels so much smaller. Warmer. More exposed.
Every object in every room suddenly feels mortifyingly personal.
If he lingers long enough in your kitchen, heās going to notice the unusually empty trash can and realise you survive almost entirely on caffeine and convenience. If he looks too closely at your bookshelf, heās going to find an unhealthy collection of romance novels with more trigger warnings than plot points. And if he looks into your bedroom again and turns his head just a little more to the right, heās going to see your vibrator sitting on the nightstandāand then youāll actually have to fake your own death.
Because youāve spent years carefully curating a version of yourself that keeps people from looking too closely. Flirty. Casual. Detached enough to joke about bad dates and hookups and sex without anybody ever realising that none of it means anything. Itās easier that way. Easier to let everyone assume your attention is scattered in every direction instead of fixed very specifically on the one person you absolutely cannot have.
But this?
This feels dangerously close to being found out.
The next couple of hours pass in strange, uneven waves of normalcy and low-grade psychological torture.
Hotch sits at your tiny dining table without complaint, dwarfing it as he hunches over files and asks careful questions about your routines, your neighbours, and whether anyone in the building has seemed overly interested in you recently. His phone rings a lot, which isnāt unusual, and every time he answers it you spend almost the entire conversation staring unashamed at the way his shirt pulls tight across his back when he reaches for another printout.
Which is wildly inappropriate considering the circumstances, but you canāt really help it. Youāre strung out, on edge, and, as Morgan so helpfully pointed out this morning, severely under-fucked.
And Leia, unfortunatelyābut not unsurprisinglyāremains no help whatsoever.
By seven oāclock sheās fully abandoned you in favour of draping herself across Hotchās lap while he reviews new data from Garcia, completely oblivious to the fact that you havenāt been able to breathe normally since he walked through the door.
āAre you hungry?ā you ask eventually, moving back into the kitchen as if you have anything in there to offer.
Hotch glances up from his laptop, one hand resting absently against Leiaās back while she purrs in his lap.
āIām fine.ā
You lean a hip against the kitchen counter, folding your arms tightly across your chest. āAny updates?ā
He glances back down at his screen. āGarcia narrowed the traffic footage down to three vehicles that stayed in the area longer than they should haveāMorgan and Prentiss are running the plates now. And Rossiās pulling relatives connected to your previous cases. Family members who attended trials, sentencing hearings, interviews. Anyone who mightāve had access to your name outside the official reports.ā
You nod slowly, silence settling again for a moment before you exhale sharply.
āAre you sure sitting here doing absolutely nothing is really the best use of me right now?ā
His eyes flick back up, that signature Hotchner scowl set between his brows.
āYou think this is nothing?ā
His voice stays calm, but thereās something firmer underneath it now.
āYouāve spent the last four days being threatened, surveilled, and followed by someone we still havenāt identified,ā he says. āMorgan, Prentiss, and Reid are out chasing leads because somebody targeted you. Rossiās pulling case files because somebody targeted you. Garciaās been at her desk for six straight hours because somebody targeted you.ā
His jaw tightens slightly.
āMy job right now is making sure nothing happens to you,ā he says quietly. āLet me do that.ā
Your breath catches, something warm and uncomfortably familiar twisting in your chest as Aaron Hotchner just sits there watching you like he hasnāt said anything unusual at all.
Which, to him, maybe he hasnāt.
Heās just doing his job. Looking out for his team. Heās not here because he wants to be. Heās here because someone threatened one of his agents.
Thatās all.
You clear your throat, pushing away from the counter before the silence stretches too long. āIāmāuhāIām just going to shower quickly. If thatās alright.ā
He nods once. āWant me to clear theāā
āNo,ā you say immediately. āGod, no. No. Itās fine. Totally fine.ā
His brows pull together slightly, confusion flickering briefly across his face before you turn and hurry into your bedroom, shutting the door a little harder than necessary behind you.
Then you take the longest shower known to mankind. You stand beneath the scalding spray for at least ten minutes before even touching anything. Then you scrub, exfoliate, shave, condition, rinse twice, and stand there for just a little longer before finally gathering the courage to step out. All the while trying desperately not to think about the fact that your unit chief is only two thin walls away while youāre dripping wet and completely naked.
You rummage through your dresser until you find an oversized sweater that isnāt totally threadbare and a clean pair of pyjama shorts. Technically, theyāre just striped flannel pants you cut into shorts, but at least theyāre not as short as the rest of your pyjama collection that definitely needs replacing.
If only you actually had time for things like shopping... and emotional stability.
āNo, wait for Morgan before you approach,ā Hotch says as you step quietly back into the living room, phone pressed against his ear while he paces slowly beside the dining table. āIf the registrationās fake, I donāt want you making contact until we know exactly whoās inside.ā
He pauses, expression sharpening slightly.
āAlright. Keep me updated.ā
He lowers the phone slowly before looking over at you for the first time since you re-emergedāand for half a second, he visibly loses his train of thought. Itās only tiny. Barely there. Just a brief pause before his expression shutters back into place.
āGarcia tracked one of the vehicles from the traffic footage to a motel outside Arlington,ā he says, glancing back down at the files scattered across the table. āThe driverās been masking his activity through multiple VPNs, so she couldnāt pull a clean trace from the motel Wi-Fi, but only one room in the motel was actively using the network.ā
Your stomach tightens.
āThe name on the reservation was fake,ā he continues, ābut the room was paid for using a credit card belonging to Daniel Mercer.ā
The name hits you immediately.
āEthan Mercerās brother,ā you say quietly.
Hotch nods. āRossi confirmed it about twenty minutes ago. Morgan and Prentiss are waiting for local PD before they move in.ā
You nod slowly, your pulse fluttering anxiously in your throat as you move toward the kitchen. Not because you actually need anything in there, but because standing still feels almost impossible right now.
āEthan barely spoke during the trial,ā you murmur, folding your arms as you lean back against the counter. āI donāt think I ever even met his brother.ā
āYou wouldnāt need to,ā Hotch says, already gathering the files into a neat pile. āPeople build attachments to investigators without ever interacting directly. Especially when theyāre looking for someone to blame.ā
Your skin prickles. āYou really think itās him?ā
āIt fits,ā Hotch replies evenly. āEstablished emotional investment, personal motive, no prior record. Which explains the inconsistency. The escalation without follow-through. The long gaps between contact attempts. He knows enough to be cautious, but not enough to stay controlled.ā
He straightens, turning back toward youāand for the briefest second, his eyes drop to your bare legs before snapping back up to your face almost immediately.
He clears his throat. āThis probably isnāt something heās done before. But his brother has.ā
The apartment falls quiet again after that. Hotch returns to collecting files while you stare absently toward the dark balcony doors, your pulse still refusing to settle beneath your skin.
āWell,ā you mutter eventually, gripping the edge of the counter to hoist yourself up. āOn the bright side, I still think Iāve dated worse.ā
The joke leaves your lips lightly enough, the same way they always doāeasy, detached, halfway between genuine and ironic so nobody ever pauses long enough to look too closely.
Except this time Hotch does pause.
āWhy do you do that?ā
You frown. āDo what?ā
āDeflect.ā He straightens again, one hand still holding a stack of printouts. āEvery time something gets too serious, you make a joke. Or you flirt. Or you say something just inappropriate enough to throw people off balance.ā
You lift a shoulder. āMaybe Iām just charming.ā
āNo.ā His eyes narrow slightly, brows pulling together. āNo, because it changes depending on the situation.ā
Your pulse stutters.
āWith Morgan itās competitive,ā he continues, setting the papers back on the table. āYou tease him because he pushes back and it keeps conversations superficial. Garcia gets exaggerated stories because she responds emotionally instead of analytically. Half the things you say to Reid are specifically designed to make him flustered enough to stop examining what you actually mean.ā
āWow,ā you murmur, shifting your weight against the countertop. āStarting to feel a little attacked here.ā
But Hotch doesnāt seem to hear you.
āThe dating profile doesnāt fit,ā he says, almost to himself. āNeither does the apartment.ā
Your stomach twists as his gaze moves briefly across the room. The bookshelves. The carefully organised clutter. Leia now curled up asleep on the couch.
āYou project someone impulsive. Social. Sexually confident. But nothing in here supports that.ā His eyes flick back toward you again. āYou live like someone who protects their space carefully. Even the cat.ā
āLeave Leia out of this.ā
āShe doesnāt like strangers.ā
āShe likes you.ā
The words slip out too quickly, and something in his expression shifts.
āYou keep people at a distance,ā he continues slowly, close enough now that you can hear the quiet rasp beneath his voice. āEven the team. You let people think they know you because it keeps them from looking closer.ā He hesitates, brow furrowing. āExcept Reid.ā
Your fingers tighten instinctively around the edge of the counter.
āYou trust him,ā Hotch says. āNot just socially. Behaviourally. You anchor yourself to him when youāre stressed. Physical proximity. Eye contact. Redirecting conversations through him.ā He pauses, watching you carefully now. āAnd earlier you said heād been profiling you all week.ā
Oh God.
āWhich means Reid already noticed the pattern.ā
He goes quiet for a moment, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly as he looks back over the last few monthsāyearsāin real time. You can practically see it happening behind his eyes. Every interaction. Every joke. Every look you thought youād hidden quickly enough.
āYou track me.ā
The words come quieter now. Less certain. Like heās still realising them.
āYou know my routines,ā he continues slowly. āYou anticipate questions before I ask them. You look up when you hear my office door open even when you canāt see me.ā He steps closer again. āYou know when I need coffee before I do. You watch my reactions before anyone else in the room.ā
Your breath stutters.
And Hotch notices immediately.
His expression shifts slightly as his eyes flick across your face, your posture, your hands still locked around the edge of the counter hard enough that your knuckles have gone pale beneath the kitchen lights.
āYour breathing changes when I get too close to you,ā he says quietly.
He takes another slow step forward, close enough now that you have to tilt your head back slightly to keep looking at him.
āYou stop fidgeting,ā he continues. āYou go completely still.ā His gaze drops briefly to your hands before lifting again. āLike youāre afraid movement alone is going to give you away.ā
Your heart is beating so hard now youāre half-convinced he can hear it.
āYou lose verbal fluency,ā he says, voice lower now. āYou trip over words you normally wouldnāt. Your pupils dilate. Your heart rate increases. And every single time I get close to noticing itāā
His eyes lock onto yours.
āYou redirect.ā
You can barely breathe now.
Heās standing right in front of you, close enough that the heat rolling off him sinks straight into your skin, close enough that one more step would put him between your knees where youāre perched on the counter.
And somehow the worst part is that he still sounds calm. Thoughtful. Like Aaron Hotchner is profiling you with the same careful focus heād bring to an unsubāexcept this time the thing heās slowly uncovering is the fact that youāve been hopelessly in love with him this entire time.
You swallow hard, your gaze catching just briefly on his mouth before you drag it back up to his eyes, pulse hammering so hard you can barely think straight.
āFigured it out yet, Agent Hotchner?ā you ask softly.
He goes still for half a second, something unreadable flickering across his face as his eyes drop to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again.
The apartment suddenly feels oppressively quiet.
His throat shifts slightly.
And thenā
His phone rings.
He steps back immediately, his expression shuttering back into something careful and unreadable.
āHotchner,ā he says, pressing his phone against his ear.
You donāt hear much after that. Not really. You recognise Morganās muffled voice, but you canāt quite hear what heās saying. Not while Hotch slowly paces your living room. You catch fragments of the conversation. Questions. Short answers. The low, steady cadence of his voice slipping effortlessly back into work mode while your own nervous system continues actively collapsing in on itself.
Because holy fuck.
Holy fuck.
What the hell just happened?
āThey got him.ā
Your head snaps up. āThey what?ā
Hotch moves back to the dining table and starts gathering his things.
āIt was him. Daniel Mercer,ā he says. āMorgan and Prentiss found him in the motel room with multiple burner phones, printed screenshots from the dating profile, and enough surveillance material to establish intent.ā
āOh.ā
āLocal PD recovered notebooks too,ā he continues. āNames, schedules, work addresses. Everyone connected to Ethan Mercerās conviction. Judges, prosecutors, witnesses. You were first because you were the arresting agent.ā
A cold shiver slips down your spine.
āGarcia also confirmed the motel Wi-Fi matched the same VPN chain used to access the dating profile,ā Hotch adds. āOnce Mercer realised the Bureau was involved, the direct contact stopped. After that he shifted to surveillance. Morgan said the room was covered in trial material. Photos. Notes. Newspaper clippings. Heād been building the grievance for months.ā
He pauses, then looks at you.
āBut they got him.ā
āGood,ā you say quietly.
Hotch nods once before turning back to the dining table, slipping his laptop into his bag with careful efficiency before gathering every file and printout into one neat pile.
āLocal PD will hold Mercer overnight until federal transport clears,ā he says, sliding the papers into his bag. āGarciaās already started coordinating with the U.S. Attorneyās Office. Youāll need to give an additional statement tomorrow regarding the dating profile.ā
You nod. āOkay.ā
Hotch reaches for his jacket, draping it over one arm.
āThereāll still be additional officers patrolling the area tonight,ā he says. āAnd if you donāt want to be alone, I can have Reid or Garcia stay here.ā
āIāll be fine,ā you mutter, glancing down at the kitchen tiles. āYou can stop babysitting me now.ā
Hotch stills.
Then slowly, deliberately, sets his jacket on the table.
āBabysitting?ā he repeats.
āYou know what I mean.ā
He steps toward you, brows drawn. āI donāt think I do.ā
āYou solved the case,ā you mutter, heat crawling up the back of your neck. āYou profiled me. Thoroughly. So congratulations, I guess. You figured out the whole sad little secret, the weird avoidance issues, the entire personality disorder cocktailāā You let out a short, humourless laugh. āYou can go back to pretending none of this ever happened now.ā
He closes the distance between you before you even fully realise heās moving, stopping directly in front of the counter again. Exactly where heād been when you asked him if heād figured it out. Close enough that you can feel his warmth. Close enough that you can see the day-old shadow of stubble lining his jaw.
āYouāre being deliberately provocative now because youāre embarrassed,ā he says. āBut embarrassment isnāt actually your primary response here.ā
His gaze drops to your mouth again, and your pulse stumbles.
āIf it was,ā he adds quietly, āyou wouldnāt still be looking at me like that.ā
Your breath catches in your throat.
You want to say something. Anything. Another joke. Another deflection. Something sharp enough to cut through the tension in the air and stop him looking at you like this. Exposing you like this.
But you canāt.
All you can do is stare at him. At the steady intensity in his eyes. At the way his tie has loosened slightly over the course of the night. At the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath the white shirt youāve spent an embarrassing number of years picturing on your bedroom floor.
You swallow hard, and he notices. Of course he does.
Something shifts in his expression then. Something softer. Less guarded.
His hand comes up beneath your jaw, his thumb pressing gently into your chin as he pulls you closer. You fall forward without hesitation, and he leans in, dark eyes still searching yours as if he isnāt entirely sure he has permission yet.
Then he kisses you.
Itās not rushed. Not messy. If anything, the first press of his mouth against yours feels almost unbearably controlled, like heās still holding himself back even now.
But the restraint doesnāt last long.
Your hand catches his tie, tugging him closer, and something rough slips from the back of his throat as he steps in, his hips slotting between your thighs. His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, fingers tightening just enough to tilt your head back exactly as far as he wants it.
Your lips part against his with a broken sound, and he deepens it slowly, his tongue moving against yours like he has all the time in the world. Tasting you. Learning you. Mapping every small sound and ragged exhale with the same focused intensity he brings to everythingāand somehow thatās what undoes you the most. Not urgency. Attention.
His breath mingles with yours, hot and uneven, and when his teeth catch your bottom lip itās deliberate, measuredāa sharp little spark shooting straight through your spine. Your hips roll toward him without permission, and his answering groan rumbles through his chest, vibrating beneath your palm and making you ache everywhere youāve been starving for him.
Then he pulls back just enough to look at you properly again. His hand still tangled in your hair. Thumb dragging once across your jaw. His eyes move over your face with the same intensity he uses in every debrief, every case, every crisis, except right now you are the thing heās making sure of.
Like he needs to be absolutely certain this is real.
āAaronāā
āBedroom,ā he says immediately, voice low and rough enough to send heat crashing straight through you. āNow.ā
FRIDAY 6:15AM
Your alarm blares somewhere beside the bed, startling you awake hard enough that your heart immediately starts pounding. You reach for it blindly, determined to silence it before it wakesā
Oh God.
The second your hand hits the snooze button, you freeze.
Your heart is beating faster now, your pulse thrumming in your throat as you turn slowlyāso slowlyātoward the other side of the bed, where Aaron fucking Hotchner stirs sleepily.
Your stomach swoops.
You slept with your boss last night.
With a shallow, shaky breath, you carefully start to move. His arm is heavy at your waist, but you manage to slip out from underneath it without fully waking him. You shove the covers off and shiver at the sudden exposure, leaning over the side of the bed to find your discarded sweater. You pull it over your head before quietly padding toward the ensuite, refusing to glance back at your very hot, very naked unit chief still tangled in your sheets.
You only just make it around the other side of the bed before something tugs at the back of your sweater. You stop, glancing back to find Hotch half-awake, eyes half-lidded with one hand caught at the hem of your sweater.
āDo you really get up this early?ā he asks, voice rough with sleep.
āYeah,ā you murmur. āMost days.ā
His brows pull together slightly. āWhy?ā
You let out a small, breathless laugh. āBecause my boss is kind of a hard ass about punctuality.ā
Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face.
āSounds like a terrible boss,ā he murmurs.
Then he tugs on your sweater againāhard enough this time that you let out a startled laugh as you stumble backward onto the mattress and into him. He catches you easily, one arm wrapping around your waist before you can even fully recover, pulling you back against the warmth of his chest.
āYeah,ā you murmur, laughing softly as his mouth brushes beneath your ear. āHeās awful. Very demanding.ā
He hums, breath warm against your skin.
āHeās really hot, though,ā you add, smiling despite yourself. āSo I like having time to put in a little effort, you know? Hope he notices.ā
āOh, he notices.ā
Your stomach flips. āReally?ā
āMhm.ā
His arm tightens around your waist. āHe notices the skirts.ā
Heat floods your face. āAaronāā
āHe notices the tights.ā His mouth brushes against the nape of your neck. āThe ones with the seam up the back.ā
āOh my God.ā
You try to turn your face into the pillow, but he just holds you tighter, pressing his lips firm against your neck.
āAnd the red bra,ā he murmurs.
Your breath catches.
āNoticed that so much I had to wait until everyone left the conference room before I could get up.ā
You let out a strangled sound, squirming in his arms, but itās no use. His chest vibrates against your back, something suspiciously close to laughter.
āMy washing machine broke that week,ā you whine. āIt wasnāt my fault.ā
āMm, sure.ā
You twist around immediately. āIām not lying.ā
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he doesnāt quite believe you, but before you can protest againāhe kisses you. Warm, slow, sleep-soft. His mouth moves against yours almost lazily, his hand tightening slightly at your waist when a pathetic little whimper slips out before you can stop it.
āCareful,ā you murmur, breathless against his mouth. āDonāt want to be late.ā
You feel his lips curve.
āGood thing Iām the boss.ā
10:35AM
You made it to work well on time. Even after three orgasms, a shower, and an awkward attempt at a āWhat Now?ā conversationāthat ended in the aforementioned third orgasm. Because fortunately for your rapidly fraying nervous system, Hotch hadnāt even hesitated when youād finally asked what happens next. In fact, heād answered a little too quickly.
The first thing heād asked was whether youād be comfortable keeping things quiet for a while. Not because heās worried about the team finding outāhe trusts them. Trusts you. The concern is Strauss, and the Bureau, and keeping you in the BAU while he figures out exactly how much trouble the two of you have just created for yourselves. At some point heād even started muttering about reporting structures and supervisory chains, half-thinking out loud while pulling on his tie. Something about possibly moving your reporting line over to Rossi. Something else about needing to review the Bureauās fraternisation policies before making any moves.
That was when you kissed himāeffectively, and very quickly, kicking off round three.
Because heād clearly been thinking about this for a while, which means Aaron Hotchner has been noticing a lot more than just short skirts and inappropriately coloured underwear. It means that the second he decided to kiss you in your apartment last night, heād already known exactly what he was getting himself into.
āAlright, gorgeous,ā Morgan says, startling you as he raps a knuckle against your desk. āTheyāll be ready for you downstairs in ten.ā
You glance up at him, brows drawnāand it takes an embarrassingly long second for you to figure out what heās talking about.
āOh.ā You blink. āRight. Yeah, Iāll head down soon. Thanks.ā
Prentiss looks over from her desk. āYou gonna be okay?ā
You lift a shoulder. āSure. Whatās another case report?ā
Morgan frowns, dropping into his chair. āItās not exactly every day youāre the victim, baby girl.ā
āYeah, but nothing really happened.ā
Morgan and Prentiss both stare at you.
āBecause of the team,ā you add quickly. āYou guys caught him before he actually did anything. So... you know, nothing bad happened.ā You plaster on a smile that feels reasonably convincing. āThanks for that, by the way.ā
Prentiss narrows her eyes, but before she can say anything else, Reid appears.
āYouāre in a remarkably good mood for someone who was being actively cyberstalked twelve hours ago,ā he says, stirring his second coffee of the day.
You turn back to your screen, trying to ignore the heat creeping into your cheeks. āMaybe I just have a newfound appreciation for life.ā
Reid studies you for a moment, clearly unconvincedābut he doesnāt push. He just moves slowly back toward his desk, setting his coffee down with unnecessary care while the rest of the team turn away, finally deciding to mind their own business.
You force your attention back to the report in front of you, determined to at least look productive for the next ten minutesāwhen a familiar voice cuts through your concentration.
āRossiās taking Wallace with you next week,ā Hotch says, setting the file down on your desk.
You blink up at him. āI thought you were leading the interview.ā
āI was.ā
Something in his expression tightens briefly before he lowers his voice.
āWallace has a long history of using sex, intimidation, and emotional targeting to destabilise people during interviews,ā he says. āEspecially women.ā
You frown. āHotch, Iāā
āAnd if he says something to you in that room,ā he continues evenly, āor looks at you the wrong way, I need to know the agent sitting beside you is still capable of thinking objectively.ā
Your stomach flips as his eyes meet yoursāsteady, intense, devastatingly honest.
āRight now,ā he says quietly, āIām not sure thatās me.ā
Then heās gone. Moving through the bullpen back toward his office like he hasnāt just set your pulse racing and your head spinning. You watch after him for a moment before shaking your head, glancing back at your computer screen as if youād been focused on it at all in the first place.
āā¦Huh.ā
You turn toward the sound and find Reid staring at you again. Not rudely. Just watching with the same focused curiosity heād been wearing since your suspiciously cheerful comment about cyberstalking.
warnings: 18+ only, explicit smut, power imbalance (superhuman strength), morally gray reader, obsession/possession themes, manipulation, guilt kink vibes, furniture destruction (workout bench), rough sex (consensual), overstimulation, praise + control dynamics
summary: clark hires you off the books to help him control his strength in bedābecause every partner before you has gotten hurt. you agree for the wrong reasons, pushing his limits on the workout bench until reinforced steel buckles and clark loses control. he thinks youāre saving him. youāre really making yourself the one thing he canāt walk away from.
a/n:Ā biggest shoutout to @tw1sters for allowing me, a virgin chud of a clark girlie, into her stellar event. further shoutout to the wonderful @sparklingsin for this sexy ass banner. i'm still salivating. if this fic sucks it was not my fault (yes it was tf?) i wrote this in a fever dream for bucky and made it into a clark fic during a time of weakness. enjoy my frens
----------
The first time Clark Kent says it out loud, itās in a voice so careful it barely disturbs the air between you.
āI need help.ā
You pretend you donāt notice the way his hands are clenched behind his backālike heās holding himself in place by sheer will alone. You pretend you donāt notice the way he keeps his weight distributed, controlled, as if heās afraid the wrong shift might crack the concrete under his boots. You pretend you donāt notice the faint tremor under all that restraint.
Because if you look too closely, youāll give yourself away.
And you canāt afford that.
Not when youāre already picturing the headline in your mind like a private little prayer.
Superman learns to be gentle.And youāre the only one he trusts enough to teach him.
The offer comes to you off the books, like a confession slid across a table instead of money.
A place. An hour. A promise that no one will know your name.
And then, after a pause that tastes like shame, the real truth:
āEvery time Iāve tried,ā he says, eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder, āsomeone gets hurt.ā
Itās not an admission that makes him smaller. It makes him terrifying in a new wayābecause he isnāt talking about bruises the way ordinary men do. Heās talking about physics. Heās talking about the reality that a good night can become a hospital visit if he forgets himself for half a second.
He swallows, and you watch his throat bob like heās forcing down something sharp.
āI canātāā He stops. Starts again. āI want to beā¦ normal. With someone. I want to be able to let go withoutā¦ without being afraid of what Iāll do.ā
You nod like youāre a professional. Like your pulse isnāt kicking against your ribs.
āWhat exactly are you asking me to do?ā you say.
He looks at you then, properlyāblue eyes too honest, too bright. The kind of eyes that make people trust him with their lives.
āI want you to help me practice,ā he says, as if itās the simplest thing in the world. āControl. Feedback. Limits.ā
Practice.
Like this is a skill he can learn the way he learned flight. Like you can run drills until his body understands what his mind has been doing alone for too long.
You should say no.
You should tell him there are therapists for this, doctors, specialists who wonāt get tangled up in the way your stomach drops at the idea of him losing control on top of you. You should tell him this is a terrible idea, morally and practically and in ways that will haunt him if it goes wrong.
Instead you ask, āWhy me?ā
His mouth opens. Closes.
Then, softly, āYou didnāt flinch.ā
A beat.
āYou didnāt look at me like Iām a weapon.ā
Another beat, the air humming with the effort it takes him to say it.
āYou looked at me like Iām a person.ā
You let your expression stay smooth, careful. You let him believe it.
Because the truth is uglier than that.
You didnāt flinch because youāre not afraid of him.
Youāre hungry for him.
And youāve always been the kind of person who learns best by touching the fire.
He takes you to the place he trains when he needs the world to stop looking at him.
Itās underground, somewhere beneath Metropolis, a hidden room carved out of bedrock and reinforced like a bunker. No windows. No cameras. Just fluorescent lights that cast everything in stark honesty.
Thereās a heavy-duty workout bench bolted into the floor like an altar.
Steel frame. Thick padding. The kind of equipment built for gods who donāt want to accidentally kill anyone.
Clark stands in the center of the room with his hands at his sides, posture rigid, like heās bracing for impact.
āIāve never brought anyone here,ā he says.
You circle the bench slowly, letting your fingertips ghost the worn edge of the padding. Itās been used. Punished. Tested.
āYouāre trusting me with a lot,ā you murmur.
He nods once, sharp. āI have to.ā
Thereās something about thatāabout his need, his honesty, his desperation to be safeāthat makes you want to bite.
Not him. Not yet.
Justā¦ the idea of it. The control. The power in being the one person he canāt do without.
You set your bag down on the floor and pull out what you brought: a small bottle of lube, a simple set of cuffs with soft lining, a piece of fabric that could be a blindfold or a gag depending on how you fold it.
His gaze flicks to each item like heās cataloguing weapons.
āYou came prepared,ā he says quietly.
You shrug, like youāre casual. Like you didnāt spend last night imagining the exact shade of red his cheeks would turn when you put him on his knees.
āThis is training,ā you say. āTraining needs structure.ā
His nostrils flare. He looks away, then back, as if forcing himself to stay.
āWhat do you need from me?ā he asks.
Itās the question that matters.
Consent isnāt just a checkbox with someone like him; itās the only thing that makes this anything but catastrophic.
You step closer, closing the distance until you can feel the heat of himāsun-warm, steady, impossible.
āI need you to be honest,ā you say. āIf anything feels wrong, you tell me. Immediately.ā
His jaw tightens. āI will.ā
āI need you to listen,ā you continue, voice even. āTo my words. To my body. To what I say and what I donāt.ā
His eyes track your mouth like itās the most important thing in the room.
āAnd I need you to understand something,ā you add, and let your gaze hold his until he canāt look away.
āThis only works if you let me lead.ā
His breath catchesājust a little, but you see it.
āI can do that,ā he says, like itās a vow.
You smile faintly.
āGood,ā you murmur. āThen we start slow.ā
Slow is a lie you tell him so heāll agree.
Slow is the way you get your hands on him.
You have him sit on the bench first, feet planted, posture too perfect. He looks like someone preparing for an interview, not someone about to be touched.
You stand between his knees and place your palms on his thighs through his sweats.
He stills like a statue.
āBreathe,ā you remind him.
He inhales. Exhales.
You lean in, close enough that your voice can stay quiet and still reach him.
āTell me what youāre afraid of,ā you say.
His throat works. āHurting you.ā
āThatās the big picture,ā you say gently. āI mean right now. In this moment.ā
He hesitates.
Then, barely audible: āThat if I startā¦ I wonāt be able to stop.ā
Something inside you thrills, sharp and bright.
You tilt your head. āIs that whatās happened before?ā
His eyes close for half a second, like heās bracing against memory.
āYes,ā he admits. āNotā¦ like this.ā He gestures vaguely, to the room, to you, to the setup. āBut I lose track. I forget. Everything feels tooātoo good and thenāā
He cuts himself off, shame rolling off him in waves.
You slide your hands up his torso slowly, feeling the solid heat of muscle under fabric, the way his body reacts even when his mind is trying to be polite.
āThen we build a system,ā you say. āWe make it so you donāt have to rely on fear to stop you. You rely on me.ā
His eyes open, blue and raw.
āYouāll tell me to stop,ā he says.
āYes.ā
āAnd if I canātāā
āThen we use tools.ā You lift the cuffs slightly, letting them glint under the lights. āWe use limits that arenāt negotiable in the moment.ā
His gaze drops to them. He swallows.
āDo you want that?ā you ask.
It matters that he chooses it.
He nods once.
āYes.ā
You step back, and his shoulders visibly loosen with the permission.
āGood,ā you say. āStand up.ā
He does immediately.
You move behind him, fingers brushing his wrists as you guide his hands back.
He tenses for a secondāinstinct, not refusalāand you feel the war inside him: power vs surrender.
āClark,ā you say softly.
He stills.
āIām going to cuff you,ā you tell him. āNot because I donāt trust you. Because you donāt trust yourself.ā
His breath shudders.
āOkay,ā he whispers.
You loop the cuffs around his wrists and secure them to the benchās anchor points. He tests them automaticallyāgentle pressure. The bench doesnāt budge.
His eyes flick to you, uncertain.
āYouāre stuck,ā you say, voice calm. āAnd thatās the point.ā
Something like relief crosses his face, quickly buried.
You step around him to face him again.
āSay your safe word,ā you instruct.
He frowns. āWe need one?ā
āYes,ā you say, and donāt let him argue. āPick something you wonāt say by accident.ā
His lips part. He thinks.
āStarling,ā he says finally.
A strange choice. A soft one.
You nod. āStarling means everything stops immediately. No questions.ā
He nods too, solemn.
Then you touch him.
Just a fingertip along his jaw, the edge of his mouth, the curve of his throat.
He inhales like heās been starving.
āTell me where you hold the most tension,ā you murmur.
āMy shoulders,ā he says, voice strained.
You slide your hands up, kneading the thick muscle there, feeling how hard he is even while he tries to relax.
āGood,ā you say. āWe start by making you feel good without making you lose control.ā
He lets out a shaky laugh.
āThat seemsā¦ unlikely,ā he admits.
You smile, slow.
āThatās why you hired me.ā
You take your time undressing him, not because youāre kind, but because every second he has to wait is a lesson.
Patience. Control. Listening.
His shirt comes off first, folded neatly like he still thinks heās in danger of wrinkling it. His skin is warm, gold under the lights, covered in faint marks that look like they came from things trying and failing to hurt him.
You trail your fingers along one of them, and his chest rises sharply.
āSensitive?ā you ask.
āEverywhere,ā he admits. āIā¦ I feel things strongly.ā
You hum, pleased.
His pants come next. His boxer briefs after that.
When heās bare, he looks almost embarrassed by how perfect he isālike itās an accident he keeps apologizing for.
His cock is already hard, thick and heavy against his abdomen, and the sight of it makes your mouth go dry.
You donāt touch it yet.
Instead you undress yourself slowly, letting him watch. Letting his eyes take you in like heās afraid if he blinks, youāll vanish.
You climb onto the bench carefully, straddling his lap. The cuffs pull his arms back just enough to keep him open, vulnerable.
His breath catches when your bare skin meets his.
āOkay,ā you say softly, hands on his shoulders. āRule one: you donāt move unless I tell you.ā
His eyes widen. āIāā
āDo you understand?ā you press.
He swallows hard. āYes.ā
āGood,ā you whisper, and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
He trembles.
You reach down, wrap your hand around him once, just enough to make him jerk.
He sucks in air like heās drowning.
āStill,ā you remind.
He goes rigid, fighting himself.
You slick him with your palm and then lift slightly, guiding him to your entrance.
He looks at you like youāre about to save him.
āTell me if youāre okay,ā you say.
āIām okay,ā he breathes, voice wrecked. āAre you?ā
You smile.
āIām better than okay.ā
And then you sink down onto him.
He makes a sound that doesnāt belong to someone who is also supposed to be Superman.
Itās too broken, too needyālike something inside him finally snapped in the right direction.
You set your hands on his chest, feel the thunder of his heart under your palms, and move slowly.
For a few minutes, it almost feels gentle.
Almost.
His restraint is visible, the way he holds himself back like heās gripping a wild animal by the throat. He stays still when you tell him. He bites down on every instinct to thrust up into you.
You roll your hips, take him deeper, and he shudders so hard the bench creaks.
āGood,ā you murmur. āThatās good control.ā
His laugh is breathless. āIām trying.ā
āI know,ā you say, and lean down to drag your mouth along his throat.
He goes taut.
Your teeth graze his skinājust a hintāand he gasps, eyes squeezing shut.
āStill,ā you warn.
He obeys.
You should be proud.
Instead you feel the ache of temptation, the way you want to pushājust to see what happens when he breaks.
You pull back, meet his gaze.
āTell me what you want,ā you say.
His eyes are bright, desperate. āYou.ā
āThatās not specific enough,ā you tease.
He swallows.
āI want to move,ā he admits. āI want toāfuck, I want to take control.ā
You tilt your head. āAnd what happens when you do?ā
His jaw clenches, shame flashing. āI donāt know.ā
āThatās why weāre here,ā you say softly, and then, like kindness, āWeāll do it in steps.ā
But the truth is youāve already decided.
You donāt want to fix him.
You want to be the line he crosses and canāt uncross.
You shift your hips faster, riding him with more intent, your breath starting to hitch. His eyes track your movement like heās trying to memorize itālike heās afraid heāll never get this again.
āClark,ā you breathe, and his focus snaps to you instantly.
āYes?ā
āYouāre doing so well,ā you praise, and feel his whole body tense at the words. Praise hits him like a drug.
You smile at that. File it away.
Then you press a hand to his jaw, force him to look at you.
āIām going to let you move,ā you say. āBut you have to listen. If I say stop, you stop.ā
His breath is ragged. āI will.ā
āIf I say slow down, you slow down.ā
āYes.ā
āIf I say āStarling,ā everything ends.ā
He nods hard.
You hold his gaze another beat, as if youāre making sure he means it.
Then you shift your weight forward, bracing your hands on the bench near his shoulders, and whisper:
āOkay.ā
āMove.ā
The change is instant.
Clarkās hips drive up like heās been shot out of a cannonāand then he catches himself, stops mid-thrust with a strangled sound. His muscles are shaking with effort, his face tight with restraint.
He looks at you like heās waiting for punishment.
You moan instead.
āGood,ā you gasp. āYesālike that, but slower.ā
He forces himself down to something controlled, something almost human.
Almost.
The bench groans again under the new rhythm, the metal complaining in stressed little screams.
You wrap your legs tighter around him, taking him deeper, and his breath breaks.
āYou feelāā he chokes, eyes wild. āYou feel so good.ā
āI know,ā you pant. āStay with me.ā
He nods, jaw clenched, and keeps moving.
Itās still controlled, still carefulāuntil you tilt your hips just right and a sound tears out of him, raw and helpless.
His thrust stutters.
You feel the edge of him slipping.
And youāgod help youāyou lean into it.
āClark,ā you moan, and his eyes snap to yours.
āDonāt hold back from me,ā you say, soft as a sin. āI can take it.ā
He freezes.
āThatāsāā he starts, panic flickering. āThatās notāā
āYou hired me because everyone else got hurt,ā you whisper, lips close to his. āLet me be different.ā
It isnāt fair. You know it isnāt.
But you watch the words land like a match in dry tinder.
His control wavers.
He swallows hard. āAre you sure?ā
You nod, slow. āYes.ā
You are sure of one thing only:
You want him ruined.
You want him addicted.
You want him looking at you like the only safe place heās ever had.
You shift again, and he groans like heās in pain.
His thrusts speed up, heavier now, the force behind them increasing. The bench starts to shudder under you, bolts vibrating.
āSlower,ā you tell him, testing.
He slowsābarely.
āGood,ā you murmur, and then you give him what he really needs: permission dressed up like trust.
āThatās it,ā you whisper. āUse me.ā
A sound rips out of himātoo raw, too broken.
His hips drive up harder.
The bench squeals, metal legs flexing under stress that wasnāt meant to exist.
You brace yourself on his chest, fingers digging in.
He looks at you like heās drowning and youāre the only thing he can grab.
āIām going toāā he gasps, panic rising. āIām going to lose it.ā
āThen lose it,ā you breathe, and roll your hips to meet him.
He tries to stop. You feel itāthe way his body fights, the way he attempts to pull back, to slow down, to do the right thing.
But you keep moving.
You keep coaxing.
You keep whispering the exact kind of praise that makes him unravel.
āGood,ā you moan. āSo good, ClarkāGod, youāre perfectājust like thatāā
His restraint snaps.
Clarkās thrusts turn brutal, unstoppable. The room fills with the sound of skin meeting skin, the bench crying out under every impact.
The reinforced steel legs buckle with a sharp, violent shriek.
The entire frame dips.
Padding tears with a ripping sound like fabric giving up.
You yelp, startled, but his handsāstill cuffed, still restrainedāflex helplessly as his body surges upward again, chasing you like heās lost the ability to think.
āClark!ā you gasp, half warning, half name-saying prayer.
He looks wrecked, eyes blown wide, mouth open in a sound thatās more animal than man.
āI canāt stop,ā he chokes.
You should say Starling.
You should end it.
Instead you hook your legs tighter and pull him deeper.
āThen donāt,ā you whisper.
The bench gives another sickening groan, steel joints cracking under pressure. One of the anchor bolts shears clean off with a metallic snap, skittering across the floor.
Clark makes a broken sound and slams up into you again, harder, the force rattling your teeth.
The pleasure is too sharp, too intense, turning your limbs weak. It feels like being claimed by something holy and catastrophic.
Your body takes it because you told him it could.
Because you wanted this.
Because you wanted to be the proof that he can lose control and still not destroy the person beneath him.
His breath is a ragged roar in your ear. āTell me to stop,ā he begs, even as he keeps moving. āPleaseātell me to stop.ā
You bite your lip, eyes stinging with the strange, vicious tenderness of it.
āLook at me,ā you demand.
He drags his gaze to yours, frantic, guilty, desperate.
āYouāre not hurting me,ā you lieābecause you can feel bruises blooming already, can feel the way tomorrow will ache, can feel the risk like a thrill under your skin.
āYouāre making me come,ā you say instead, and watch something shatter in his face.
His thrusts turn feral.
The bench finally gives up completely.
Steel legs fold inward with a violent crunch. Padding splits, foam spilling out like a wound. The entire structure collapses under you, dropping you both a few inches onto the floor with a crash that echoes through the bunker.
Clark freezes instantlyāpanic flashing so hard itās almost blinding.
āOh my God,ā he gasps. āAre youāā
You grab his face with both hands.
āDonāt you dare leave me,ā you snap, voice shaking.
He stills, eyes wide.
āIām here,ā he whispers, like heās afraid youāll vanish if he blinks. āIām here.ā
Youāre still straddling him despite the ruined bench, still full of him, heat pooling between you. The cuffs pull at his wrists awkwardly, but he doesnāt even seem to notice themāheās too focused on you, on the fact that youāre breathing.
āMove,ā you tell him, softer now. āFinish.ā
His throat works. āIāā
āClark,ā you murmur, and tilt your hips just enough to make him shudder. āYou can. Iām right here.ā
He exhales like surrender.
Then he starts againāslower now, careful, shaking with the aftershock of fear and need. His control returns in pieces, as if the crash sobered him.
His eyes never leave your face.
āTell me if it hurts,ā he begs.
āIt hurts,ā you admit, because honesty matters now, when the danger is real.
His whole body locks. āStarling?ā
You swallow, pulse racing.
You could stop.
You should stop.
Instead you shake your head.
āIt hurts because youāre real,ā you whisper. āBecause youāreābecause youāre you.ā
His face crumples, relief and desire twisting together.
You roll your hips, slower, meeting him halfway. You make it something you can both survive.
When you come, itās with your forehead pressed to his, your hands cupping his jaw like youāre holding him together. Your whole body clenches, and Clark makes a sound like grief as he tries not to move too hard.
āGood,ā you whisper shakily, breathless. āGoodāthere, just like thatāā
He loses himself again, but this time itās not violent.
Itās desperate.
He comes with a broken sob, hips jerking up, eyes squeezed shut, face twisted like he canāt believe heās allowed to feel this.
When itās over, he goes stillāshaking, breathing hard, the cuffs still holding his wrists back like a reminder that he canāt take what he wants unless someone gives it.
You stay on him, chest rising and falling, listening to his heart slam against his ribs like it wants out.
Slowly, he opens his eyes.
Theyāre wet.
āIām sorry,ā he whispers immediately. āThe benchāIāā
You touch his cheek, thumb smearing the corner of his mouth.
āItās just a bench,ā you say.
His laugh is a broken thing. āIt was reinforced.ā
āAnd youāre Superman,ā you reply softly, like it explains everything and nothing.
He looks past you at the wreckageāsteel twisted, foam spilling, bolts scattered. His face tightens, shame starting to rise again.
āI shouldnāt haveāā
You interrupt him by pressing your mouth to his.
Itās not gentle.
Itās a claim.
He kisses you back like heās starving.
When you pull away, you keep your forehead against his.
āYou didnāt hurt me,ā you say again, firmer this time. āYou scared yourself. Thereās a difference.ā
He swallows. āI lost control.ā
āYou listened when I told you to slow down,ā you remind him. āYou asked permission. You checked on me. You stopped when the bench broke.ā
His breath shudders. āBecause I thought Iād killed you.ā
You smile faintly, wicked and soft all at once.
āBut Iām here,ā you say. āAnd youāre here. And youāre not alone in this.ā
Something shifts in him at those wordsāsomething that looks suspiciously like hope.
And you hate how much you like being the one to put it there.
He stares at you like youāre a miracle.
āThank you,ā he whispers.
You could tell him the truth right then.
That you didnāt come here to fix him.
That you came here because you wanted to be the one person he couldnāt forget. The one person his body would learn as safe, not because youāre a saint, but because youāre selfish enough to want the weight of him.
Instead you brush your thumb over his lower lip and say, āWe can keep training.ā
His eyes widen, earnest. āYouāll come back?ā
You lean in, mouth close to his ear.
āThat depends,ā you murmur.
āOn what?ā
You pull back just enough to look at him, let him see the edge of your smile.
āOn whether you can handle the fact that Iām not doing this for free,ā you say.
His brow furrows. āYou named a price.ā
You hum. āNot that kind of payment.ā
He blinksāconfused, vulnerable.
You kiss him again, slower now, letting it sink in.
āWhen you start to trust me,ā you whisper against his mouth, āyou donāt get to decide youāre better off without me.ā
His breath catches.
Itās an ugly thing to say. Possessive. Sharpened by intent.
He should flinch.
He doesnāt.
He looks at you like you just handed him permission to stop running.
āI donāt want to be without you,ā he admits, voice shaking.
The words land in your chest like a trophy.
Good.
You ease off him carefully, body aching, and reach up to undo the cuffs. Your fingers brush his wrists, already reddening from the strain of holding him back.
His hands come free, and for a second he just stares at them like he doesnāt trust them.
Then he cups your face with both palmsāso gentle itās almost reverent.
āI thought I couldnāt have this,ā he whispers. āI thought it would always beādangerous.ā
You swallow, throat tight.
āIt is dangerous,ā you say honestly.
His eyes flicker. āThen whyāwhy would youāā
Because you want to be wanted by something that could destroy you.
Because you want him tethered to you by guilt and need and the memory of how good it felt to finally let go.
Because you want to be the pretty little casualty he canāt walk away from.
You donāt say any of that.
You just press your hand over his heart and feel it hammering.
āBecause youāre worth the risk,ā you lie, and watch his face soften like youāve given him everything.
He kisses your knuckles, careful.
Then he looks over your shoulder at the wrecked bench again, and a hysterical little laugh escapes him.
āIām going to have to replace that,ā he says, voice hoarse.
You glance back at the twisted steel and torn padding, the foam spilling like snow.
āConsider it progress,ā you say.
He shakes his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouthārelief and awe mixed together.
Then his gaze returns to you, and the smile fades into something deeper.
āI canātāā he starts, then stops, as if heās afraid to name it.
āCanāt what?ā you ask softly.
He steps closer, slow like heās approaching a wild animal.
āI canāt stop thinking about you,ā he admits. āEven beforeābefore tonight. Iāā
He laughs once, bitter at himself.
āI thought I was being selfish. Wanting someone. Wanting this.ā
You tilt your head, feigning curiosity while your stomach flips with satisfaction.
āAnd now?ā you ask.
His eyes burn into yours.
āNow I think Iāve been starving,ā he says.
You let the words sit there, heavy and hot.
Then you step into him, press your body against his, feel the way he goes still like heās afraid to break you even with a touch.
You reach up, thread your fingers through his hair, and pull his mouth down to yours.
āThen eat,ā you whisper.
His hands slide to your waist, shaking.
āAre you sure?ā he asks again, like itās his religion now.
You smile.
āYes,ā you say, and mean it in the worst way.
Because he thinks this is the beginning of his control.
And maybe it is.
But itās also the beginning of something elseāsomething messier, darker, more tangled.
A need heāll start to associate with your voice, your touch, your permission.
A tether that will tighten every time he comes apart in your hands and finds you still there afterward, warm and breathing and refusing to be scared.
You kiss him until his control starts to fray again, and you feel the moment it happensāthe instant his body remembers what it did to that bench, the instant guilt rises like a tide.
You pull back and cup his face.
āLook at me,ā you say.
He does immediately.
āYouāre not a monster,ā you tell him.
His eyes shimmer.
āAnd youāre not alone,ā you add, softer. āNot anymore.ā
He exhales like a man being forgiven.
Then he pulls you into his arms, careful as a prayer, and holds you like youāre the only thing keeping him anchored to the world.
You close your eyes against his shoulder, smiling to yourself.
Because this is the part he doesnāt understand yet:
Youāre not here to save him from himself.
Youāre here to make sure he never finds his way back out of you.
bf!dex who looks way too pleased with himself when you get angry enough to hit him.
you two make a very disfunctional couple, that much could be said. you patch him up from knife and bullet wounds more often than you go out on dates, and you're constantly arguing about dex's obsessive, infuriating need to keep everything in your life under his control.
on particularly bad fights, you make him grovel for days.
dex will mostly spend them chasing you around your apartment while you pretend not to notice the hulking mass of a man stalking you around every room, an inevitable presence you couldn't get rid of even if you tried. he says i'm sorry and please talk to me and i'll do anything while you try your best to remain unphased, even if the undeniable lack of remorse in his voice only fills you with even more rage.
one day you turn on your heels and slap him across the face.
it's a sudden, sharp crack that echoes around the room like a gunshot. his head turns to the side and stays there, because you struck him hard enough for dex to freeze like that for a moment before he blinks once in surprise, tongue moving inside his mouth to poke the inside of his cheek.
you can see it in him, the change that happens when dex registers the sting and the heat that starts spreading across the side of his face, the shape of your fingertips painting his skin a crimson red. his mouth curls then, lips tugging into a smile as his eyes flutter closed to savor the impact.
you make a disgusted sound, and because you're still pissed, even more mad now than before you realized you can't even hurt him without his deranged brain turning it into this, you snarl: "what the fuck is wrong with you?"
dex only laughs in response, seemingly pulled out of his trance by the sound of your voice. it's the first time you've spoken to him in hours, and something inside him hums in satisfaction at finally earning back your attention, even if you're still scowling at him with an intensity that would make a lesser man feel the urge to bolt.
to dex, though, the only thing worth registering is that he has your eyes back on him once more, your touch back where it belongsāon his skin, burning across his cheek as physical proof.
he reaches out to grab your hand, fingers enclosing around your wrist and lifting your arm with enough gentleness to make you hesitate upon the thought of pulling it right back, then guides your palm to lay flat against the other side of his face.
"i'll let you take it out on me all you want, we both know i deserve it," he says, soft eyes fixed on yours despite the haze of rage still clouding your vision. "but if you really want to hurt me, then you'll have to hit me harder, sweetheart."
his laughter is soft but broken, hands spanning up to grip your hips like handles. the kind of cooing that makes your stomach both twist and flutter. his heavy hips plunge into yours while you jerk away and gasp like you canāt help it. but he doesnāt let you get far at all. heāll let you move just to drag you back by your ankle, both of you knowing you donāt really want him to stop. he pulls you back towards him with a low chuckle, fingers delicate as they descend between your legs.
condescending in his care, dick pouts when you whine and will remind you how much youād beg for it. his words and his chuckles echo in the corners of your mind as he ruins you for the nth time.
ābut you were so adamant on needing me before, hmm?ā āyou can give me another.ā ātake what you begged for.ā āright there? god, youāre so precious.ā āsuch a needy thing.ā
you donāt know what to do with the feelings heās creating.
he make the same sounds as you just to amplify yours. mouth gaping at the same time as you to mimic and mock. he repeats the movements, the same defeating thrusts over and over until youāre a sobbing mess. his fingers rubbing tightly on the sensitive nub, not stopping even when you grasp at him and drag your nails down desperately. dick moans loud and proud with you and the sound is delicious to your ears. he fucks you deeper then, drilling like a man on a mission.
then heāll kiss the tears on your cheeks, getting more worked up by the salty taste when a low groan slips his lips. but heāll smile proud when you shatter, just to do it all over again.
smut | jason puts you to sleep | masterlist | 3k event!
itās been a whole hour of this relentlessness.
laughter melting into a panting mess, then a symphony moans like a sinful blessing to contribute to.
jason had been rutting into you, feeding every glorious inch inside and ensuring his spend was secured there as it belonged. all the while, youāve been maneuvered from your side to stomach and your back, over and over again. gasping and grasping at him when he shushes you with a kiss. youād came for the nth time, clenching around him and dragging him over with you. feeling the warmth erupt and fill deep, while heās got the happiest look on his face, laughing softly and moaning at the same time.
jason looks like heās on top of the world, and that keeps you pliant despite how exhausted you were feeling. sliding right back inside like heās been molded in place. he drags his hips back and watches you shudder and eyes flutter.
āyou look so precious princess.ā he coos, āfull of me, fuck. youāve never looked more mine.ā
all you can do is murmur his name, as he pushes right back home and the words die in your mouth. exhaustion tugging beautifully on your aching muscles while you melt further into the mattress.
āgod, just look at you,ā he leans down to your quivering lips, ākiss me, hmm?ā
you obliged, tilting your head back enough for him to lean even closer and press his lips to yours.
itās like youād started to float over your own body, his strong arms coming to wrap around your waist while he plunges deep and slow. eyes rolling to the back of your skull while heās panting into your mouth. you part to take a breathless gasp and he continues trailing his lips down the side of your face, āitās too much jay.ā
chanting the same word, āi know baby but you can give me another, yeah?ā like a feral and impossibly insatiable giant, he delivers another sharp thrust.
you gasp loudly but it comes out more like a strangled moan, head turning to the side. as his movements pick up again, your eyes shut in bliss, mouth parted slightly just to let out a sharp gasp in tandem with his thrusts. something possesses him to let his tongue lol right out and drag up the side of your face, groaning lowly until he stills to kiss your temple. his hands at your waist rub circles on the plush skin. when your eyes meet, just barely, you can see him biting his lip down at you, a small smile on his lips.
āyou okay?ā he ask with impossible softness.
returning the smile, you lazily blink and pull him even closer, āyes.ā
he nods quickly, making sudden movements to pull out when you tightly grip on him, āno, wait stay.ā
searching your eyes, he waits to make any other movements. a gentle hand coming up to brush over your brow in a delicate, loving manner. āyou sure? you seem exhausted.ā
you just smile up at him, a soft layer of sweat on both of you still, āthis is the good kind of exhaustion, donāt you dare stop.ā
the smile on his face creeps up on him and he leans down further to capture your lips with his. locking tight as he laughs into your mouth and moves his hips in circles to have your breath hitch against his, taking the sound and swallowing it down.
āgood,ā he murmurs against your lips as his devastating thrusts remain deep and slow. ādonāt want to stop.ā
you gasp softly into his mouth as he continues, rolling his hips against yours. kissing your cervix at every push.
wet, warm, and loved is all you could feel right now. your head sinks back into the pillow as he follows after you, pressing his face into the cross of your neck and continuing his relentless movements. he buries his nose into your hair and whispers about how beautiful you are.
it builds all over again and the tightening climax becomes too much to hold back. jason knows it too. he can feel it in how youāre clenching around him, turning him into a sputtering mess. thrusts turning sloppily and uneven as he makes a small whimpering sound by your ear when heās close.
reaching down to push you over that peak by rubbing calculated circles. mouth parting as he gasps with you, pulling back just enough to watch your face contort and a cry slip past your lips. you cling to his arms and let the mattress swallow you whole, the pleasure and fatigue mixed beautifully. leaning his weight over you again to groan gorgeously by your ear, the high crashes over you and tenses around him. nails trailing to his back and digging in over previous scratches, earning around delicious hiss from his lips. he follows closely behind, small whimpers escaping him as he fills you deep for the nth time. shallow thrusts pushing his spend back and forth when he presses sloppy kisses up the side of your neck.
āhah shitābaby,ā he pants, continuing to shift his hips into slower just to prolong the feeling.
moving up to suck in gentle, tender movements. you let out a soft exhale and melt into the warmth of him while he finally stills and pulls out with an obscene, slick sound. both of you softly groan at the change in sensation, before humming at the peppering kisses he trails over your jaw.
āyou did so good baby,ā jason says between kisses, āyouāre always so perfect for me ma.ā
all you can do is hum and tilt your head for him, a smile tugging at your lips. he pulls back watching you, laughing at the look on your face before pressing his perfect lips to yours. tongue lolling inside of yours just to swipe against yours and coax another soft gasp.
āyou look wrecked,ā he admits proudly, shit eating grin on his face.
āsāyour fault,ā murmuring vaguely at him with a hoarse voice from how loud youād been. no bite behind your words really.
āand i proudly take credit for that.ā
he presses his face to yours, rubbing his cheek against yours like a fond cat. humming at the feeling of his skin pressed to yours again, your heavy eyelids win and bask in that familiar sensation of comfort. hands running up through your hair, he places a gentle kiss by your ear before rubbing his nose into the crook of your neck.
āshould we get batburgerāā
by the time heās pulled away to look at you, youāre already asleep. snoring softly with the cutest little smile on exhausted face, an oxymoron in the sweetest and filthiest way.
āguess you really were tired ma,ā jason chuckles softly before settling on your side and pulling you into his chest.
leaning back on the pillow while you shuffle sleepily into his arms and he tightens his hold. though you couldnāt hear him and were drooling on his bare chest as he watched in adoration, jason speaks lowly by your ear, āsleep tight baby.ā
SUMMARY. Bullseye shows up bleeding in Matt Murdockās arms. You have a clinic, a locked door, and a terrible habit of letting wounded things crawl into your hands.
A wounded dog will decide who counts as safe long before anyone else understands why it bites.Ā
You learned that before medical school, before emergency rotations and back-alley sutures that made men in masks limp to you and bleed all over your tile at 3 AM. You learned it at eleven, crouched near an alley behind your old apartment, palm full of deli turkey your mother told you was for lunch, watching a stray with a torn ear bare his teeth at every adult who tried to corner him. Animal control had come with poles. A neighbor had come with a towel. Your mother came with her worried mouth pressed thin and her hands hovering near your shoulders, ready to snatch you back if the dog lunged. The dog had lunged at everyone except you. He had stared at you with yellow-brown eyes, ribs moving under filthy fur, every part of him made of pain and suspicion, and he had taken the turkey from your hand so gently that you cried on the spot. Full ugly tears, snot and all, as if tenderness from a ruined thing was the saddest miracle in the world.
Benjamin Poindexter reminds you of that dog every time he appears at your door.
Which is insane, clinically. Dex is a man. Dex is a killer. Dex is precise, lethal, too calm in ways that make the hairs on the back of your neck lift even when he is sitting on your exam stool with his shirt off and three cracked ribs under your palm. Dex looked at you with blood in his teeth and asked if you keep the good suture scissors in the second drawer or if you hide them from your 'less charming clients,' and he smiled when you stared at him too long. He is six feet of bad decisions and worse coping mechanisms, and yet the first thing your mind gives you when you think of Dex is that stray dog taking turkey from your fingers.
That knock at this time is unexpected. Matt.
Matt knocks like a man who hates needing help. Two firm taps, a pause, one more. Spiderman kncoks like he's not allowed to come in. Jessica once kicked the door and yelled your name until you opened. Dex, on his own, never knocks at all. He appears. He waits. Sometimes he bleeds on the mat. Sometimes he makes a small, polite comment about your hallway light going out.
You are across the room before the kettle finishes screaming. Your clinic is technically a closed flower shop with a fake lease and a drain installed under the center table, which makes you look deranged. Until someone comes in with a knife wound and then everyone suddenly appreciates plumbing. The place smells like antiseptic, old brick damp from rain, black tea, and the faint copper ghost that never fully leaves, because blood is part of everything. You unlock the deadbolt, undo the chain, tug the door open, and Matt Murdock nearly falls into you with Bullseye hanging off him like a corpse.
For one bright, stupid second, all your thoughts empty out into his name.
Dex.
His face is a mess. Blood has dried under one nostril and smeared across his mouth in a dark shine. His lower lip is split. One eye is swollen enough that it changes his whole expression, turning him younger in the ugliest way, all that sharpness buried under bruising and exhaustion. His suit is torn at the side, tactical fabric shredded into strips. When Matt adjusts his grip, Dex makes a sound so small you feel it under your bones.
Matt's mouth tightens. Blood mats his dark hair near his temple. Only consolation is that he looks a little better than Dex. "He needs help."
You stare at Dex. Dex stares back, or tries to. His good eye drags over your face with the slow, stunned relief of a man who expected darkness and got a porch light. The part of you with a medical license starts counting injuries in a list that stacks too fast. Facial trauma. Rib involvement. Possible abdominal injury. Scalp laceration. Possible pneumothorax. The part of you that has made the mistake of caring about him too much, looks at his lashes stuck together with rain and blood and wants to put his head in your lap.
With a gentleness reserved for skittish animals, you reach for his jaw, two fingers under his chin to angle his face toward the light. "Dex, can you hear me?"
Blood shines over his teeth, as his mouth twitches. "Hey, Doc."
Matt shifts him higher with a grunt, muscles in his forearms cording from the effort. Dex makes another small sound, angrier this time, as if the pain is just now surfacing. "He took the worst of it. I did what I could, but he kept telling me to leave him."
"Balanced the scales," Dex mumbles, head tipping back against Matt's shoulder. Rainwater slides from his hair down the side of his neck. "You had a city to save."
"Ma ā you should come in." You catch yourself at the last second. It rises right up, soft from habit, and catches at the back of your teeth as Dex's good eye opens again.
He smiles at you through the blood. Barely. A broken curve of recognition, jealous even while half-dead, which is so Dex that something in you aches. "I know who he is, doc. You can call him Matt."
You close your eyes, breathe through your nose once, a fond sigh, which also is deeply annoying. "Of course you do."
Dex's smile widens enough to make the split in his lip bleed again. "Smart boy."
No. Nope.
"Table. Keep his neck aligned." You tell Matt, stepping back and sweeping one arm toward the center of the room. "If either of you tracked glass in here, I'm making you both sweep before sunrise." You add, not wanting to sound too soft.
Matt obeys with a silence that says he has learned, through years of being injured in your presence, that arguing only rises blood pressure. Dex tries to help. That is the horrible part. His fingers grip the edge of the exam table once Matt lowers him, knuckles white, body shaking with the effort of being useful. His legs drag a fraction of a second behind the rest of him. Your mind sees it, circles it, hates it. You pull trauma shears from the tray and cut through what remains of the suit before any panic can bloom large enough to slow your hands.
"Eyes on me," you tell Dex, softer than you mean to. "You do exactly what I say for the next hour. That's the deal."
His lashes flutter, and his ruined mouth quirks. "I'm always good for you."
Matt turns his head slightly, lips tugging on a frown half formed.Ā
You feel it. Dex feels it too. They are both bleeding and somehow still measuring each other. Matt's face gives almost nothing away, but you have known him long enough to read the pauses, even the slight angle of his chin. He hears Dex's pulse change around you. He hears your answer. He hears the rotten little truth of it, warm and embarrassing under all the antiseptic.
You press two fingers to Dex's carotid and pretend the pulse under your skin is purely clinical. "That depends on your definition of good."
"Flexible," Dex breathes.
"Try alive."
"That's less flexible."
When you shoot him a look, he settles. It happens so fast Matt's brow pulls in, and despite the blood running down the side of his own face, despite the exhaustion in every line of him, you see him file it away. Dex does that for you. Dex, who would rather spit teeth than accept help from almost anyone, quiets under your hand like you found a switch under his skin.
You hate how much that means to you.
The shears bite up the side of Dex's suit. Rain-wet fabric peels away from him, exposing bruises already darkening over his ribs, long shallow cuts crossing his abdomen, a deeper gash near his left flank with slow, steady bleeding. You talk while you work, partly for him, partly for Matt, mostly for your own sanity. "Breath sounds normal. No deep lacerations. Two tiny blessings. Dex, if you lie about pain severity, I will find out and I will be extremely annoying about it."
His good eye trails over your face. "You already are."
"Funny. You get one joke per liter of blood loss."
Matt huffs through his nose, almost a laugh, then winces. You point at the chair by the wall without looking up. "Sit."
"I can take care of myself."
The room goes quiet enough for the kettle to click off in the corner.
You turn your head slowly, gloved fingers still pressed to Dex's side. Matt is standing near the exam table, one shoulder lower than the other, blood sliding past his ear, jaw set in that martyr shape you have wanted to smack off his face for years. "Sit down, Matthew."
Dex makes a low sound, a grunt, or an attemp at it. "Matthew."
Matt's eyes go over Dex, jaw clenching and unclenching. "This is a bad time."
"For you, maybe," Dex says, and then coughs hard enough that the joke breaks.
You lean over him fast, one hand at his shoulder, the other bracing his ribs. "Small breaths. Look at me." His eye finds yours again, frantic for a second. He would kill anyone else for witnessing this, but not now. Your voice drops even further. "That's it. You can hate me after."
He breathes the way you tell him to.Ā Obedient.
When Matt sits, some ridiculous, childish part of you wants to clap. Another part wants to cry. You do neither, since your hands are full of a man who has decided your voice is a leash he can tolerate.
The first twenty minutes disappear into work. Blood pressure readings, pupils, pulses, lung sounds again, neuro checks, wound depth, rib stability. You listen to Dex's chest and feel him try to keep still under the stethoscope, sweat shining at his hairline while his fingers curl over the table edge. When you clean his lip, he keeps his eyes on you as if the room might vanish if he looks away. When you probe near the gash at his side, his breathing goes jagged, but he bites down on the inside of his cheek instead of jerking away.
"Hey." You catch his face in your hand before he can sink his teeth deeper. "Open."
He opens his mouth, shaking while he does it.Ā
You can feel Matt's head turn again. You ignore it, cheeks heating as you slide gauze between Dex's teeth to keep him from chewing himself bloody. "Better. Bite this if you need to. No hero teeth."
Dex's gaze moves over you, half-lidded, feverish, words coming out mumbled over the piece of gauze. "Do you treat all your patients like dogs?"
You secure a dressing against his side and let the pressure hold under your palm. "Only my favourite strays."
His eye softens like he cannot control himself. It is small. A tiny failure of the mask. A starved thing hearing a bowl set down.
Matt hears that too. You can tell from his silence, from the careful stillness in his chair. When you finish with Dex, you cross the room with a suture kit for the cut at his temple. Matt turns his face towards you before your knees touch the edge of the chair. He smells like rain, blood, city smoke, and that faint soap he uses which you have always found unfairly comforting. You have stitched Matt under worse circumstances. You have dug glass out of his shoulder while he spit blood into your sink. You have fed him soup with one hand while keeping pressure on his dressing with another. That comfort is old. It sits between you now.
Dex watches it like it is a blade aimed at him.
You dab antiseptic at Matt's temple. "This is shallow. You are lucky."
Matt's mouth curves in that tired, self-punishing way. "People keep telling me that."
"Maybe try believing them once in a while."
Ignoring that, he dips his chin towards Dex. "How bad is he?"
You glance back at Dex. He has his head turned toward the ceiling now, but his eye is still angled in your direction. Watching. Always listening. "Bad enough that moving him tonight would be stupid. He's stable enough. But I need imaging he will never agree to. Possible rib fractures, soft tissue trauma, no obvious neuro deficit from what I can assess here, but I want repeat checks every hour. He needs observation."
"He wanted me to leave him," Matt says quietly, like his voice won't carry in the small room.Ā
Dex speaks from the table, voice rough around the gauze and dried blood. "You should've. Still think you should."
You thread the needle through Matt's skin with more force than strictly needed, anger showing up in a different place. Matt says nothing, but his mouth pinches.
"No one dies in my clinic unless I say so," you call over your shoulder.
Dex exhales, a soft sigh followed by a start of a complaint. "You really ā"
"Please lie down and stop talking."
Matt's hand closes around your wrist after you finish the last stitch. He does it carefully, fingers warm, thumb pressing once against your radius as if he is asking permission through touch. Comfort. Familiar, heavy with years of people trying to survive horrible nights. "Fisk is still moving," he says. "Karen..." His voice thins for half a breath. "Karen may kill him if I bring him anywhere near her."
Dex smiles at the ceiling. "Smart woman."
You look from Matt to Dex, then down at the blood-speckled gauze piled near your knee. "You want to leave him here."
"I think he is safer here than anywhere else tonight." Matt's mouth tightens, next words dragging through his teeth. "I think everyone else is safer too."
Your laugh comes out dry and humorless. "So I get custody of the homicidal puppy while you go deal with the rest of the apocalypse."
Dex turns his head toward you. Even wrecked, even pale, even with gauze stuffed in his mouth and bruises swallowing half his face, the look he gives you has teeth in it. Offended by the word puppy. Pleased by the word custody. Matt catches every ugly shade of it.
"He listens to you," Matt says.
"He has limited hobbies."
Dex murmurs, "You."
The word drops into the room with a wet little thud. One syllable dragged over broken lips, and still it finds some secret place under your ribs and presses. You hate him a little for that. You hate Matt a little for hearing it. You hate yourself most of all for wanting to go back to the table and touch Dex's hair until his eyes close.
Matt rises slowly. You stand with him, suddenly aware of how small the clinic is with three people and so many things no one should say. He reaches for the cowl, then stops. "Call me if he gets worse. If he loses consciousness, if he starts vomiting, if he says anything about numbness or weakness."
"I went to med school, Matt."
His mouth tilts, a small smile, the first real one from him tonight.Ā
You can feel Dex watching you, clear enough to hurt. Pain pulls his face tight, yet jealousy sits in him like a second pulse, stubborn and alive. He has killed for balance tonight. He has decided dying would be neat, fair. Still, your hand on Matt's wrist bothers him. Your voice saying Matt's name bothers him. The fact that you can tease the Devil of Hell's Kitchen into sitting down while Dex lies cut open on your table bothers him so much that he has dragged himself back from the edge purely to be petty about it.
Trying to ignore him, you walk Matt to the door and keep your voice low. "You owe me."
"I do."
"No, you really do. This is beyond the usual owe me. This is pay my fake flower shop's electric bill for six months owe me."
His hand finds the doorframe. "Send the amount."
You blink at him, at his audacity. "I was making a point."
"I heard the point." His face softens toward yours, bruised and tired, but warmth nonetheless. "Thank you."
You almost touch his arm. You stop yourself, which is silly, since Matt would sense the hesitation anyway and Dex would read the shape of it from across the room. "Go. Try to keep your skull intact."
Before the door closes, Matt turns his head toward Dex. "If you hurt her, I will hear it."
Dex laughs once, and the sound turns into a wince. "If I hurt her, you can have what's left."
The clinic holds the echo of Matt's footsteps after he leaves. Rain ticks against the front window. Dex's breath is slow but uneven, the gauze in his mouth damp with blood and spit. You stand with your hand on the lock and try to make sense of this situation. A murderer on your table. A city outside eating itself alive. A man who wants to die looking at you like he would crawl back through hell if you asked him to stay.
You lock the door.
Dex watches the motion, tracking you. "You're awfully close."
You cross to the sink and strip off your gloves. The snap of latex feels too loud. "You were actively bleeding out fifteen minutes ago. Pick a smarter topic."
"Answer."
Water runs pink down the drain. Your hands shake only after the gloves are off. "Matt and I have history."
Dex's jaw works around the gauze. "So do we."
"You show up here, bleed on my furniture, say alarming things, refuse hospital transfer, and once asked if I had a membership program after your fifth visit." You shut the water off and look at him. His face makes you angry. But only a little. That hungry stare from a man who has no right to demand any part of you after deciding twenty minutes ago that death sounded fine. Yet under it is the dog with the torn ear. The animal watching every hand, every doorway, every flick of attention, trying to figure out who belongs to him, who might leave, who might choose some other dog with a clean fur.
You walk back to the table and take the gauze gently from his mouth. "You are exhausting."
Dex's throat move with effort, swallowing, saliva wetting his mouth. "Do you look at him like this?"
The question is quieter than the others. Worse. It has no blade in it. Only a man lying open under fluorescent light, too hurt to hide the wound he actually cares about.
Your fingers hover near his cheek. You let them settle at his jaw, light enough that he can turn away if he wants. He does no such thing. He leans into the touch so fast it ruins you.
"Dex."
His lashes lower, tickling your palm when he seeks the warmth.Ā
"I am going to clean you up, give you fluids, keep you awake for neuro checks, and cuff you to the bed in the back room so you avoid doing some noble-suicidal assassin bullshit the second I blink." Your thumb moves once along the unmarred edge of his jaw. His skin is cold. "After that, you can interrogate me about Matt Murdock until I regret saving your life."
A sad smile curves his lips. "You already regret it."
"No." The word comes out so soft. "I really, really do not."
The clinic's back room used to serve as a supply closet, then you stopped having supplies. Now it holds a narrow bed bolted to the wall, clean sheets, a cabinet of emergency meds, and a chain you bought after a masked idiot with a concussion tried to wander into traffic with three fresh staples in his scalp.Ā
Dex sees the cuff and laughs until pain takes the laugh away from him. You roll your eyes while helping him shift down onto the mattress, every inch a negotiation with his battered ribs.
"You chain all your favourite patients?" He asks once his uninjured ankle is secured with a padded restraint and the chain runs through the bedframe.
You tug the blanket over his waist. "Only the flight risks."
"Matt ever get the chain?"
Your hands pause, which already gives him a lot without meaning to.Ā
Dex smiles without opening his eyes. "Interesting."
You secure the IV line, check the dressing at his side, and sit on the small chair beside the bed with your back against the cabinet. "Go to sleep, Dex."
"Can't."
"Then lie still and pretend. You're talented."
His fingers slide over the edge of the mattress until they find your sleeve. He grips the soft cotton near your wrist, clumsy but careful. He has enough strength left to hurt you if he wanted. He holds the fabric instead.
You let him.
Near dawn, after the third neuro check, after he has told you the year, the president, your clinic address, and the exact number of tiles in the ceiling section above him like an asshole, his voice comes out thin and drugged by exhaustion rather than meds. "I did it."
You sit up straighter. Hearing him talk through pain is something you don't want to go through, but have to. "Did what?"
"Balanced it. Vanessa for Foggy."
A chill moves through you so slowly it feels like a hand closing around your heart. Foggy. Matt's grief. Karen's rage. Dex's worst crime.Ā The city's endless appetite for payment. You look at him and see, for one horrible second, a man lying at the bottom of a ledger with a red line drawn under his own name. "And now?"Ā
Dex's fingers tighten in your sleeve, holding you closer. "Now I'm tired."
You reach up and press your hand over his. He looks at the place where your skin covers his knuckles. His expression is too human for the man the papers called Bullseye, and you hate every person who helped turn him into a weapon, including Dex himself. He leans toward the comfort like he never learned how to ask.
"Then be tired here," you whisper. "I can handle tired."
He studies you for a long moment. "Can you handle me?"
You should say something clinical. Something careful. Something with the kind of boundaries you teach medical students when they come through your legitimate daytime job, wide-eyed and terrified of liability. But, you tell the truth. "I keep opening the door, don't I?"
Dex's eye closes. His fingers stay wrapped in your sleeve until sleep finally drags him under.
By late morning, the rain has stopped. The city has that scrubbed-clean look it gets after a night of lying through its teeth. Pale sunlight presses through the frosted glass in the back room, turning the sheets gold where Dex's hand rests on top of them. You wake in the chair with your neck bent at an angle that will punish you for days, hair coming loose from its clip. For one muzzy second, you forget the night. Then the chain gives a soft metallic scrape, and you remember every part of it at once.
Dex is awake.
He is lying still, which is encouraging. Too still, which is irritating. His good eye follows you as you straighten. He looks better, at least in the way people look better when they are still severely injured but no longer actively trying to bleed into the afterlife. Less gray. More focused. The swelling around his eye has deepened purple. His mouth is still split and tender. Stubble darkens his jaw. His bare chest is bandaged in three places, bruises blooming under the tape like ugly weather.
"You stayed," he says.
Your back cracks when you shift, a grunt escaping you. "I live here during disasters now, apparently."
His gaze drops to your wrinkledĀ shirt, the blanket you must have pulled over yourself at some point. "You slept in a chair."
"I have made worse choices." Liking him was one.Ā
His mouth moves like he wants to smile, but the split in his lip stops him. "Name one."
"You, repeatedly." Apparently early morning you has no filter.Ā
That pleases him far more than it should. He watches you stand, and when you come over to check his pupils, he tilts his face up before you ask. Trying to be good again. It is awful to your chest, that easy offering. Dex, who fights everyone, lets you put your fingers under his jaw and angle him towards the light, eyes tracking your face more than the penlight.Ā
"Headache?" you ask.
"Not really."
"Nausea?"
"No."
"Vision changes?"
"Ugly curtains."
"Those are original to the building, and they have seen too much to be insulted by you."
Ignoring that, he looks toward the ankle cuff. "Am I still a flight risk?"
"You murdered someone last night, tried to die at least twice by my count, and keep making jealous comments about a blind lawyer. So, Id say yes."
Dex's eye comes back to you. Slower now. "You're bringing him up."
The audacity if this stupid, beautiful, injured man. "You were going to."
"I was waiting."
"That must have been hard for you."
His fingers flex against the sheet, head dipping once towards his ankle. "Take it off."
You fold your arms, and his gaze moves briefly over your chest before he makes himself look back at your face. The tiny effort, the discipline of it, should not be as intimate as it is. "Tell me why."
"So I can leave if I want."
"Wrong answer."
The old Dex sits up under the wounded one for a second, teeth showing in spirit, even if his mouth is too sore for the full shape. He exhales, irritated. "So I can stop feeling like you expect me to run."
That one is a better answer. He sees that getting to you, which is annoying. Your mouth softening by degrees, fingers loosening against your arms, he sees all of it. You crouch near the bed and unlock the cuff with the key on your necklace. His eyes follow it, the little brass thing sliding from between your breasts, then the lock, then your hand closing around his ankle to ease the padding away from skin.
The chain falls with a dull clink.
Half of you, the pessimistic half, expects him to lunge. But he just lies there and looks at you with wonder in his eyes, as if you have handed him a weapon and he has chosen, for this one morning, to set it down.
"If you run, I will find you and sedate you in public," you say.
"You promise?"
"Dex."
With effort, his hand lifts. The tremor is subtle, visible only because you have spent too many nights learning his tells. He reaches for your wrist and stops halfway, waiting.
You wouldn't have thought more about this if he'd just reached. The waiting is what burrows under your ribs.Ā
When you give him your wrist, his fingers close around it with almost no pressure, thumb restinh over your pulse like he wants to feel proof you are still here, flesh and warmth, no trick. "Does he get this?"Ā
He should feel your pulse jump under his thumb, as you sigh and look at him. "Matt gets stitches. Lectures. Soup if he looks starved."
Dex studies your face, eyes tracking every one of your features, scanning. "And me?"
"You get the chain."
He huffs out something close to a laugh, with whatever energy that's left in him.
"You get me missing sleep, changing your dressings while you say upsetting things. You get me pretending I don't worry when you vanish for weeks and then show up with half your side open like a wounded dog dragging itself under a porch."
His hand tightens around the hold, eyes darkening. They are fixed on you with concentration, feeling more like a touch than his actual hands.Ā
Dex has always looked at targets with focus. You have seen him do it through security footage Matt once brought you, body still, gaze calm, all the world narrowed into distance and outcome. This is different. Messier. He looks at you like he wants to crawl into the space behind your ribs and sleep there where no one can reach him.
"Do you want him?" The question comes out blunt. Too wounded. Subtlety has been stripped from him. What remains is one battered man, waiting to hear if he has already lost something he never properly held.
You sit on the edge of the mattress, careful near his ribs. The warmth of his body seeps into yours. "Matt is my friend."
"He touches you like he has rights."
"He touches me like he trusts me."
Dex's eyes looks pained, his jaw tightening. When you lean closer, his gaze drops to your mouth. Your eyes cleanly capture that small betrayal. His thumb strokes once over your pulse, helplessly possessive. You could still walk away. Probably change his dressing, make tea, text Matt an update, maybe contact someone with imaging access who asks fewer questions than the hospital would. Your brain produces tasks in a neat row. Your body knocks the row over like dominoes.
"He doesn't get this look," you sigh. Hazel eye lifts to yours, stripped clean. You almost laugh at yourself for what you're about to say, too honest for this setting. "No one else gets this look."
His breathing changes. Shallow for a second, then controlled since his ribs hurt. He has to choose restraint with every inhale. It makes the want on his face worse. A man who can hit a target precisely even in motion, is trying to keep still under your hand. The effort has sweat gathering at his temples. His hand closed around your wrist tugs you towards him, wordless, but you don't think words are needed.Ā
"You have bruised ribs, multiple lacerations, and an ego wound the size of Manhattan," you say, but lean towards him anyway.Ā
"Your bedside manner was better last night."
"Last night you were closer to death."
His mouth curves faintly, the split lip threatening to open with themotion. "I'm improving. Reward me."
The nerve of him. The absurd, devastating nerve of him, lying in your bed bandaged to hell, asking for you like he has any right, like he has every right. He has learned the existence of a spot in you where affection, fear and desire knot together, and has decided to press his thumb there. This is medically stupid, ethically worse, emotionally catastrophic.Ā
But his hand on your wrist makes you feel chosen by a creature who has bitten everyone else, torn ear flashing before your eyes once more.Ā
You bend down and kiss him. You mean to make it careful. A little thing. A test. Dex makes a sound into your mouth, and the kiss opens wider before you can organize your thoughts. His lips are split, so you keep the pressure light, but he chases you anyway, hungry in a ruined, restrained way that sends a wave of heat through your skin. His hand rises to the back of your neck. You expect him to pull your closer, but he just holds you there, that being somehow worse. His palm is warm, fingers trembling slightly against your hairline, whole body focusing on the point where your mouth meets his.
You pull back first, breathing hard, sharing oxygen. "Pain?"Ā
His eyes open slowly, hazel swallowed by black. "Yes."
"From the kiss?"
"No."Ā
"Dex."
"Everything hurts," he says, voice rough, like he's holding on by a thread. "That felt better."
The thread is thin. Your forehead lowers to his temple for one second. Just one. But it's enough to smell antiseptic on his skin, blood in his mouth, rain still caught somewhere in his hair. Enough to feel him exhale like the thread has finally snapped.
"This stays slow," you whisper against his mouth. "You tell me if I need to stop."
His thumb moves along your jaw, soft, so soft. "I'll behave."
That word is so gentle, that he has no practice giving, and you kiss him again before you can lose your nerve. Dex kisses like survival has always been a contact sport. Even injured, even careful, his mouth has a desperate steadiness to it, as if he is memorizing the limits of what he can take from you without breaking the spell. His hand slides from your neck to your waist, then stops. Waiting again.
You place his hand over your hip.
A sound leaves him, too soft to be a groan, too hungry to be a sigh, and his fingers dig into the flesh of your hips. Your thighs press together, his eye tracking the movement with a precision that makes your skin prickle. "Doc," he murmurs against your mouth.
"Mm?"
"You're shaking."
"So are you."
"I have an excuse."
A laugh from your mouth, but it comes out breathy and uneven, not nearly as cool as you need it to be. "Shut up."
You don't have a comeback, no sharp thing to say. You're letting Ben Poindexter slide his hand up under your shirt. There's an awful tenderness in being wanted by someone who rarely wants anything without destroying it. So, no. No sharp comeback.Ā
His palm spreads over your waist, careful of his taped fingers, of the bruises on his own knuckles, careful with you in a way that feels learned from watching rather than experience. His thumb brushes the lower curve of your breast through your bra, and your breath goes thin.
His gaze locks on that reaction. "Can I?"Ā
When you nod, his hand moves higher, cupping you with an aching slowness that makes your hips shift on the mattress. Dex's eyelid lowers, mouth parting slightly as if the feel of you under his palm is enough to daze him more than his injuries. He squeezes once, gentle at first, then firmer when your fingers curl into the sheet.
"Tell me," he says.
"Half-dead, but still you demand."
He ignores your words. "Tell me what you like."
The command, irritating from any other mouth, only drags heat through every inch of you now. You cover his hand with yours and guide him, showing him the pressure, the spot, how your nipple tightens when his thumb rubs over it through cotton. His attention is unbearable. "Like that," you breathe. "A little harder. Yeah, like that."
"He ever hear you sound like that?"
You kiss him harder, stealing those words from his mouth. He absorbs it with a shudder, hand tightening around your breast while his other reaches for your thigh.Ā
The position is so awkward, you help him a little to sit up. Two bodies learning each other in the small space of a spare room cot.
Jealousy is still there, you can feel it threaded through every question, but now it has heat behind it, a wounded need that makes him cling and challenge at once. You swing one leg over his hips before he can try to move too much, settling carefully over his thighs, your palms braced on either side of his shoulders so none of your weight hits his ribs.
For once, Bullseye looks struck.
You look down at him, at the swelling, the bruises, the blood cleaned from his mouth, the bandages you placed over skin you are now aching to touch.Ā
A man who tried to die last night is now staring at you like your thighs around him might be a reason to reconsider.
"This okay?" you ask, voice soft, not to startle him.
Dex swallows as he nuzzles closer, as if it was even possible. "Better than okay."
"Hands stay where they won't pull stitches."
A faint smile, soft enough to pull your heartstrings, looks up at you as if you have given him an order he would follow through fire. "Yes, doctor."
Your fingers tighten in the sheet beside his hip at his words. His thumb keeps moving on the bare strip of your stomach like he has found a place warm enough to keep him, palm heavy with feverish want and restraint that looks painful on him.Ā
When you reach for your shirt, his hand tightens at your thigh. "Slowā¦ let me see."
You almost laugh at the nerve of him. When the shirt drags up your ribs, his eyes follow every inch as if the fabric itself has offended him by hiding you this long. You pull it over your head and toss it to your back. Your bra is plain, worn from too many overnight shifts, and the fact that he looks at it like lace from some altar makes heat crawl over your cheeks. "Say something," you murmur, fingers hovering near the clasp.
Dex's mouth parts, then closes again. The split along the lower one shines where he has worried it open with every kiss. "I'm trying to think like a man with blood left in his head."
"That bad?"
His thumb brushes under the curve of your breast, barely grazing the band of your bra. "Worse."
You unhook it before the embarrassment can make you hesitate. The straps slip down your arms, and Dex goes still. Your breasts fall free, nipples already tight from his earlier touch, and the look on his face makes you feel naked in a deeper place than skin. He reaches up with both hands, then winces at the pull across his ribs. His frustration flashes sharp in his jaw.
"Let me come to you," you offer.
He gives a tiny shake of his head, annoyed at himself. "I hate this."
"You hate being cared for."
"I hate having hands and not able to use them."
That almost makes you smile. You shift closer, one hand cupping the back of his head, other hand cupping your breast and guiding him towards it. "Then use your mouth."
Dex groans like that instruction broke him. His lips close around your nipple, careful for all of two seconds before the pull turns needy. His tongue works over you, slow at first, then firmer when your hips shift against his. He makes a sound into your skin, less like hunger, more comfort, like he has found some impossible warmth in you and intends to live there now.Ā
One of his hands finds your waist. The other slides around to your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh he can reach. He cannot pull you hard without hurting himself, so he holds you in place and sucks like he needs the taste of you to steady him.
"Dex," you breathe, your hand tightening in his hair. His eye lifts without his mouth leaving you. "That's... yeah. Keep doing that."
He answers by drawing you deeper into his mouth, cheeks hollowing with a careful pull that sends a wet, aching spark down between your legs. The sound you make embarrasses you, and he hears it. Feels it. His hand slides lower, greedy over the curve of your ass. When you rock against him, his cock presses thick and hard under the loose pants you put on him hours earlier.
He releases your nipple with a soft sound, mouth shining. "Take these off me."
"Demanding, are we?"
His gaze drags up to meet yours. "Please. I need you closer, and these are in my way."
That is worse than anything filthy he could have said. Your fingers go to his waistband, tugging carefully, your focus split between wanting him and watching the tight pinch around his mouth whenever his ribs object. He helps as much as he can, lifting his hips an inch, hissing through his teeth. His cock slips free against his stomach, hard, already wet at the tip.
You stare for half a second too long. Even when he's injured, Dex notices everything. "Still want to scold me?"
"Constantly," you say, hating the softness in it, and wrap your hand around him.
His laugh turns into a groan, head dropping back against the wall while your thumb spreads the wetness at his tip down his shaft. He is warm in your hand, heavy,Ā alive. The thought makes your throat ache, so you lean in and kiss him instead, messy and careful at once, your bare chest pressed near his bandages, your fingers stroking him until his hips twitch. "Stop moving," you whisper against his mouth.
"I barely moved."
"You moved enough." Your fingers don't stop their graze on his cock.Ā
"I missed you." His voice comes apart on the last word. "Grant me a little mercy."
You rise onto your knees instead of answering the smarter way, tugging at your pants with one impatient hand while the other stays braced near his shoulder. The fabric catches at your knees, and for one stupid second you almost laugh. This is so ungraceful, far from the kind of fantasy you would have let yourself have about him. Dex does not laugh. His gaze follows the slow drag of your pants down your thighs like he is watching something holy and obscene at once. By the time you kick them off near the foot of the cot, your underwear is damp enough to cling, and his fingers flex against your hips like he is fighting the urge to help. "Those too."
"You're very annoying for a man who can barely sit upright, you know?"
"Please." There's just desperation.Ā
You push your underwear down just enough at first, suddenly shy under his gaze, then give up and pull them off completely. Your slick coats your fingers when you touch yourself, and Dex's mouth parts like the sight has taken the last good thought from his head.
He watches entranced while you drag that wetness over his cock, making the slide easier, making a filthy shine of both of you. His hands flex against your hips, then still when you lower yourself over him.
The first stretch steals the words from both of you. You sink slowly, one hand braced on the wall over his shoulder, the other gripping his upper arm where the muscle tenses under your palm. Dex looks wrecked before you are even halfway down. His mouth hangs open, eyes fixed on your face, then dropping to where his cock disappears into you, then come back up as if he needs to see you take him more than he needs air. "Too much?" he asks.
Lowering anothet inch, you shake your head, thighs already trembling from the angle. "Just ā just let me take my time."
"I'm yours," he says. "Take all of it."
The words do terrible things to you. You sink the rest of the way, cunt closing around him in hot, slick pulses.Ā
Dex's hands clamp down on your ass with a force that almost breaks through his weakness. His forehead falls against your sternum. He breathes there, mouth brushing your skin, then he turns his face and sucks one breast back between his lips while you start to ride him.
The cot creaks under. Your thighs burn almost immediately, cramped from sleep in the chair and the span of his hips beneath yours. Still, you lift and sink, taking him deeper each time.Ā
Dex tries to stay still. You feel the fight in him. His palms keep sliding under your ass, helping you rise, helping you drop, giving you just enough strength to keep moving without letting his ribs tear at him.
Then he thrusts up like he can't stop himself. A sharp little cry leaves you, pleasure striking so deep your knees almost give. Dex makes a pained sound in the same second, and your hand flies to his shoulder "Do that again and I swear I'll chain you back to the bed."
His face is tight, sweat shining at his temple. "I can take this."
"You are actively proving the opposite."
"Please." He says it into your breast, lips brushing the skin as he speaks, hands still cupping your ass. "Let me help. Sitting still while you do everything hurts worse."
Your scolding dies half-formed. If there's a tease, you could've gone through with it. But there's only need. Nodding your head against him, you let his hands guide you again.Ā
He lifts as much as he can with his arms, careful of his side, and you ride the motion, cunt sliding down his cock with a wet sound that makes both of you shudder. His mouth finds your nipple again, sucking harder, and you feel him everywhere, under your skin, in your thighs, between your ribs. "I'm close," you tell him.
His hand leaves your ass, searching between your bodies. But when he twists wrong, pain catches him. You grab his wrist and press it back to your hip. "No. I'll do it."
"I want to make you cum."
"You are." You touch your clit with slick fingers and circle it the way you need, riding him in short, deep rolls. "Just stay with me. That's what I need."
His head drops back against the wall, watching your hand move, watching his cock fill you, then watches your face break open around pleasure. "Look at me. P-please. Let me see you."
When your eyes find his, your orgasm hits you you hard enough to turn your thighs useless, cunt clenching around him in tight, wet pulls.Ā
Dex curses softly, hands locking on your ass as he spills inside you, hot and endless, body going rigid beneath yours while he tries to keep from thrusting. You keep your mouth against his, breathing into him until the shaking eases.
He says something too low for you to catch.
"What?"
His eye opens, glassy and spent. "Mine."
Your fingers slide along his jaw, careful around the bruising. "You don't get to say that unless you stay alive."
"I'll stay alive." The answer comes fast, hoarse, almost angry with how badly he means it.
Before you can respond, he catches the wrist of the hand you used on your clit and brings your fingers to his mouth. His lips close around them, sucking you off your own skin with a slow hunger that makes you clench again around his softening cock.Ā
Like he cannot bear another second apart, he pulls you down and kisses you, your taste on his tongue, his hand weak but certain at the back of your neck. His pulse slams under your palm where it's holding onto his neck. Alive. Alive. Alive.
Getting off him is slow and messy. His cum slides down your thigh while you stand naked beside the cot.Ā
Dex watches with a dazed, almost helpless look that follows you even when you grab a warm cloth. You sit beside him and clean his cock first, gentle around oversensitive skin, and he inhales like this care is harder to take than the sex. "I can do that," he mutters.
"You are injured. Shut up." You continue your path down his thighs.Ā
"You like telling me what to do."
"I like keeping you alive." You check the bandage at his side next, still naked, still dripping, fingers clinical even while his gaze keeps dropping to the mess he left between your thighs. "Looks okay. Nothing opened."
When you clean yourself, he watches your hand move between your thighs with a frown that is almost offended. "That should be me."
"You can do that when you aren't fighting for your life."
His eye lifts to yours, begging, exhausted. "Next time?"
"Next time." Next time means he's planning on staying.Ā
Your phone buzzes, the sound cutting through the moment.Ā One small vibration against the metal cabinet, and Dex already knows. His eye shifts before yours does, tired and sharp at the same time, like the rest of him is sinking under but that sharp little blade in him still knows how to lift its head. "Matt," he says.
Offering him a bottle of water, you pick up your phone. Sure enough it is Matt.
"Tell him I didn't vanish." The bottle is unopened at his hands.
Sighing, you grab it from him, uncap and press it to his lips. Dex looks at you stunned, almost offended that you're holding a bottle to his mouth. "Drink."
Whatever response that was about to spill from his lips is interrupted by another buzz of your phone, currently on the cot beside him.
Dex's eyes drop to the screen.Ā Bruised, naked under the too-thin blanket, barely keeping himself awake, and still he finds the one thing in the room pulling your attention away from him.Ā "Persistent," he rasps.
"You're one to talk." The bottle stays at his mouth until he takes one grudging swallow, then another. His throat works, lashes lowering for a second.
The phone buzzes again.
Dex's mouth leaves the bottle. "Just ā just reply him."
You pick up the phone with a sigh, and type back a response.Ā
Still here. Stable.Ā
Dex's eye tracks every letter. "That's all?"
"You want a performance review?"
His almost-smile tugs at the torn corner of his mouth. "Five stars. Charming. Didn't vanish."
You set the phone facedown beside his hip and lift the bottle again. "One more sip."
He groans, but drinks. This time he doesn't look offended.Ā When a drop slips from the corner of his mouth, you wipe it with your thumb before thinking better of it. Dex catches your wrist before you can pull back. His grip has almost no strength left, but he holds you like letting go is the worst thing that could happen.Ā "I behaved."Ā
Just two words,Ā like that wounded dog setting its head down because it has run out of places, but has finally found home.Ā Your eyes sting so fast it's embarrassing. You settle your palm against his cheek. "Yes, you did."
Matt's reply comes through, unseen and ignored.
Dex's eyes close as he nuzzles deeper into your palm, your wrist still trapped in his loose hold. And all you can think is,Ā stay.
EXTRAS. you can tell i almost gave up in the end. alsoā¦ my man is so puppy dog. prove me wrongā¦
BAREFOOT IN (THE) PARK (ROW) . bruce doesnāt submit to anything, really. pairing ! bruce wayne x fem!reader wc ! 6.6k warnings ! nsfw. porn with plot. sorta ooc bruce in a way... dom/sub dynamics ā bruce is the sub in this instance ā implied subspace and the fear of it? discussions around control, nicknames used include : brat, doll, baby, good boy, sweetheart, my man (towards bruce) honey (towards reader) clothed cunnilingus + fingering + dry humping + handjob + spit kink + titplay + dumbification if you squint?
šļø this fic is so dialogue heavy i hope it turned out how i intended, inside me there are two wolves, secretary (2002) and barefoot in the park (1967) rip robert redford this oneās for you š
now playing ! blues for paul ā neal hefti š§
āThatās why I broke up with you.ā
Across from you, Bruceās lips halted mid sip of the complimentary glass of water that was placed on the table moments prior, your words ricocheting off the rim like a bullet. A BB-gunās bullet, at the very least.
Tonight you were dining at Park Row, the playground for Gothamās finest stuffed suits and powdered elbows where everything was curated to please the eyes and tease the palette.
The furniture was velvet, the tablecloths burgundy, the windows floor to ceiling and the jazz soft and non-intruding; hell, even the lighting managed to match the waitersā uniforms. Park Row, with its light chatter and the occasional guffaw of wealth which sat oh so high up in Wayne Tower if not to stroke the egos of those who dined here but to keep the cityās most powerful close to the man whose name was on the building.
Close to Bruce Wayne, the man who sat across from you, who was another man, or rather another thing entirely.
āBruce?ā You called to him, peeping over the menu book in your hands. Rings decorated your fingers ā right index, pinkie, middle, left index, thumbā āDid I shoot the gift horse in its mouth?ā
There was a tease in your voice, a sparkly lilt that could placate any lesser man. If Bruce could ever consider himself a greater man now that he was your ex.
Nothing on your left ring finger.
āI heard you,ā he replied, placing his glass down on the table. It met the cloth without so much as a thud, and to the untrained eye, it wouldnāt have been obvious that he even picked it up in the first place. āIām justāā
āThinking?ā The menu snapped shut between your palms. āOh doll, donāt do that. Bad things always happen when you do that.ā
He huffed under his breath, the slightest uptick of the corner of his lips giving him away almost immediately.
āHowās the new job?ā He asked, opening the menu in front of him only to close it again, his eyes meeting yours then looking away. Then back to you again when he realized you hadnāt stopped looking straight at him since you closed the menu in your hands.
āWeāre touching that territory already? Ouch.ā You feigned hurt, pinching your brows together.
How long had it been, really? Three months? Four? Youād almost forgotten what it felt like to be Bruce Wayneās secretary, always on-call, always available at ungodly hours, always attentive to every detail because thatās just how he liked it and youād be lying if you said that extra bonus in your bank account at the end of every fortnight wasnāt initiative enough to have his coffee ready at exactly eight oā clock ā black, two sugars, no cream.
āApologies, Iā¦ā He stopped himself, reaching over to take the menu from your hands and placing it neatly on top of his by the corner of the table. He didnāt look at you for that. āI figured youād want to talk about it, what with your recent promotion and allāā
āBruce,ā you looked at him pointedly and his shoulders shifted. He couldnāt sit much straighter than he was already, couldnāt look any neater and less imposing than he tried to be. āWhat is this?ā
āTwo former colleagues having dinner.ā He said, plainly. āWhat else is it supposed to be?ā He finally looked you in the eye again.
You met his stare and laughed, an easygoing wrist propped at the edge of the table where your fingers stroked the tablecloth. āOh, youāre good.ā
āIt was in the paper yesterday,ā he defended. You stared at him for a moment then shook your head.
āAnd you read the Saturday paper?ā You looked at him incredulously, like heād kicked a dog or something.
āI did.ā Liar.
āWhat, did Alfred bring it to the Masterās dojo with his afternoon tea?ā You mocked, leaning forward with both elbows on the table and he grinned despite himself, mirroring you by leaning forward himself ever-so-slightly. āBullshit. You donāt read the Saturday papers.ā
āI do,ā Bruce smiled. That same smile that had Senators and oil heiresses weak in the knees, that curve of his lips that could charm the robes off the goddamn Statue of Liberty if you let him get close enough. āI did. You were phenomenal, Iām impressed.ā
āHa! Complimenting me already and itās barely been ten minutes since I sat down,ā you quipped, light and airy with amusement. āIs there a wire under the table? Am I a suspect in something?ā
āHave you done something I should know about?ā Bruce asked.
His voice was cool and low, almost Bostonian if you werenāt raised in Gotham to truly know that Upper East side cadence that was like Old Hollywood dipped in sex and danger ā transatlantic with a side of Wayne.
The smile on his face had long melted to a soft smirk, the kind that was more him than the Bat, youād realized after orbiting him for so long. He could be fun, too fun sometimes. You would lose yourself. Now you were sounding like him without even meaning to.
āWe should orderāā You rerouted, swallowing hard and allowing your gaze to dart around the room momentarily.
The table you both occupied ā if it could even be called a table and not a secluded booth that provided an ample view of the other patrons ā felt warmer, but youād run hot all your life.
Bruce, on the other hand, was still as neat as always, non-fidgeting, firm. Temperature never bothered him anymore, not since the mountains and the dunes and the jungles whose names you cannot pronounce. He sat unmoving once more in his dinner tux, a deep-black single breasted thing with tailored proportions.
His bow-tie was crooked, completely off-center and leaning to the left. You wouldāve smiled if you didnāt already know it was purposeful.
āHowās our son?ā You continued, glancing at him briefly as he beckoned the waiter over with nothing but a look across the room.
āDick?ā His head turned back to you, brows easing up from their crease. āHeās good. Heāsā¦ better. BlĆ¼dhavenās better.ā Your gazes met and neither of you broke it.
āBetter for him,ā you began. āOr for you?ā
āCertainly not better than that new jobās been for you since it took you away from Gotham, Iām sure.ā Bruce smiled, so wide your eyes went to the shine of his canines and the jut of his bottom lip where a laugh tickled and threatened to burst.
āWhat was that, again? āQ-Corpās new Chief Operating Officer is a riot in red Louboutins,ā or did I get it wrong?ā He continued.
āDonāt insult me, Wayne.ā You laughed. āAnd those were suede, by the way. Completely different brand.ā
āGianvito Rossi.ā A careful tongue licked his lips and he cleared his throat. āI would know, I bought them.ā He looked up at you through his lashes, not that he needed to at all but he did so anyway. āBut if weāre talking better as in physicalityā¦ you look good. You lookā¦ you really look well. Iām happy for you.ā
Your fingers teased the edge of the tablecloth. āA facade of a facade,ā you said. āIs it you saying that, Bat or is it Misterāā
āāWayne! Lovely to have you dining in tonight,ā
The waiter, a long-limbed gentleman who seemed to buzz with energy, approached. He swept up both menus in his hands like clockwork and nodded a soft good evening in your direction before turning back to Bruce. āWhat will it be for the boss?ā
You snickered under your breath and Bruce bit back a smile, leaning back in his seat, way more casual than Mister Wayne, the boss, should be.
āThe lady will choose for me.ā
Your eyebrows lifted in intrigue, a smirk curving at the corner of your mouth. Across from you, Bruce sat ā or rather reclined ā with his head tilted back slightly to stare up at you with those baby blues.
Under the table, the point of his shoe brushed the edge of your heel and your eyes narrowed at him momentarily. Foreplay.
āWeāll skip starters for main, Iāll have the loch fyne salmon,ā you began, your eyes fixed on Bruce and he tilted his head in a side nod of approval. āSome honey potato croquettes, and an extra spoon for the table. Oh, and Laurent Perrier, please.ā
The waiter glanced between the two of you. Neither of you looked away.
āMr. Wayne will have a scoop of creamed potatoes, a square of butter, four peas,ā you said, calmly. āAnd as much ice-cream you can eat, doll.ā
Bruceās throat bobbed, his lips parting where no sound left him, only a shaky breath.
āHazelnut,ā he finally turned to the waiter, who was staring at him quizzically.
āNo,ā you intervened. āHeāll have chocolate,ā you proclaimed, that sparkly lilt in your voice again as you shot the waiter a small, sweet smile. Enough to placate lesser men. āHe likes chocolate more.ā
The poor guy tried to look at Bruce but he was already looking back at you, so he nodded and left.
Once he was gone, a wolfish smile was on Bruceās face. āYou scared him,ā he said.
āYou liked it,ā you rebutted. With a raised eyebrow you huffed, āBut hazelnut? Are you teasing me?ā
āI like hazelnut,ā he sat up straight, moving both your untouched glasses of water to the side to get a better look at you. āYou know I like hazelnut.ā
āNo, you donāt,ā you leaned forward in the space he created. āTheyāve served it at every charity event in Gotham since before you were born so you think you like it, but you donāt.ā
āAnd I like chocolate better?ā
āYou like what I tell you to like, because you like being told.ā
He blinked.
āYes, Bruce, you like chocolate ice cream more,ā you chuckled. āIāve seen you eat it all the time. You ate chocolate ice cream on ourāā
āFirst date,ā he finished for you. āYour lunch break, it was summer,ā he recalled. āRobinson Park by the bench near the broken water fountain.ā
āYou remembered.ā
āOf course I remembered,ā he said.
You were quiet for several moments, and in that time the waiter had returned with your salmon golden, an icy bottle of Laurent Perrier in its bucket with two glasses and another plate ā a scoop of creamed potatoes with a square of butter on top, four little green peas on the side and a fine bone china bowl of chocolate ice cream, there was even a cherry on top.
Bruce looked at you as he took his first bite, the tiny spoon sinking into the ice-cream first with a curve. It was gummy and soft, and he slid the spoonful into his waiting mouth.
Your lips formed a thin line. āStop,ā you said. āJust stop it, youāre ridiculous.ā
Mouth full, he swallowed. āWhat? Iām eating the ice cream.ā
āYouāre not enjoying it,ā your fork idled over your plate. āAt the very best youāre pretending to, and it doesnāt suit you.ā
He squinted at you for several seconds. āYouāre saying Iām a stuffed shirt.ā
āI didnāt say thatā you can beā¦ fun,ā you argued. āLots of funāā
āWell, thatās what you were implying, that Iām a stuffed shirt.ā
āCan weā enough, of the stuffed shirt nonsense, please,ā you sighed. He took another spoonful of ice cream and swallowed it. You rolled your eyes. āAll Iām saying is, youāre extremelyā¦ certainlyā¦ very proper and dignified.ā
Bruce barked out a laugh then, the loudest sound youād heard from him all night. āProper and dignifiedā¦ā he repeated, mulling over the words on his tongue.
He picked up a single pea with his forefinger and thumb, popping it into his mouth. āRight, and your new boss? Whatās that like for you? Is he any fun? A little more easygoing than dear old me?ā
āYou are so unbelievably petty, Wayne,ā you scoffed. āIs that why you invited me to dinner? To update your file on me in that mental computer of yours, like someā¦ā
āāsort of stuffed shirt?ā
āI was going to say jealous freak,ā you shook your head. āYou really are a spoiled brat, you know that?ā Came as a mutter in the back of your throat as you finally dug into your food.
You didnāt see the twitch of his jaw or the way he reached for his other utensil to shovel that ridiculous little pile of creamed potatoes into his mouth. It was almost humiliating.
But it was good, so good, he liked it. He wanted more, of the potatoes he thought, but what he really wanted was more of you. Like this.
āTell me again,ā he said.
āThat youāre a brat?ā Your eyes flitted up. āGladly.ā
He shook his head, that familiar peek of his canines betraying him. He liked that. āRobinson Park,ā he said. āWhy you broke up with me.ā
āI told you,ā you swallowed. āThe last time we went, you wouldnāt walk barefoot with me on the grass.ā
āIn Robinson Park?ā
āYes.ā
The bullet had now come from a water gun instead. āWell, thereās a simple answer to thatāā
āOh,ā you chuckled. āYou finally got done thinking about it? My big, bad, detectiveā¦ā
āIt was seventeen degrees out,ā he argued. āIt rained the night before, the grass was wet, the concrete was cold, there was even a wind.ā
āHeavens forbid! There was a wind,ā you laughed. āAll very logical, very sensible and very true, but itās just no fun, Bruce.ā
He shrugged, wiping his mouth with a napkin. āMaybe youāre right. Maybe I am a little bit too proper and dignified for you. And maybe you wouldāve been happier, like you are now, with somebody a little more colorful and flamboyantā like the geek that runs Q-Corp.ā
āWell, it would be a lot more laughs than with the stuffed shirt,ā you hummed. He stared at you seriously and you sighed. āBut more than that, at least when he wants me to tell him to do something, he actually obeys without shame or performance. In fact, he could probably even admit to liking it.ā
āI was never ashamed of you,ā Bruce said, firmly.
āNo, you were just ashamed of how I made you feel,ā you argued back.
He inhaled through his nostrils, then placed the napkin down, straightening in his seat as if his spine could get any straighter. āWhen else was I so proper and dignified that I rejected you?ā
āLet me thinkā¦ā You put your utensils down and tilted your head a little to the side, feigning intense thought. āAll the time. Youāre always dressed right, you always look right, you always say the right things, smile the right wayāā you paused to let out a huff of disbelieving laughter. āYouāre very nearly perfect, honestly.ā
āThatās a rotten thing to say.ā Bruce looked down at you.
He didnāt need to feign offense because he felt it. It didnāt matter whether it was true or not. But there were times he thought himself to be a rotten man, so perhaps you werenāt so far off track. A perfectly rotten man.
āB, your bow tie is crooked because you made it that way,ā you said. āYour hair is perfect and your suit is perfect and your shoes are so shiny they could be a mirror, but your bow tie is crooked.ā Your brows pinched and he closed his eyes momentarily in understanding. āYou know, before I went out with you, I thought you slept in a tie.ā
āOnly for very formal sleeps,ā he smiled, just the slightest. āYou said I wasnāt a stuffed shirt and that I could be fun, then you said I was no fun.ā
āYou can be fun sometimes,ā you murmured. āWhen you give in.ā
āWhatās left when I do?ā he asked. āMr. Wayne? Orā¦ā
āA secret third option,ā you raised three of your fingers. āOne thatās mine. Heās in there, somewhere.ā His eyes followed each ring above your knuckle, crossing a leg over his knee under the table.
Bruce looked down at the half eaten bowl of ice cream, the empty plate in front of him where the peas and potatoes used to be.
He swallowed hard. āI missed you,ā he croaked out.
āDid you, really?ā you hummed, your brows pinching in faux curiosity. āSay it again.ā
He was hungry. So hungry.
āI missed you,ā he said firmer. āI did.ā
You sucked your teeth. āSo thatās why you invited me here.ā You lift your head to meet his gaze and a mock pout touches your lips. āSo I could fuck you again?ā
Your taunts broke the dam. āI couldnāt function without you,ā Bruce nearly exclaimed. āThe Batā he exists within structure, order. Thereās a routine. You know the job and you know how I am, what I need. But this, Bruceā meā¦ā
āYouāre just a man,ā you finished.
āA man who needs you,ā Bruce reached across the table for your hands.
You let him, your palms pressing under his larger ones.
āI need the coffee at eight, the texts about what to have for lunch, the ties picked out the night before. Hell, tell me to leave you alone, tell me to come find you, tell me to take my shirt off and get on the table. Humiliate me, just donātāā he rambled.
āBruce.ā
āFuck, I need you to tell me what you need me to do. Iāll do it. Iāll do anythingāā
āBruce,ā you whisper-shouted, eyes wide as you peered at him in the midst of his distress. āFinish your ice cream.ā
He blinked. āWhat?ā
āDo I need to repeat myself?ā
He was frozen for several seconds.
Then, he uncrossed his legs and reached for his spoon. One spoonful became two, and then three. Soon, he was slouched over slightly, his eyes never once leaving yours where you watched him with your intense gaze.
The more he ate and the more he watched you watch him, he felt a pit swirling in his stomach. Like electricity. That same feeling he gets when heās ahead of a case, when he knows, when heās in total control.
āI want more,ā his words came muffled after a harsh swallow.
He couldnāt remember what hazelnut ice cream tasted like, but he knew heād remember chocolate forever. That sweet, creamy, rich flavored treat that left the slightest bitter aftertaste in his mouth as a reminder. He remembered you. He needed you. āCall the waiter over.ā
āYou want more ice cream?ā Your brows shot upwards, all the while your mouth curled in awe.
Bruce only licked his lips clean and looked up at you with that devastating smile. āYou said all I could eat, honey.ā
Your gaze went shaky for a moment, from his eyes to the waiter across the room as you lifted a finger, then back to his eyes, his hair, his mouth.
āYou better eat up, Iām paying,ā you huffed.
He grinned around his spoon while hand dipped into his breast pocket. From it, he retrieved his card and slid it across the table. āSure you are. Tell him to notify my valet, too.ā
āDoes he still call you Mom?ā Bruce asked, twirling the to-go cup of Laurent Perrier in his hand, if it could even be called a to-go cup because it was just a glass of champagne they let him walk out of Park Row with. Perks of owning the place.
The air had a slight chill even this early in Autumn, the warmth of the headlights still fresh on the back of your knees where Bruce had parked the car somewhere by the side of the road below the dilapidated sign suspended over the open gates reading : Robinson Park, The Green Heart of Gotham.
It was well past eleven at night by now, the only sounds heard in the vastness of paved walkways and greenery were your heartbeat and Bruceās footsteps, each drag of his shoes against the ground flitting towards your awaiting ears. It was the same as you remembered it, except there was no broken water fountain by the bench with the iron plaque bolted into the back marked āWayneā.
āOnly when he needs one,ā you replied. āI canāt blame him, poor kid. He was so little when I first met himā¦ā Your steps halted by the edge of the fountain and you took a seat on its concrete basin. āDo you remember?ā
āI do,ā Bruce said. He stopped walking a few steps away, his eyes fixed off in the distance where the path broke off to fork, trees and solitary benches on either side. āYou were good with him. Iā¦ā he paused to glance at you briefly. āI didnāt always know what to do.ā
A soft silence passed between you two. āI still donāt know what to do sometimes,ā he admitted. āI didnāt know what to do the last time we came here.ā
āIs that why you brought me here?ā You looked up at him just as he turned to you. āNot that Iām complaining,ā you clarified. āI just figured you would whisk me away to Draculaās castle across the bridge, weād make up like old times, Iād be out of town by tomorrow so you wouldnāt have time to say it was a mistakeāā
āI changed my mind,ā he said. āI wasnāt lying when I said I needed you.ā
āBut for how long?ā you asked. āJust up until I demand too much from you and you shut me out again?ā
āThe job is unpredictableāā
āThe job has nothing to do with you needing me to give you structure,ā you watched as his shoulders slackened. āOut there, you control the odds. Youāre fucking Napoleon when youāre him. But when youāre mineā¦ā
āI lose myself,ā he interrupted.
āYou find yourself. Over and over again. So let me show you who you are,ā you rose from your seat. āCome here.ā
He hesitated. Then he gave in. He reached you, towering over you at his full height like this but still you stared him down.
āEven when I didnāt like you,ā your breath came shaky. āI loved you. Even when I didnāt know who you were, I knew you. I know you.ā
āI hate it, what it takes away from me,ā he sank to his knees, his arms bracketing your thighs. āBut I love it. I need you. I need it when it gets my head quiet.ā He was almost weeping. āI want it, the way it was all the times before when I lied and said it was a mistake. I want you to show me. I want you to stayā but I donāt know where I stand when thereās no programming, no mission, nothing to overpower.ā
āYou submit,ā you whispered.
Bruce buried his face into your stomach, his nose tickling your skin through the fabric. His grip on you tightened a fraction, brows knit tight and eyes shut near painfully.
You carded your fingers through his hair, leaned down and kissed along his hairline. āMy boy,ā you whispered to him. āMy sweet man.ā
With a shaky inhale his lips pursed over your navel first. Then his head went lower, palms going loose around your thighs as his mouth pressed little kisses down its path ā your hipbone, the tops of your thighs, the middle, your knees, your calf. He went until he was crouched on the concrete and his lips hovered over your ankle.
You withdrew from him and a sound left his mouth that could make any woman cry. He whimpered for your touch as you staggered backwards to sit down. Bruce straightened his spine and shifted to get up but you stopped him.
āNo,ā you said and he was frozen in place. āIf you want me, crawl to me.ā
This time, he did not hesitate.
He let his palms go flat against the rough concrete and he crawled, like an animal, the knees of his tailored suit now scuffed, the palms of his calloused hands shaking with anticipation. When he reached you, you met his eyes, peering down at him as if heād done something good and not something shameful, degrading.
With a shaky palm, he grasped your ankle. He kissed the skin there softly, then reached for the other and did the same.
āGood,ā you repeated to him all the while and he felt the blood rush to his cock as it began to grow in his pants.
When he had one shoeless leg perched on his shoulder and the other cradled in his hands, he looked up at you. āDid I buy these too?ā His fingers yanked gently at the shoe straps and you hummed.
āI keep all your gifts,ā you said.
Bruceās eyes darkened further with lust. āI want to give you another,ā he said. āCan I give you another?ā
You looked at him, waiting. āPlease?ā he finished, nearly moaning.
You pulled him up by his hair with a tug and he went so eagerly that he stumbled forwards into your kiss. Your tongue slipped into his mouth and he groaned, one hand bracing himself at the edge of the fountainās basin where you sat.
He kissed you back fervently and you gasped, grasping at him with a madness as you shrugged his suit jacket to the ground.
āTell me what to do,ā he said, breathlessly. āI trust you,ā he confessed.
You took one of his hands in yours and placed it firm against your chest where your heart beat wildly. āIāll take care of you,ā you whispered. āNo matter how deep you go under, Iāll bring you back. I promise.ā
āI want to make you feel good,ā he whimpered mid sentence as you slipped his hand under the fabric, his palm meeting the warmth of your breast. Your fingers tightened around him, your smaller digits wrapping around two of his as you maneuvered him like a puppet. His index and middle stroked your stiffened nipple and you sighed.
āKiss me,ā you moaned.
Bruce pushed the fabric of your shoulders and latched his mouth onto your other breast. You arched up against his body and he shuddered at the feel of your thigh brushing his sensitive cock. He lifted his knee to press between your legs and you cursed, bucking forwards involuntarily.
āYouāre so beautiful,ā He murmured as he sucked each of your aching tits greedily, going from pinching and circling each nipple to repeating what heād done before. āIāll be so good for you,ā his mouth travelled hot and needy down your body while his knee thrust against your clothed pussy, over and over in a steady motion and hard against your needy, hidden clit.
He rucked your clothes up to your hips, the chilly air against your core making you shiver with even more need.
His knees hit the ground once more and his tongue flattened against your pulsing cunt. With his tongue, he licked fat stripes up and down over the lace of your underwear, gathering your wetness and spreading it, adding his own saliva to the mix.
You swatted his hand away when he reached for the waistband. āLeave it on,ā you told him.
Bruce kissed your leaking pussy through your panties, puckering his lips and sucking at your folds, his tongue thrusting against the throb of your clit and the outline of your tight little hole.
You grasped his face in your hands and he whined from the loss. āOpen,ā you said, gripping his jaw with one hand, your thumb teasing the swell of his bottom lip. His mouth opened and his tongue lolled out obediently. āDonāt swallow,ā you gathered the spit in your mouth then spat a stringy glob onto his tongue.
His adamās apple bobbed as a broken noise leaked out from the back of his throat.
āFuck,ā your eyes rolled back when he spat it back onto your lace-clad cunt, the fabric darkening even further from the wetness.
āUse your hands, doll,ā you cooed at him and one of his palms left where it was fondling your breast, pressing tight against the front of your panties as you ground forward, riding his hand back and forth.
āSo good,ā Bruce let out a guttural groan, letting both his hands slip under the fabric.
He teased his left middle finger over your hole, circling it slowly then rough, sliding one finger in and then two, your back arching as you sat up, bent over him. āSo fucking wetā they just go right ināā
āBruce,ā you called out to him in warning, grounding him, and his waiting mouth latched eagerly onto your hanging breasts. His other hand ground over your clit with rough, steady rubs, the harsh squelch of wetness echoing in the darkness, nearly blending in with the rush of water from the fountain
āAhā shit, yes! like thatāā you cried.
He grinned like heād won a prize at the State Fair. The swell of his cock was painful and he leaked more pre every time he heard the noises you let out.
He wanted more.
āFuck me,ā he said. His fingers withdrew from you and pushed your panties down halfway as you seized from the loss. Before you could rear on him, his head was between your legs and your head drooped backwards with an open mouth moan for more.
More. More. More.
His tongue dragged up the expanse of your inner thigh, lapping up at every bit of slick that had escaped. āTaste sā goodā¦. so good.ā
Your eyes watered and your finger reached down to grasp his throat. āSo good, dolly, keep going, keep fucking me like thatā youāre doinā so good for meāā the babbles rushed from your throat as your hips twitched against his mouth, thighs locking up around his head.
His pace stuttered as he slithered the slick pink muscle of his tongue into your weeping pussy.
āF-fuckāfuck me,ā he choked out, coming up for what little air he could get, his eyes welling up with tears, those baby blues shining up at you in the dark. āHarder,ā he whimpered and your grip tightened.
His cock jerked against your leg as he dipped his head down once more, his tongue fucking into you while you fucked back onto his palm grinding against your clit.
āIām gonna cum!ā you gasped, the pressure on your clit feeling white hot, his tongue burning your insides. āBruce! Bruce! Bruce!ā
You shrieked, back bowing at an awful angle, a gush of cream trickling from your sensitive pussy as you writhed and heaved for more air, your grip on his throat going slack.
Bruce buried his tongue impossibly deeper into you, licking up the mess of your orgasm with muffled little moans of his own, disoriented and uncontrolled.
Slick ran down your thighs and the air made it feel colder. A chilly wet spot on your leg had you finally looking down, only to see where Bruceās cock tented in his pants, grinding through his own orgasm, sticky cup seeping through his pants and onto your leg.
āOh, Bruceā¦ā you cooed and he answered with a soft suck at your overstimulated clit. āCāmere, sweetheart.ā
He withdrew with a wet pop! a harsh squelching sound echoing as he withdrew his fingers too, and your thighs trembled from the loss. Looking up at you, his eyes were watery and his lips pretty, pink and swollen.
āAre you okay?ā
āYou were so good,ā you whispered, taking his hands and pulling him up to where you were. His knees wobbled slightly from having knelt so long but he endured. āMy sweet man,ā you cooed. āYou did so, so goodā¦ you made me feel so goodā¦ā
āCan I?ā He looked at you, his gaze drifting down to your lips. āPlease?ā
You hummed and pulled him down onto you, your mouth melding into his. His brows knitted together in pleasure and his hands ran up and down your sides then snaked around your back, pulling you tighter against him, you hugged him back, withdrawing from the kiss to suckle at the sweet spot just below his ear.
He called your name but you shushed him softly.
āDonāt worry about it,ā you whispered. āLet me take care of youā¦ remember what I said? Just submit. Let it all go...ā
Bruce let out a heavy, shaky breath.
You pushed him down and climbed on top, his back catching against the edge of the fountain before he straightened himself to sit upright. As you straddled him, he felt his cock jump, the sensitivity had him biting his lip so hard he nearly drew blood.
āBe good for me,ā You kissed his throat, your fingers undoing the topmost buttons of his shirt first. āI want you to make noise, so make noise when I make you feel good, okay?ā
He nodded in response and you looked up at him.
āYour words.ā
āYesāyeah, I will,ā he stuttered out. He cleared his throat. āI can do that. Justā¦ go easy.ā
You smiled wickedly, then hummed. āMhm, ācourse I will, you promise to be good, donāt you?ā
āAlways good for you,ā he nodded.
You eased your palm down over the leaking swell of his cock through his pants. Smiling, you felt him twitch against your hand, swelling still.
Slowly, you unbuttoned them, pulled down the zipper and watched as he sprung free, the tip of him rosy and leaking at the tip.
He called your name in a half whimper.
One of your hands wrapped around the length of his cock and he inhaled harshly. Slowly, you began to stroke him up and down, up and down, keeping the same torturous pace.
āAh, fuckā that feels goodā¦ā Bruce threw his head back and moaned.
Your other hand found his hair and yanked his head back up, forcing his gaze to where you were jerking his cock in your fist.
āDonāt look away from me,ā you commanded. He whimpered, his hips bucking upwards and you pulled his hair harder. āI thought you said you could be good, doll?ā
āIāhah! fuckā I canā¦ā he heaved. āI can, I can!ā
āBut youāre breaking your promise, Bruceā¦ā you feigned a pout as you jerked him harder, your thumb swiping over the tip of his cock and tightening at the base, fresh ropes of precum dripping down to your wrist. āTell me what you want, ask me for it nicely and Iāll give it to you.ā
His eyes squeezed shut and he forced his hips to keep still while his abdomen burned with approaching release. āWantā¦ā he cried, tears leaking from the corner of his eyes.
You pulled his hair again and they shot open with a chorus of uh! uh! uh! rushing from his lips, the wet, schlick sounds of you fucking his cock in your hand matching the tempo of his moans.
āWanna cumā fuck, can I cum? Please, let me cum, babyā¦ā
āShould I?ā you sighed.
āPlease.ā He looked up at you with a trembling bottom lip. āPleaseā ugh, fuck! ās goodā¦ so good, I canātā canāt hold it, I need to cum!ā
You twisted your wrist, your swollen, used pussy snug against his thigh, and he grinded it upwards to appease you, your mouth slipping open in a quiet moan. āSpit,ā you told him and he did, the glob sliding down the length of his shaft as your strokes grew sloppy.
He shuddered through a full body cry when you rubbed the tip. āThatās itā¦ā you leaned forward to kiss his neck. āHold it for me, just a little longerā¦ you can do it, Bruceā¦ youāre my good boy,ā you whispered.
He whined. āIāmā¦ Iām your goodā¦ good boyā fuck, I can be good.ā
āSo good,ā you affirmed.
His cock twitched in your hand and you kissed him, your fingers reaching for his throat while your pace grew rougher, faster, untamed. His moans were muffled against your mouth as you choked him tight and you swallowed each and every one until his hips jerked up, hard and you whispered, āCum, baby, cum for me.ā
āShitā Iām cumming!ā he groaned, long and loud, his hips jerking up in hard thrusts, spurts of his hot, creamy cum shooting out and making a mess of his lap and your hand.
You stroked him through it softly, slow, squeezing gently from the base to the tip as he spilled more.
It took several seconds before he could even breathe properly, and even then his chest still felt like heād been hit by a freight train.
āChristā¦ā he heaved, head lolling back farther than he anticipated, and he lost his balance, already dizzy from his orgasm, slipping against the edge of the fountain and splashing his head against the water.
He clutched you tight against his chest, and when you realized what had happened, you roared with laughter. āOh my godā¦ā you huffed between chuckles. āAre you okay?ā
āDonāt.ā Bruce shut his eyes tight, trying his best to salvage the rest of his remaining dignity by at least buttoning his pants.
You shifted on top of him, snickering behind your palm.
āHow did it feel?ā you asked softly.
His eyes opened a fraction and he looked up at the sky above you both, at the vast open stars that held alien civilizations and monsters unknown but stars, and the sun, and things he would never have to meddle with. Things that never relied on him to exist.
āLike catharsis,ā he whispered. āFuck me like that again, I might die.ā
āLearned something?ā you teased, tracing a finger over the buttons of his shirt.
āThat I can step outside of my body, yes. Andā¦ā He reached a hand to the back of his head and gathered some of his hair in a hand, wringing it out like a wet cloth. āThat it doesnāt hurtā¦giving control up for a change.ā
He looked up at you.
āDid I catch you good enough?ā You whispered, cupping his cheek with a palm.
āYou did,ā he whispered back. He sat up and pulled you into his embrace, reaching for his discarded suit jacket and draping it over your shoulders. āI want you to stay.ā
āDoes this mean weāre back together?ā You bit back a smile and he huffed at you in mock offense. āWhat?ā
āWe were back together when you showed up for dinner,ā he claimed. āIām surprised you didnāt call the Q-Corp geek to inform him that youāll be tendering your resignation soon.ā
āAnd what? Go back to being Mr. Wayneās hot secretary?ā
āI wouldnāt say it like that, though I do agree about the adjective,ā he shifted to stand and you followed, grasping onto the hand he offered you. āI was thinking youād be my Chief Operating Officer.ā
āWhat?ā You wobbled on your feet, partly due to shock.
āWayne Enterprises.ā Bruce only shrugged. āItās there if you want it, but you donāt have toā¦ā
The way he looked away for a moment gave him away. A sap.
āWell,ā you pursed your lips to hide your amusement. āQ-Corp does pay well. And the work environment is really suited to my standards of feng shuiāā
āYour standards of feng shui?ā His brows pinched in disbelief. When he saw that your lips trembled and you couldnāt hold your laugh anymore he rolled his eyes. āRight, feng shui. Silly me.ā
āBruce, donāt brood,ā you shoved at his shoulder playfully but he stalked off down the concrete path without you.
You stood behind and watched him with the weight of a thousand giggles in your chest.
Then, he stopped halfway, reaching down to kick off his shoes. Soon, his socks were coming off too.
Your eyes widened. āWhat are you doing?ā
Bruce Wayne turned to face you, and halfway down that concrete path he shouted to you, āHonestly? I just feel like walking barefoot in the park all of a sudden!ā
You laughed so hard your knees felt like jelly. But you walked barefoot in the park with him that night.
buffering
dick grayson x reader | fluff, suggestive
summary: aftercare with dick after a long night that leaves you a little out of it and him very smug (wc: 0.9k).
Dick says something, and you know this because his mouth moves, sound comes out, and he's looking at you with that patient little tilt of his head. The words themselves, however, fail to make it through the pleasant static filling your skull.
"Hm?" you manage.
"Do you want water?"
You blink at him. This time, the question filters through the haze in scrambled pieces, but you decide youāve got the general idea and answer with complete sincerity.
"Tomorrow."
Thereās a beat of silence, and Dick goes very still.
You frown. Something about his expression isn't right. He's staring at you with his mouth pressed shut and eyes wide, like he's holding something in. You can't figure out what, because your brain is still running at half speed andā
Dick breaks. He folds forward laughing, one hand braced on the mattress, the other covering his mouth, trying and failing to be kind about this. His shoulders shake helplessly, head dropping as the sound spills out of him bright and full and impossible not to love.
Then it clicks.
Oh no.
"No, because I meant yes," you say quickly. "I meant yes now. Right now."
"Right now?" he asks. "You sure? Don't want to sleep on it?"
āStop,ā you groan, covering your face with your hands.
Heās still laughing when he gently pulls them away, eyes shining.
āOh, sweetheart,ā he says. āIām never letting that go.ā
"That was a vulnerable moment for me."
"It was a historic moment for me."
You glare at him, but it isn't as intimidating as you think, because his grin only sharpens.
"Okay, okay," he says, holding up three fingers. "How many?"
You stare at him. "You're not serious."
"I asked you a yes or no question and you said tomorrow. I'm doing my due diligence.ā
"Three, you absoluteā"
"Good. What's your name?"
You tell him, flatly.
"What year is it?"
"The year I become single if you keep this up."
He ignores that completely. "Who's the mayor of BlĆ¼dhaven?"
You open your mouth, but pause for just a fraction too long.
Dick doesn't say a word. He doesn't have to.
"I know the answer," you insist. "I was going to say it."
"Sure you were."
"You did this to me." You point at him, accusatory. "This is your fault."
"I accept full responsibility." He bites down on his lip, voice strained with the effort of keeping a straight face. "I am genuinely so proud right now."
You exhale, sinking deeper into the mattress, and your exhaustion must show, because he quiets at once and his expression softens.
He leans in close enough that his breath brushes your cheek. āCāmere, beautiful.ā
His hand slides behind your neck as he helps you sit up against him. The movement makes your limbs feel like wet sand, heavy and uncooperative.
"Easy," he murmurs.
He steadies you, one arm around your waist while the other reaches for the water bottle already waiting on the nightstand and brings it to your lips, and you drink obediently. The cold water hits your tongue and you actually sigh.
"There you go,ā he says quietly, thumb brushing once at the base of your neck.Ā
You hum, barely, and he presses a kiss to your temple. He reaches for the nightstand again and grabs a granola bar, unwrapping it and breaking off a piece before holding it up expectantly.
"I can feed myself."
"Can you?"
You open your mouth, and he places the bite on your tongue with a small smirk.
"That's what I thought," he says, but it's gentle.
You lightly flick at his bicep, and he only feeds you another piece.
The room glows amber from the bedside lamp. The sheets are tangled around your legs, the air still warm, the mattress dipping where he sits close beside you. Your body feels pleasantly overused, every muscle loose and humming.
Dick watches your face as you chew slowly, then swallow.
"Sore?" he asks, voice low.
You shake your head. "Just sleepy.ā
He studies you for another second anyway, checking for anything you're not saying.
āYou sure?ā
"Promise," you reply with a little smile.
His expression eases. He sets the granola bar aside and shifts behind you, drawing you fully into him until your back rests against his chest. The blanket comes up around both of you, tucked under your arms with absent practice.
"Proud of you," he murmurs.
You huff out a laugh. "For what?"
"Persevering through adversity."
"You're unbearable."
"And yet," he says, "still your favorite."
You're too tired to deny it properly. His hand slips beneath the blanket to rest on your stomach, palm warm and grounding. The other traces slow shapes against your arm: circles, lines, little absent patterns that make your eyelids heavier by the second.
Beneath your ear, his heartbeat knocks steady and sure.
"You know," you mumble, words starting to slur, "if you tell anyone about this, I'll deny everything."
"Wouldn't dream of it. I'll just treasure the memory forever."
"That's somehow worse."
He tucks his head over yours, and you let your heavy lids fall over your eyes, body sinking deeper into him. His fingers keep moving soothingly over your skin.
Just before sleep takes you, he speaks into your hair.
"Tomorrow," he repeats fondly.
You groan weakly, and his soft laugh follows you under.
i may or may not have lost track of time.. anyways, the morning after reader hooks up with ddba!dex | wc: 2.2k | i. ii. iii. (can be read as a continuation or separately)
!! taglist: @s4ngel | @closestthingtocoffee | @peanutbutterjellytime3000 !! (just ask to be added)
the morning after, you blink slowly, groggily and fuck, your head was pounding. god, how much did you drink last night? you shift, just a little, and freeze.
thereās.. a man. a man in your bed. heās lying on his stomach, turned just enough that his face is hidden from you, buried into the pillow; broad shoulders, bare back, the sheets barely covering his lower half. you donāt recognise him. you would recognise him, right? you try to think, where you were last night, who you were with, but itās all frustratingly blurred at the edges.
then your eyes catch it, a scar. it runs down his spine. sure, it was clean and surgical but it seemed more like he was torn apart and forced back together. your stomach drops. who the hell did you bring home?
youāre still staring at that scar, trying to decide if you should move, or just pretend youāre still asleep when his entire body jerks; not a small twitch, not a sleepy shift, his whole frame snaps, shoulders tensing, back arching slightly like he just got electrocuted. you didnāt mean to yelp.Ā
the effect was immediate, he wakes up like a switch flipped; not groggy, alert. his head snaps to the side, breath hitching, body going rigid for half a second like heās bracing for something before his eyes land on you. then everything stops, the tension doesnāt disappear, but condenses into focus, as he locks onto you.
you decide, very stupidly, that you should get off the bed to give him some space. āiām just- gonna-ā you plant a hand on the mattress, trying to lift yourself, but the moment you shift your weight, your hips scream.
āaah- shit- shit-ā your arms give out and you collapse right back onto the bed with a pathetic wheeze.
behind you, dex moves instantly. āhey-ā he reaches out, reflexive, but the second he shifts his own weight he freezes, before his jaw tightens sharply. then a low, strained groan slips out of him. his hand falters mid air; and you see the way heās fighting through something that clearly hurts.Ā
then a quiet involuntary sound leaves him, softer this time. a whimper. this clearly wasnāt meant to happen, and when it does, his entire expression changes, like he wants to erase it. his lips press into a thin line, eyes flicking away from you for the first time since he woke up, shoulders tensing as if he was trying to pretend nothing happened.
then finally he pushes himself up despite the stiffness. you canāt blame him for it, he looks like he's pushing forty after all. ā..i should go.ā he mumbles, voice tight. heās not looking at you, he canāt look at you, because last nightās chaos is slowly coming back to him.Ā
you, of course, do not allow this escape. you lean back on your elbows, grinning at him. ānope, you canāt just leave.ā
āyes, i can.āĀ Ā
āwe just hooked up, so we have to.. get to know each other.ā
that makes dex pause, actually pause. slowly, he looks down at you like heās trying to understand how you can say that so casually. āthe last time you said that, i had my tongue down your throat.ā
you blink. then despite everything, you huff out a small laugh. āand i enjoyed it. your point?ā
āyou donāt remember.ā
āno,ā you admit. āi donāt. but iām here, youāre here, and clearly something happened.ā
ā..youāre making this difficult,ā he sighs. āyou donāt even know my name,ā he pinches the bridge of his nose. ābesides, youāre way too young to be messing around with me.ā
ādo i really look that young to you?ā
dex moves, closer towards you now as if to intimidate. heās waiting for hesitation, for fear, for sense, but what he sees instead is you not backing down; if anything, you lean in slightly. that throws him off more than anything else, because in his head, youāre supposed to stop at this point, supposed to realise heās too sharp, too dangerous, too.. much.
his hand tightens against the mattress and just for a second his control slips. thoughts cross his mind before he buries them again.Ā
not āhow do i make them leave.ā; but āwhat would they do if i didnāt stop?ā, āwhat would they do if i grabbed them by the neck-ā
the thought hits him hard enough that he straightens slightly and pulls himself away.
āi shouldnāt have- this shouldnāt have happened.ā he says. āi donāt know what you think this is, but you donāt belong in situations like this.ā he pauses, then continues, quieter. ā..especially not with me. youāre gonna get yourself in trouble.ā
āso are you.ā
he sighs. āyou donāt listen, do you?ā
ānot really.ā you admit, then introduce yourself. āremember that.āĀ
finally, he sighs and gives in. ādex.ā he replies.
you do the same and tell him your name. āgood, now that weāve got that out of the way, letās get to the good stuff, shall we?ā then you lean in, breath tickling his jaw. āfor example.. your cock inside me.ā
he just blinks at you. ā..what?ā
āyeah.āĀ
āyou canāt walk, your hips nearly dislocated when you tried to sit up, and-ā he looks down at himself to find himself in worse shape than he initially thought. there are marks, way too many to ignore. ā..this is worse than i thought.ā
āmhm, and?āĀ
āand, round two will kill you.ā
āworth it.ā
āno.ā
āyes.ā
āno.ā
āyes.ā
dex grabs the back of your neck firmly. āyou are literally stuck on this bed because your hips are giving out. youāre not getting my cock for at least twelve hours.ā he sighs. ādonāt think youāll be getting anything else, ever.ā
and obviously, he meant it in a very obvious, āyou are way too injured to be doing thisā way; but you go still, then your face shifts.
ā..am i just a hookup to you, dex?ā
oh. his expression changes instantly when your breath goes shaky.
āno- donāt-ā he starts, already shifting forward, hands half-raised like heās not sure what to do with them. ādonāt do that, cāmon-āĀ
now there are tears, and suddenly heās violently aware that he has no idea how to handle this situation without making it worse.
ādonāt- donāt cry,ā he says, quieter now, like lowering his voice might fix the problem. āi didnāt mean it like that, just stop crying, please.ā he adds, almost helpless, but realises it came out wrong, too blunt. āsorry- shit, i just- look, i meant youāre hurt, thatās it.ā
you sniffle, and he exhales sharply. āiām bad at this, okay? just tell me what you want me to do?ā heās already halfway there, trying to solve something he doesnāt understand.
you donāt tell him, of course you donāt. you hiccup, and that small sound does him in completely. he looks genuinely lost for a second, glancing around the room like it has clues on how to calm you down. he frowns slightly, staring at you, your lower lip trembling just enough to sell it.
then finally he stops, because youāre looking at him like that, not asking for anything around you; just him. his words trail off and for a second he just stills, staring at you like the realisation isnāt something he had prepared for.
ā..oh.ā it comes out quieter this time. āyou- thatās not..āĀ
you just blink up at him through teary lashes.
he sighs. ā..fine.ā
and then you smile, not soft, not shaky, but bright, triumphant, even. dex goes still, it takes a second for the shift to register; and when it does, his expression changes.Ā
ā..you-ā he starts, then stops. the tears are gone, the act is gone, and suddenly, finally, he sees it for what it was, a setup, a play. āyou were messing with me, fake crying to get your way?ā
ācāmon, just one more round?ā you cross your arms. āi didnāt even get to feel you properly.ā
he stares at you for a full three seconds, then sits up just enough to look you directly in the eyes. āno.ā
āno?ā
āno,ā he repeats, quieter. he backs off a little this time instead of closer. ānot happening.ā thereās no bite in it, but thereās no give either.
āyou can barely move, and iām not-ā he stops, jaw tightening briefly. āiām not doing that agian while youāre like.. this.ā
ābut-ā
he cuts you off with a look. āyou already got one āfineā out of me,ā he mutters. āthat was a mistake.ā
ācome on, dex, please? just- just once.. you wonāt even have to be rough-ā
he freezes, because that tone? the begging? that shaky little breath at the end? yeah, it goes straight through him. he goes quiet in a way thatās almost dangerous, not toward you, but inward, like everything just got pulled too tight.
ātheyāre asking me.ā
āthey think iāll be careful.ā
and thatās where it starts to slip, because his brain immediately pushes back.
āwould i?ā
thatās the one that makes his stomach flip, not because he doesnāt think he has control, but because he knows that he already came close to losing it earlier.
āwhat would happen if i-ā
he snaps out of it.Ā
āif i touch you like that right now, youāre going to snap in half.ā
ābut- gentle?ā
āgentle? you?ā he scoffs, before looking back down at his own torso, littered with marks from you.
you wiggle, trying to move to his lap like thatāll help your argument. he grips your hips immediately, preventing you from hurting yourself again.
then finally he exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose like heās trying to summon every ounce of patience in the universe.
āokay, okay, just- lay down.ā he mutters.
āyes, finally!ā your eyes immediately light up, heart racing, hips twitching despite their previous injuries while you practically glow with excitement; and that makes something in him tighten.Ā
ātheyāre happy i said yes.ā
ācute.ā
then another thought, slower, more unwanted.Ā
ādesperate.āĀ
he gets annoyed at himself, because that thought is not helpful right now. āyouāre not getting anything rough.ā
āyeah- yeah, i know!ā you babble. āi just.. just wanna feel you.. please, please, please, dex?ā then you spread out, arms above your head, grinning stupidly as he kisses ur collarbone. āsee, i told you.. gentle.ā
dex sighs, again, hands on your waist to keep you from moving too fast.
ā..actually, i donāt want gentle.ā then you freeze for a split second. āi want.. hard, really hard.ā
āexcuse me?ā
you smirk, mischievous. āi said, hard.ā you tilt your head innoecntly. āwhat? getting too old to hear me properly, dex?ā
his eyes narrow dangerously. ātoo old?ā he repeats, zeroing in on you. āyou were just begging five minutes ago, and now youāre insulting me?ā
āitās called range.ā you say, and it nearly gets a laugh out of him. ācāmon, you agreed.ā
āi agreed to stop you from fake crying at me.ā
āmhm.ā
ādonāt āmhmā me.ā
ābratā, he thinks.
your bodyās already trembling with anticipation as you look up at him with that shit-eating grin.Ā
he exhales through his nose, before kneeling in front of you. ālast warning, you move and your will hips dislocate.ā
ānot gonna happen, donāt worry. i can take it, i want it.ā
he groans, slowly lining himself up. he hesitates for half a second, taking a deep breath before sliding in.
āfuck.. dex!ā you cry out immediately. āyou- nngh, yes-ā
his hands clamp onto your hips, steadying you, controlling the depth. every thrust is deliberate at first, testing you, making sure you can actually take it while your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer.
āfuck, youāre insatiable.ā he mutters between thrusts.
āmhm, good. keep going, harder.ā
dex hesitates, then just for a fraction, he pushes harder, way harder than he should. the reaction he gets out of you is immediate; a sharp inhale, your entire body tensing beneath him. thatās the mistake, because he feels it and something in him locks in completely, he gets terrifyingly attentive when heās locked in, he becomes more aware of you than before. every reaction gets caught immediately, but honestly, the worst part is how perfectly he reacts to all of it.
ādex-ā
āi know,ā he says immediately. that should not sound as good as it does. he eases back just slightly, enough that you think heās correcting himself, but then he notices the way you melt at even that tiny adjustment.Ā
and suddenly every movement after that becomes targetted, exact, like his brain memorised the response and immediately started chasing it with frightening efficiency.
āoh my god-ā you breathe out, half-laughing because this is getting unbelievable.
he barely reacts to the words, his focus is too deep now.
āyouāre shaking,ā he says quietly.
ā..youāre doing that on purpose.ā
it hits you even harder because heās not even trying to tease anymore, heās just locked in, muttering things under his breath while adjusting with impossible precision every single time you react.
āthere you are..ā
āgood,ā
ālook at you.ā
itās the concentration that gets to you the most, the overwhelming feeling that, right now, nothing in the world matters more to him than what heās doing to you.
ādex- i-.. fuck, ām close..ā you whine. and finally you cum, thighs shaking from exhaustion. āf-fuck.āĀ
it doesnāt take him long either, his forehead dropping forward as he fills you up.
āfinally feel your cum in me..ā you press yourself closer to him, still panting, eyes half-lidded but sparkling with that post-sex glow. ā..cāmon, one more?ā
Since your inbox is open.....how about free use with roommate clark kent and reader
hi amor! y'all are quick w this. i'm gonna assume that you've also read the other roommate!clark i did for kinktober. between u n meā¦missed them BAD.
tags: pwp, smut, f!reader, roommate!clark, free-use themes, clark fucks reader from the back while she's cookin, lowk a lil asshole!clark (1k + wc)
ā
"i'm back."
you don't lift your head at the sound of that familiar drawl. plastic bag rustling in his hands as he shucks his shoes by the doorway. "they didn't have Diet Coke. soā¦i got someā¦ off-brandā¦spiced soda."
it was fairly easy to have set that one cardinal rule with having clark kent as your roommate ā you could never, ever fuck each other. both of you had agreed that it would've been too messy to deal with. its potential fall-out, or awkwardness of running into each other on campus if you did indulge.
"not the same thing, asshole."
consequently, it was just that easy to break it.
the shuffling behind you grew closer. routine sounds you'd connected to clark's arrival. keys, bag against the floor, and then ā
"jus' keep cooking." his voice comes as a heady, lazy murmur, it trails down your pulse, leaving goosebumps in its wake. you feel his weighty palms slide past the quilted apron you had on, shuddering as his thumbs skim past the hem of your shirt.
"seriously." you manage, with a shaky palm coming down to rest on the aged mosaic tiles. clark's inhaling the warm, sweaty skin at your pulse, nipping over the marks he'd left on you the day prior had begun to fade. "n-not ā anywhere visible!"
he grunts at your swat, the gentle curve of his nose now tracing up your jaw and ears. "hey ā" he calls out, tugging you hard against his chest, enough for you to feel the hard line of his erection poking your lower back. "water's boiling over."
you gasp sharply, chucking the wooden spoon to lay horizontal on the ceramic pot. "no shit," you manage, squirming a little as he rolls his hips against your ass. "ā¦y-you'reā¦distracting me."
clark only laughs at your complaint, his palm having slid upward, rested under your breast. his nail skims the soft fat there, and last your sensitive nipples. you yelp, clutching over his forearms.
"smart girl like you can't multitask?"
"t-that'sā¦" you swallow thickly at his taunt, relaxing further into his chest at the gentle squeeze of his palm over your tits. "not...fuckin'ā¦fair.."
"c'mon, it's gonna get all soggy." he nods his chin toward the still-boiling water, and you begrudgingly turn the stove off.
it was damn-near impossible to focus on scooping out the pasta, some of the cooked noodles falling into the sink at his wandering hands. callouses dragging down your ribs. "careful." he chides, sliding his hand down the waistband of your bottoms.
you jerk forward hard in surprise, palms pressed heavy against your clit. his two digits slides between your folds, rubbing you slowly. the spoon clatters onto the dishrack at every needy nudge of his fingers in your pussy. "fuckā¦.kansas ā"
he whistles, low, much more brazen in his touches as your arousal coats him. "shit. you're soakin' me." he coos, tugging your trousers halfway down your thighs. you don't protest, looking over your shoulder hazily to meet his gaze.
your pussy pulses around nothing at the loss of his digits, all achy for more. he grunts low, at the slight nudge of your ass against his pelvis. holding you still by your hips. "ā¦easy now."
a shuddered breath leaves you at the press of his bare length, half-tucked out of his shorts, rested at the line of your spine.
"told you to keep, cookingā¦didn't i?" you feel the thickness of his girthy tip, drag past the globes of your ass, resting it flush against your folds. you whine, clutching tightly around the rag.
"a-are you kidding me?" you manage in a soft squeak, hips nudging backwards to meet the languid thrusts he provides, tip catching your clit at every move.
your breath stuttered at the gentle probe of his tip, pressing insistently into you. "don't stop. please." your fingers fumble to turn the stove back on, and he rewards you with an inch.
"mmāhn."
clark's palm comes up to rest at the column of your throat, tilting your head up. you don't react to the sizzle on the pan as he deposits the mise en place, laid all organized on your cutting board.
"gonna let anyone fuck you like this, huh? that easy?"
your cheeks flush at his words, locking your gaze with his as he bottoms out fully in you. rolling his hips, setting a quick and hard pace.
"you think ā nnghā¦fuck, just anyone's got the keys to my apartment?" you pull away from his hold, resting the back of your head against the crook of his neck. every thrust felt way too fucking good despite the initial sting.
"nahā¦just me." he smiles to himself, pants turning much more bated at every snap of his hips. "only i get to fuck you like this, mm?"
his voice is everywhere around you, in that needy, teasing intensity that threatens the familiar roll of your eyes whenever you were getting close. "l-like that, harder." your hands clutch around his forearm, meeting his thrusts halfway.
"ugh.. squeezing me so tāight." he lowers his head, words muffled as he mouths at your neck. biting down at your pulse, the snaps of his hips grow more frenzied and urgent. clark's palm presses down hard at your clit, rubbing you until your body goes rigid in his hold, giving his cock a delicious series of pulses down his length.
"shit, oh shit shit." clark lets you come down from your orgasm, taking in the gentle squeezes of your cunt.
your body bucks forward, dangerously close to the steam radiating off the flame, clark catches your forehead before you got too close, groaning incoherent mumbles to your cheeks as he pulls out at the very last second.
he pumps, clumsily, the sound of the wet, thick soaps as he cums with a shudder, all over your lower back. you're completely putty, slumped against his chest, and you hear the distinct click of the stove, snapping you out of your orgasmic haze.
your gaze falls to the stove, where clark's effectively turned the gas off to a pan full of black, burnt vegetables.
Dammed be the overwhelming desperation that makes his wet cock slip out of you because of a needy, clumsy movement, causing Dex to grunt softly beneath you. Before you can even catch your breath, he blindly searches for his cock, shoving it roughly back into your swollen ruined pussy, ripping a shaky moan from your lips.
His hips resume their punishing rhythm, pounding upward in vicious thrusts that have you tensing and arching off his chest in a poor attempt to escape his overheated body. But his hands are tight on your hips, holding you captive as his cock rubs relentlessly against your G-spot.
Sobs, gasps, and small whines are all that escape your parted lips while you're just trying to beg him for a tiny break.
You have no idea how many times you've come, how many times you've dripped all over his cock until you've soaked the sticky sheets, all you know is that Dex hasn't come and seems to be on the agonizing edge for a long time, just pounding and leaking and whining and cursing because he can't fill you up and he's bringing you to his torture, ruining you as he's at it.
The sounds he makes in your ear are nothing but broken, pained with frustration as he sweats profusely and his freckled skin is deeply flushed, pretty blush trailing down past his shoulders and you feel another orgasm building inside you as his hand slides from your hip to your cunt, his middle finger beginning to make tight little circles on your swollen clit.
āDex! Waitāwait,ā you huff, whining, instinctively closing your legs, but you hear him refuse behind you, and a loud smack of his four fingers against your soaked cunt sends you shuddering, your thighs opening again thanks to the delicious sting.
āOpenāā he commands, muffled in that hoarse voice, ākeep them open, come on, come on baby, donāt close them, I donāt want it.ā His voice is weary, desperation dripping from its tone, and you're sobbing, gripping his wrist because your clit is so sensitive to the touch. His hips donāt stop, his finger continues to abuse your flesh up and down, side to side, pressing while making circles, and he notices you squeeze his weeping cock tighter when he puts you under a restraint.
He starts thrusting rapidly into your cunt, some strokes of his finger softer than others, causing you to gasp his name and try to move your hips away from him, but he's still frustrated beneath you, accelerating his thrusts and slapping your pussy harder until the sound is so obscene and wet that you reach other orgasm, pain and pleasure merging into one, and you clench around him, coaxing a curse from him as the wave of pleasure tear your feverish tight body apart.
āShit! Oh fuckāAh, again, againā he sobs eagerly, feeling himself almost finish again but going back to the torture of not being able to, there are tears welling on his eyes and he's keeping his hand on top of your cunt as he fucks you, and the overwhelming stimulation is making you try to escape again, still fresh and tired from your orgasm and when his cock slips out of your quivering entrance again, he lets out a muffled sound, complaining and unable to bear how your body keeps trying to get away.
Regardless of your silent protests, he places his forearm around your neck, pressing against your throat roughly, causing your body to freeze on top of his. Your hands move up to grip his arm, his bicep, pawing and gripping at the muscles as you feel strange sensations rising towards your bladder and you force your throat to work, trying to spit out pitiful excuses of words as your body burns.
āSāStop, Dex, please, please, I feelāā you mutter, a smack knocking the wind out of you, and you regain your voice while he's trying to merge with you. āMāgonna peeā¦ā you sob, so embarrassed. āDex, Iām gonna peeāplease!ā and you're not even sure if you're actually going to pee or it is just squirt, either way, both mean a mess on top of him, both mean shame when you're so overwhelmed and weak to think about the sweet benefits.
A burning tremor runs through every part of Dex's body at the your words full of panic and he has to swallow hard to speak.
For a split second, his thrusts cease and a quiet gasp escapes his lips. āYeah? Are you sure?ā he begins, his free hand traveling down your body until it rests on your stomach, and he's purring, talking again. āDo you promise?ā he whispers eagerly, pressing his palm hard right over your lower belly, and you squirm, tensing as he starts moving his hips upward again quickly, stealing your breath and making your cheeks burn with shame.
He never thought about stopping.
Now you're letting your tears flow, trying to muffle your pitiful little cries as you're feeling your limit break faster than you can bear and Dex is babbling softly in your ear, making it so much worse for you. His forearm finally lets you breathe and suddenly he's using both hands, letting them rest on your bladder, maintaining such pressure that you arch your back, trying not to make a fucking mess on top of him as your chest rises an falls because the sick bastard is kneading at your stomach, milking you.
You can feel his cock twitching inside you, intrigued by what's coming next. So hard and eager for it, Dex is humming when he feels you just can't take it anymore and he lets out a hoarse, shaky laugh, so excited he's lost his mind and completely forgot about his own impossible climax.
āIt hurts, right? The restraint... Worst part is that you're doing it to yourself,ā he purrs amusedly, gently pounding upwards, nothing compared to what he's doing on your belly. āI'm not even doing it anymore... You love to restrain yourself when you're with me. It's sad.ā he whispers and you sob because it hurts so much and he's right.
āMy girl, you make me feel bad for this. But you won't leave until you do it.ā
cw: mdni, switch!dex, handjob, praise, dex has been bitten by the lovebug
Your hand moves in a steady rhythm, the friction of your palm against him drawing a low, shaky breath from his lips. Youāre sitting close enough that you can feel the heat radiating body, his muscles wound tight like a spring.
Your other arm is hooked comfortably over his shoulders, your fingers lazily tracing the line of his scar and caressing his cheek. Every time your thumb brushes over his tip, Dex whines and leans into the touch, his eyes half-closed and clouded with a hazy sort of focus.
The only reason youāre even letting him have this is because of how he came to you earlier. He hadn't been his usual composed self ā he walked in looking completely frayed and dropped right to his knees in front of you. He wrapped his arms around your legs, burying his face against you while muttering that it physically hurt how badly he needed you.
Only you can make it better.
So now as you work his cock, he doesnāt look away for a second. He stares at your face with dark, hooded eyes like heās trying to memorize you.
Thereās no trace of his usual sharp edge; instead, his gaze is filled with a heavy, quiet adoration, looking at you like youāre the only thing left in the world.
Every once in a while, you lean in to press a lingering kiss somewhere on his face. You catch his temple, the corner of his mouth, and then the sharp line of his jaw, each touch making his breath hitch in his throat.
Dex leans into every kiss, his eyes fluttering shut as he drinks in the affection. You know exactly what heās waiting for, and as your hand picks up the pace just slightly, you lean close to his ear.
āTell me Iām good,ā he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper. āāM always good for you,ā he closes his eyes and nuzzles his face into your palm.
āAre you?ā Dex nods frantically as you dangle the praise in front of him like a prize he hasnāt earned yet.
His breathing starts to pick up, turning into short, heavy pants as he inches closer and closer to his orgasm. Knowing how close he is, you lean forward until your lips are just brushing against his, teasing him with the ghost of a kiss. At the same time, you slow the pace of your hand, dragging out the tension until heās practically vibrating under your touch.
āYou know youāre good, my best boy.ā
The words hit him harder than the physical touch ever could. Itās exactly what he craves, and you can see it in the way his entire body reacts ā his shoulders finally drop, and a low, shaky groan escapes him. He looks at you again with that dazed, smitten gaze, looking completely satisfied just to hear you acknowledge how hard heās trying for you.
You catch the look of desperation in his eyes and give him a small smile before picking the speed back up and finally pulling him into a deep, heavy kiss.
Dex can't even find the energy to kiss you back; his lips go slack against yours as he breaks away, gasping for air.
Heās entirely unstrung, his forehead falling heavily onto your shoulder while his body continues to shudder as he spills all over your hand.
The only thing heās capable of is a frantic, broken mantra, his voice a wrecked whisper chanting āthankyouthankyouthankyouā over and over again. He sounds utterly relieved, clinging to you as if you're the only thing keeping him grounded while he finally comes down.
He keeps his eyes closed, his long lashes casting shadows against his flushed cheeks as the last of the tremors fade from his limbs. You can already tell heās feeling much better; the sharp, pained lines that were etched into his face earlier are gone, smoothed over by a heavy, languid calm.
Even without him saying a word, the way he lets his weight settle fully against you shows that the ache he was carrying was quieted.
pathetic!dex..who gets horny at the mere thought of seeing you. he knows that in thirty minutes, heāll get to see you and that makes him feel hot beneath the collar.
driving with one hand on the wheel whilst the other is palming his bulge. he imagines that the hand is yours and youāre saying filthy things to him right now. seducing him like a succubus.
heāll moan at the idea of you commenting on how hard he is, feeling pathetic for not being able to contain himself.ļæ¼ļæ¼
pathetic!dex..who has soaked himself in precum just from kissing you. he let you take control of the situation a while ago and since; heās been a whimpering, pervy mess.
youāre on top of him, cradling his face as he chases your mouth and you canāt ignore the feel of his growing arousal pressing up into your thinly clothed cunt.
āhmphā dex sounded as if voicing how much he liked this. heāll grind your hips down against his before tucking his head in between your breast.
āplease, fuck meā heād plea before latching his mouth onto your nipple.
pathetic!dex..who canāt get off without asking permission. it feels wrong if he doesnāt.
you could sense the movements getting quicker, as if dex were rushing. āitās okay, slow down baby.ā youād coo while fiddling with his blonde locks.
he always listened to you so, slowing his pace, he continued to ride the wave of his pre-orgasm. the euphoria of the moment swallowed him whole and made him even needier.
āpleaseācan i cum?ā with a wet pop as he released your breast. his eyes were glazed over, pupils blown wide.
heād probably deny himself of finishing if you said no.
which you didnāt.
āyes baby.ā you whispered teasingly watching as he shuddered.
dex kept going as the wave of his pending climax washed over him, enveloping him in a blissed out ecstasy state.
you ground him back to earth with a few forehead kisses.
inspired by this inbox. š§ą§ smidge of smut, age gap angst, reader is in her 20s & beau is in his 40s, est. relationship, borderline erectile dysfunction? 18+
beau arlen x fem!reader ā® wc: 1.1k
Itās back again. That festering āIām too old for her; I canāt keep up; Iām a pervert for even being with her; Sheās gonna get to my age and hate meā feeling that has plagued Beau for months now, wedging itself deep between his ribs, the guilt residing in his heart as a permanent inhabitant.
A permanent reminder of how young you are, and how old he is. A stark reminder of the age difference.
It all finally comes to a head one night, right in the middle of sex, when youāre beneath the sheets, entwined with Beauās sweaty body. His hips come to a still between your legs, and he slumps down against you, burying his face in your neck.
āIām gettinā tired, honey,ā he mutters against your skin, slightly out of breath, his voice filled with shame. āMāsorry.ā
You pause for a moment beneath him, with your hand lingering on his side whilst he remains inside you, his chest heaving with shallow breaths from all the spent exertion.
āOhā¦ā you start, your voice already sweeter than honey. āItās alright, we can stop. I know youāve had a long day.ā
The sincerity of your words tugs at Beauās heart, plucking at each heartstring one-by-one. He shakes his head, still concealed in your neck, exhaling dutifully despite his aching muscles and the guilt eating at his conscience. āNo, sweetheart. I mean, Iām gettinā too old for thisā¦ for you. My back is killinā me and my kneeās been playinā up again lately. And some days, I can barely get it up. You know that.ā
He pauses for a beat, and then mutters, āI justā¦ canāt keep up anymore.ā
The air is thick as Beau waits with his face still hidden. Heās silent, expecting a laugh or one of your usual smart little quips as if his words were a joke, but instead, your arms tighten their grip around his torso, squeezing his bare chest down against yours like youāre trying to fuse your bodies together. The pressure around his ribcage hits him like a blanket of comfort over his unsteady nerves.
āYouāve been feeling like this for a while, havenāt you?ā you murmur against his head. āI know youāve been off, Beau.ā
Your tone makes him want to melt; youāre such a sweet little thing, even when you donāt need to be. Relief slowly floods his veins, but his jaw tenses, deliberating his next words.
After a moment, he sighs. āYeah, long enough, sweetheart.ā
āWell, we can work around it, right? I mean, I canāā
āNo, babydoll, itās not justāā he sputters into your neck, and then lets out a defeated groan. āI donāt wanna make you do all the work, or make you wait on me when Iām notā¦ working properly. You shouldnāt be worrying about things like that. Itās killinā me that youāre waitinā on an old man like me.ā
A scoff leaves your mouth, thick with disbelief and a smidge of amusement. Your hands remain rubbing along his tanned freckled back, soothing him. āAn old man like you?ā
āYeah, like me,ā he mutters, finally lifting his head from your neck. His eyes meet yours, and theyāre rounded with a newfound sadness youāve never seen before. āAn old fart who canāt keep up with a young thing like you. Iām not in my twenties anymore, and it shows, darlinā. I just feel likeā¦ I canāt give you what you need.ā
In the dim light of the bedroom, your eyes flicker between his, and a sigh exhales from your lungs under his weight. His solemn words fill the silent space between you both.
After a moment, you finally speak. āBeau, you trust me, right?ā
He blinks in confusion, but nods. āOf course. Always.ā
āSo, you trust my judgement then?ā
His eyes narrow, still confused, still unsure. His gaze flicks down to your lips, lingering for a moment before returning to your eyes. He exhales, āWhatāre you gettinā at?ā
āIām asking if you trust me and my decision to be with you.ā
A sigh leaves him. āSweetheart, itās not about thaāā
āIt is, Beau,ā you fire back gently, albeit with an undeniable firmness. āIf I wasnāt happyā¦ or satisfied, do you really think I wouldnāt say anything? Do you really think you wouldnāt know?ā
His head tilts, his eyes searching your sweet little face below his. God, youāre a sweetheart. He takes in a sharp breath, filling his lungs. āIām justā¦ worried. What happens in five years? Ten years? What happens when Iām too old for any of this and you look at me with disgust for stealing these years from you? What happens when you hate me?ā
Beau watches your face slowly contort, tightening in a combination of confusion and disgust. And itās that, that exact look heās been so worried about seeing.
His heart constricts in his chest, and the corners of his lips drop, curling into a frown at the sight of your face.
But before he can even get a word out, you chuckle.
A loud boisterous sound, clearing all the residual glumness hanging in the air from Beauās words.
Your snickering dies down after a few seconds, but the grin stays strung across your lips. āBeau Arlen, I could never hate you. Not in a million years. Not even for a million dollars.ā
āYou donāt mean that. You canāt predict how youāre going to feel in five years. Things can change so quickly.ā
You hum, still smiling, though itās softer now as you keep your gaze up at him. āI mean it, Beau. You make me happy. The happiest Iāve ever been. Weāll work aroundā¦ your ageā¦ when it comes to it. Weāve got toys. Weāve got pillows, chairsā¦ everything. I knew what I was signing up for, old man. Iām not as clueless as I look.ā
Beauās eyes flitter between yours once again, taking in the warmth emanating from your gaze. Heās silent for several seconds, but you see the cogs turning in his brain.
Slowly, a tender smile finally curls on his lips, and he lets out a breath filled with resignationāthe good kind. āIām seriously the luckiest man in the world.ā He leans down, meeting your lips with his own, kissing gently like youād shatter if he were to touch you the wrong way. āMy smart beautiful girl. I donāt know what Iād do without you.ā
You giggle against his lips, and Beau swallows down the noise greedily. āI think youād be pretty bored, old man,ā you murmur in return. āBored and probably unfucked.ā
āOi,ā he spits out, lifting his head with a grin. āThatās not nice.ā
You canāt help the smirk from growing on your face. āCan we justā¦ keep going?ā you ask, nodding down at where youāre still connected, where you can still feel him throbbing inside you.
Beau huffs, smiling. āYeah, honey, we can.ā
a/n: anon i hope you enjoyed. i love angsty age gaps so much. and i love beau too. also lol that entire conversation being had while heās still inside you. lowkey forgot abt that while writing can you tell?
support writers by sharing the love & reblogging ā”
