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gutsby · 6 months ago

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Wants and Needs

Pairing: Sugar Daddy!Joel x Reader

Summary: Bills are high; your dad’s boss wants to help. How you pay him stays between you and him—for now.

Warnings: 18+. Protected piv. Explicit power imbalance in an exchange of sex for money, so dubcon, technically. Soft dom!Joel. Sex toys. Squirting. Oral (f!receiving). Overstimulation. Daddy kink. Age gap. Praise kink.

Note: Bohanan’s is a steakhouse in San Antonio, TX.

Word count: 8.4k

You wanted a car. Joel needed to cum.

It wasn’t the arrangement a girl your age should’ve made, but what could you do? Your dad drank half of your college funds away, and your mom was long gone.

The next best thing was Mr. Miller, your father’s boss. He’d understood better than anyone what money could buy. What it might do. For him, it was pleasure. For you, it was a future—or what little remained after bills and loans and exorbitantly-priced car repairs bled you dry.

You took the job at the firm on a whim. You didn’t want to be a lawyer anymore, though your dad and Joel were. You didn’t want to be done with law school, though 3L had already long since ended, and that dreaded so-called ‘minimum competency’ test was drawing close on the horizon. In short, you couldn’t afford to pay for bar prep.

With Joel, you could.

It was true that tax law paid pretty well, but a part-time job would never really be enough when your family was treading water at all times. Your dad liked to gamble and drink, and your brothers got all of their brains from him.

You got the short end of the stick, plus the receiving end of another. Lucky for you, Joel’s felt pretty good going in.

Today you were somewhere south of Austin. Your truck wouldn’t start last week, so you’d agreed to come along on this business trip knowing full well what you planned on asking your boss as soon as you had a moment alone.

“CDP hearing at…9:45.” You checked the itinerary twice.

“Alright.” Joel nodded.

“Lunch with Javier, Ezra, and Dave at twelve.”

“Mhmm.”

“Phone call with Revenue Officer Acacius at 3:30.”

“For the…?”

“Martells.”

“Okay.”

“I finished Lucien Flores’ Form 433-F for your review and left notes—” You stopped to tap your finger on a short white pile of papers between you and Joel on the desk, “—in the margins. Still need bank statements from him.”

“Lovely.”

Joel eyed the stack at first, but his gaze strayed a little.

“You should probably plan to talk strategy with my dad before Mayor Garcia’s audit tomorrow, too. Looks like a couple non-cash contributions are being disputed now.”

For a second, your eyes flitted up to him, too. It was brief.

“Sure. When’s your daddy free?” he said.

You blinked, then scanned the schedule.

“Looks like five…or six, maybe. He’s got a consult with—”

“I wasn’t talking about your father.”

You looked back up. Joel was smirking, of course. His hand had drifted a comfortable, innocent distance past the papers and across the table, to you. The pair of you happened to be in one of the glass-paneled conference rooms nearest the hotel lobby, so he had to be discreet.

He never let his fingers stray too long on yours in public. Presently, his thumb grazed your knuckles extra slow.

Posing a question, maybe.

You didn’t have the time to be tactful now, unfortunately.

“I need $2,700.”

Joel, your boss, your daddy, whatever, had to pause at that. He didn’t move his hand immediately, but he did stare harder. Longer. He searched your face for the joke.

“$2,700?” he repeated.

“Yes sir,” you answered out of habit, wincing only a little, “My truck stopped running last week, and it’s just…a lot.”

The cost. For Joel, it wasn’t even a drop in the bucket, but in your world, it was a make-or-break, fuck-your-whole-budget-for-the-next-six-months kind of bad. Suddenly, your cheeks felt warmer than they did before, and you forced yourself to look away. Peering out across the wide and gently rolling terrain of San Antonio and trying to pretend there was something thrilling to see. You’d almost forgotten how much you hated asking this.

“I can make the deposit tonight—” Joel started.

“No,” you interrupted. You wanted to turn but couldn’t. You just shook your head and kept staring out there, “Not now, I mean…I need to earn it over time, I just…”

You stumbled over the words. It was like your lips, your tongue, and your teeth were all suffering from the same sort of embarrassment pervading the brain, and you couldn’t bring your mouth to form the sentences right.

I’m not asking for a handout. I need to earn the money.

However ‘earning’ may have been grossly misconstrued in the context, it was a labor all the same. You didn’t love it, but you didn’t hate him, either. Joel was nice, albeit old enough to be your father, and it didn’t seem that he was nearly as predatory or perverse as he could’ve been. You’d been working for him for two months now, and the idea had been your own when the cash had gotten tight.

Back in April, you’d explained to him, calmly, that you couldn’t take the bar exam unless you got some extra money quick. That you wouldn’t accept his charity, but you’d pay him back in other ways. Joel had been against it at first—you were the daughter of his best friend, after all—but eventually, his carnal needs won out over his sense, as every other man would’ve done, you guessed.

At first, you’d started slow, but that hadn’t lasted very long. You fucked him regularly now, though never had you asked for an amount of cash this big out of nowhere.

Joel blinked and put a hand on his hip, like he always did when he wasn’t sure what to say. The silver in his soft, dark locks shone more in this light. He’d lost the smirk.

“You’ve done…plenty.” Now sounding sheepish.

You tried to protest again; Joel stopped you.

“I mean it. Hey, look at me,” he said next.

You did, hesitatingly. You turned from the window, and out of instinct, folded your arms over your chest. Joel paced closer to you and then he was watching. Pausing.

Brushing your arm with his and glancing once over your shoulder to make sure no one else was around to see.

He leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to your temple.

When he pulled away, your skin was practically ablaze.

“Mr. Miller—”

“Joel,” he corrected, quiet, “And you’ve done enough. Let me cover the car just this once, okay? Sweetheart?”

You didn’t realize you were pivoting again. That your gut was doing somersaults and your heart was ready to climb up and out of your throat. Your neck was burning.

It wasn’t even anger you sensed was simmering under the skin until you turned back to him, and your eyes flashed with ire before the words were even spoken.

“I don’t need your pity, Mr. Miller. I said I want to pay.”

“It’s Joel. And I said you’ve done enough, so—”

Ire morphed to something more in a blink.

You didn’t mean to say it, but you did.

“Fine,” you huffed, suddenly exasperated, “If you’re so fucking opposed to me paying my way for this one simple thing, I’ll get another guy. Forget I asked.”

It was a low blow, for sure. Joel knew how badly you’d wanted this to stay between just you and him—and he would never dream of seeing you ‘earning your keep’ with anyone else. His expression said as much as soon as he’d heard your words; his whole face hardened at once.

But then you’d turned to leave. You didn’t care what he wanted to tell you, and if you did, you certainly weren’t brave enough to stick around to hear Joel say it then.

So you left. He had a full, busy day ahead of him anyway.

You woke up wet.

In an effort to avoid your boss, you’d run errands all day. Buried your nose in a sea of Civil Procedure notes as soon as you got a second alone, almost vomited seeing the Erie Doctrine, and went back to your hotel room to try and study there. Once you had, you napped instead.

Now your clothes stuck to your skin; the sheets around you were soaked. You peered over the big white duvet holding your body interred and saw smoke overhead.

Or steam.

Yes, definitely steam. It was drifting from the bathroom, where the door was thrown open. You shifted up to sit.

“Tess!” you yelled, “Shut the goddamn door, I’m boiling.”

As a law clerk, you weren’t afforded the luxury of a suite to yourself, so you shared it with the other new grads on work trips like these. Tess Servopoulos loved long, hot showers and never closed the fucking door. You groaned.

And, feeling depleted of all energy from your studies and the stress and the steam searing every inch of your skin, you flopped back in the bed. You kicked the covers off your legs. You’d just lifted a hand to wipe the sweat from your forehead, when an awful, fresh realization dawned.

You glanced at the clock—3:37.

“Fucking hell,” you hissed.

You were supposed to meet your dad at two to get some paperwork signed. You needed to have that filed with the court by four. He was probably engaged somewhere else by now, whether it be a client, a conference, or a couple white lines in the bathroom of a partners-only club downtown, and you wouldn’t have a hope of reaching him here. You rubbed your face and groaned again.

You’d set an alarm for 1:30—you knew you had.

Where the hell was your phone? Why was it so warm? What if he’d called? Aw fuck, he’s probably blown that thing up to hell and back by now. Maybe he was drunk. He had to be. Where was Tess? Where were your pants?

You’d made it up to your feet, clumsily, and faced a full-length mirror. Your bottoms were gone. You closed your eyes and screamed inside, remembering why they were.

“Glad you’re getting some use out of this.”

The second you heard it, your lids flew open. You turned.

And, standing in the warm yellow glow of the bathroom light—holding the culprit, your vibrator, like a prize—was Joel. Naked as the day he was born, save for one thin towel around his hips, and grinning. Moisture glistened on his chest and pooled about his feet, and his hair was smooth, tamed, and combed back neatly from his face.

He waved your silicone toy in the air, and immediately, you regretted giving him your room key the other day.

“I thought we agreed you’d wait for me—”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Your voice was thick with sleep. Joel’s own was slow, dulcet, and kind as it always was, even when teasing. When you grit your teeth, he just set the toy aside.

“I’m sorry. Bad timing. I saw your—”

“No.” You threw up both hands at once, suddenly out of breath and fucks to give, “You know what? I don’t care. You need to go. I have to be down at the courthouse—”

In twenty minutes. You cut yourself short and hurried off to find shoes. You could wear other pants. Ask another attorney to sign the forms if you couldn’t reach your dad. Forget that his boss and yours had just caught you with the vibrator he’d bought you last month and try not to feel too humiliated knowing he knew what you’d been doing. It didn’t matter—Joel didn’t matter. You slid on a mismatched pair of slacks and set off toward the door.

Then you had to stop. Joel beat you there, quick as ever.

“Listen. Hey.”

“Will you stop?!”

You pushed at his big and wet, stupidly broad chest. You felt the small grey hairs on his pecs tickle your palms, and for a second, you thought you heard a chuckle.

“You’re gonna make me late—”

“Hey, hey,” Joel said again. Of course it sounded fatherly, “I already signed the POA for Morales, hon, you’re good.”

You’re good.

“You what?” You stared at him in disbelief. How did he even know you needed Frankie’s power of attorney signed in the first place? You figured your dad would’ve mentioned it, but still, it wasn’t really Joel’s form to sign.

“The case is mine now,” he clarified, reading that look, “Wasn’t my first pick, but it is what it is. And your dad—”

Your dad was probably lagging wildly behind on his own caseload, so he’d pushed one off on his friend. Again.

“You can’t keep picking up his slack,” you gritted out, “One of these days it’s gonna bite you both in the ass. You know he shouldn’t be forcing these jobs on you.”

“I offered.”

“You caved.”

“He’s my best friend, what do you expect me to do?”

“Not let him use you! He’s making you feel bad for him.”

“And what if I did? What if I did pity the bastard?”

You scoffed. Then winced, inwardly.

I don’t need your pity, Mr. Miller.

From the look on Joel’s face, he seemed to be remembering the same. He shook his head.

“That’s not…” he trailed off. He rubbed his jaw with his hand and started to move from the door, deflating some.

His other arm extended to you, wordlessly, and already anticipated what was sure to follow. You swatted him off, then walked to the bed. You considered sitting but didn’t. Instead, you crossed your arms like you always did and turned away, facing the window with a cool, flat affect.

By now, Joel knew better than to take that for what it seemed. He crossed the room to you, treading softly.

His voice turned gentle again, like an apology: “Honey…”

But your gaze was already fixed outside. You frowned.

“Darlin’,” Joel continued, undeterred, “Come on.”

And you didn’t need to see his face to hear the rest: ‘Look at me, please,’ with eyes all comfort and warmth.

“Don’t you have a phone call with an R.O. or something?” Briefly, you recalled Acacius and a stream of other items from the checklist you’d covered that morning, and you had to stop yourself then from straying too far. You blinked once, just as Joel was approaching from behind.

“I cancelled,” he said.

You sighed, “Mr. Miller…”

You knew he hated doing that.

“Joel,” he pressed. Adding, “Something came up.”

You wouldn’t even ask. You shouldn’t care. You felt him standing there, fanning hot breaths across the nape of your neck, and you really couldn’t have taken that worse. You visibly tensed, hands balling into fists at your sides, and—hell, he wouldn’t quit moving now, would he?—Joel bent down. He hesitated, as if gauging your reaction in time, then descended further. He kissed your shoulder.

You cracked; it never took much from him.

For all your inane, ancillary plays at feigning indifference, one movement of Joel’s mouth and your resolve was lost. You clung to words, weakly, but all the rest fell away.

“We don’t…want your charity. Me or my dad. Alright?”

“I know.”

Joel kissed your skin again, then pulled at the strap of your blouse. It fell limply away, and his lips reattached.

Exactly when he’d walked you back to the bed, you couldn’t be sure. By the third or fourth kiss, your stomach was tight, knees weak, and your eyes drawing closed; it didn’t matter to you or to him what had passed before. Your bodies found the bed and blended together.

Tangling, in a way. Tearing blindly at clothes and not saying too much apart from Joel’s soft, sweet words:

“That’s it.”

“I know.”

“Good girl.”

Good girl when he kissed you. Good girl when he stripped you bare. Good girl when his hands roamed the broad, naked expanse of your body and let your own do the same to him. Good girl when your fingers hooked the outline of the towel and tugged it away, your vision filled with a sight you’d come to like more and more each day.

“That’s my girl,” Joel murmured. He cradled your head while you gripped his base, “‘S’yours, baby. All yours.”

Yours. Mine. You weren’t sure you had the sense or self-possession to even know what that meant, especially here. Joel wasn’t a boyfriend. He wasn’t a lover, at least not in the traditional sense. He wore dark wool suits like your father and worked from dawn until dusk every day, practicing law for longer than you’d been alive. Still, the smile above you was sweet. It coaxed you gently as you slid your hand up and down his length, like he sensed this was more like a lesson for you. Learning experience.

“Remember, spit a little first,” he instructed. Then, to demonstrate this point, he brought his fingers to his mouth and wet them quickly. He slipped his touch down to yours and met your gaze while he joined you there.

He rubbed and slicked himself up and he did it with ease. You followed his lead and watched his face contort—crow’s feet pinching even tighter at the sides of his eyes as pleasure began to pool in his gut. He looked pretty. You’d never thought to tell him this, but Joel really had an unparalleled face. It was an old and beautiful thing. For this reason, you couldn’t bring yourself to tear your gaze away, maybe to wet your own fingers. Instead, you slipped your hand between your legs, where his hips had come to rest. You worked a slow, light touch against your folds; you were drenched, and it didn’t take long for your fingers to be, too. You moved them back to Joel’s cock.

“Like this?” you ventured.

The man answered with a grunt, at first. Then a grin.

“Yeah. Yeah,” Joel nodded, quiet but emphatic. Trying not to smile too big as he let your touch take over for his, “Just like that, sweet pea. Get it nice an’ wet for daddy.”

You wanted to whimper at that. Something must’ve flashed in your eyes at the intonation of the last word, and the look must’ve suffused your whole expression, because the next thing you knew, Joel was lowering his body to yours. Petting your hair, letting you rub on his shaft as fast as your soft, lithe hands could manage.

“Feel that, baby? Feel how much daddy missed you?”

You did.

Your brow pinched, and you wanted more of that. More from him: those tender, edifying words of praise being mumbled your way while your touch worked him over. Maybe you could’ve helped it, but then again, in this state, maybe you couldn’t—you whimpered for him.

Wriggling your hips against the bed to get your warmth pressed flush with his own, and squeezing him tighter:

“In me, daddy. Please.”

You angled his cock in your trembling grip to plead as much. You knew he liked being the one to push in the first time, so you didn’t move too far with that push, but you begged him with your gaze. You felt him tense a bit.

And just when you sensed he might let you have your way, he moved off. Down. Sliding his torso away from your own, to go lower on the bed, and smirking again.

“I think she needs my tongue first, doesn’t she?”

You wanted to nod. Instead, you flinched. You crawled away from his hold before it could secure itself firmly on either one of your legs, and you had to snag your bottom lip between your teeth to contain that blossoming need. It almost spilled from your mouth in a moan before Joel’s could reach your lower half. Then you scrambled to sit up

“No,” you choked out.

This wasn’t new. While you shook your head, Joel lifted a brow and stood from the bed. He reached behind him.

The night stand.

You closed your eyes.

“This isn’t…supposed to be for me.” you sighed.

In a second, Joel was back where he started, and you didn’t have to steal a glance through your lids to know what he was holding. Slotting himself gently into place.

“Don’t,” he started, sharp, “—say that. I mean it.”

You knew he meant it, but you also knew better than to accept at face value what he said, moving down on you.

This wasn’t part of the deal. Joel’s money was meant to serve his pleasure, not yours. Letting him take you any other way seemed to blur the lines between transaction and affection, and though you’d done this before, it still didn’t feel right. You couldn’t bear having his focus here.

Evidently, though, he could. He’d snatched your vibrator from the night table and lowered his torso to your legs, lips twitching the tiniest bit. ‘Open up. Let me see her.’

Joel was on his stomach, eyes glowing with intrigue.

“Let me see how much she’s missed me, baby.”

The grey matter in your brain might’ve trickled through your ears—the whole thing went to mush at his words. You pushed at his hands, then the top of his head, but clearly, your will was weak. You wanted this. Needed it.

“That’s a good girl. Let daddy have it,” Joel drawled.

You wanted to cry. Or maybe hide. His index and middle fingers prodded at your folds, pulling them apart, and for a moment, you could’ve sworn you’d stopped breathing. Joel kissed the slope of your mound with a quiet kind of reverence. The salt-and-pepper stubble on his chin brushed your clit, and your back arched reflexively. Then, remembering why you’d come to this arrangement in the first place, you felt a wave of guilt supplant that pleasure.

You clawed at his head and shook your own, weakly.

“No. W-wanna make you feel good,” you choked out.

Not me.

Not here.

Just let it—

“Fuck,” you keened through your teeth. Joel’s lips made contact with your slick, drooling cunt and, in a second, sucked your nub in between them. He flicked his tongue.

Joel groaned, then pulled away to meet your gaze.

“Feels plenty good f’me,” he assured you in a murmur. Eyes glossy, “She’s so fuckin’ sweet, honey. So pretty.”

Then, as if to punctuate his point, he slid his tongue down the whole wet mess of your slit, and he moaned. He curled the muscle and invaded your sticky, sensitive, precious warm flesh with vigor and force—maybe a little desperation—and you whined at the feeling. Your toes curled tight. It was doubtlessly a sight to see: Joel’s old and weathered head against your young and supple skin, the wiry greys of his chin rubbing your cunt like no man’s his age should’ve been. He took you gently. Forked his fingers over your folds to hold you open for him and then, over and over and over again, just licking stripes. Squelching noises only seemed to goad him on while he buried his nose and savored your taste without reserve. Your stomach clenched with that pleasure, then swelled.

“That’s my girl—so good for me,” Joel said, as though reminding you, gently, it was okay to relish the feeling.

Once more, he suckled your clit in his mouth, rubbing the tip of his tongue in a quick back-and-forth motion, and the next sensation hit without a breath of warning.

Your belly twisted again, then flushed with hot pleasure.

“My— fuck,” you cried, shuddering with a climax you didn’t know was coming. You held his head and whined.

Joel’s tongue didn’t stop. Your vision blurred. Whatever reprieve you might’ve hoped to find came in the form of his lips drawing back, momentarily, only to sponge little kisses on your still-pulsing heat. Your body jolted back.

“I c— I’m done. I’m done,” you blurted out.

Joel nodded against you. Humming through his kisses:

“I know. Keep going.”

Keep going.

So simple.

Still, you couldn’t breathe. Your sight was inundated with stars. You felt Joel’s stubble on your slit again, only this time, the pleasure was tripled. Your legs trembled, and your hands made fists in his hair. Joel kept on kissing.

And kissed again, again, and again, until your fingers in his locks pulled taut to the roots and your hips were bucking up in his face: ‘Too much, t—oh fuckfuckfuck.’

Then came a buzz. Skirting your legs in a blink, before diving to meet Joel’s mouth on your clit. You shrieked.

“I know, I know,” Joel joined, as though soothing a wound while he maneuvered the vibrator. Lifting his head and then kissing your thigh, “I know. You’re alright.”

You wanted to sob; you felt ready to burst. You trusted Joel’s judgment but had never been subjected to this sort of pleasure. What if it was more than you could take?

“I’m here.”

Joel’s words were slow to crawl off his tongue, but their intent was clear. You writhed once more, and he was kissing your skin, rubbing your thighs, and taking the toy to your clit with a warm, devoted touch. He wasn’t cruel.

He had a glint in his gaze when you met it, like he knew you wouldn’t accept this feeling alone—but he wanted you to. He wanted the indulgence to be your own and an end in itself. There was care in his touch, tender praise with every caress, and you guessed this was intentional. Joel needed you to know this was more than only his.

You felt more naked than you’d ever been: soaking the sheets with your last release, fresh arousal trickling out, Joel’s spit mixing with your nectar and sweat and pressing you down in the bed. And nudging you, gently.

“‘S’okay, baby. You’re alright. That feels nice, doesn’t i—”

“Kiss me.”

It came out faster than you could even try and stop it. You weren’t sure why you said it. The words were acerbic on your tongue—you hated ever sounding needy—but then your mind and your mouth and your worries were all silenced at once when Joel came clambering up for you.

His lips were wet and grinning as he kissed you. He held the vibrator hostage between your legs while his body pressed tight against yours. His movements slowed.

Then, as if he’d crawled in your head and read your mind:

“It’s okay to need me, baby. It’s okay to want this.”

His hips made that assurance even clearer. Joel reached down and took the vibrator again, increasing the friction between your groin and his while he pressed the buzzing toy to your clit. You whined into his mouth at the feeling.

Your eyes rolled back, and the pleasure soared. This morning, you might’ve bristled at the words he’d just spoken, but here, in this bed, it felt okay. It felt safe.

Joel felt safe, for once, and you weren’t sure how to keep that idea from sticking—how to reconcile the notion of swapping sex for cash with a man for months on end, and then this. Your stomach churned. He held your face and kissed you more, and your clit throbbed and ached. Before you could ponder your thoughts a second longer, a white-hot pleasure washed over, and you came again.

“Good girl,” Joel cooed.

Throbbing even more this time.

“That’s a sweet girl. That’s my baby.”

All but aching with desire. Feeling it double.

“Cum for daddy, that’s it. Keep going.”

Feeling it trickle down your legs.

“She’s feelin’ real good, huh?”

You could barely breathe.

You whined. Felt something splinter between your thighs and then more of it, more of you and that slick, oozing pleasure and Joel’s groans, overjoyed—‘Making a fucking mess’a daddy, isn’t she? She feel that good?’—and by ‘that good’ you guessed it was more than normal.

This was more warmth than usual. Somewhere in the midst of your own mind-numbing pleasure, you’d let out a spurt, sticky and wet. It now coated the hairs on Joel’s tummy, and while his skin shone, his eyes were brighter. He flitted a look to you, gaze flaring, and slid down. Low.

Back to where he was before. Moving the buzzing pink bullet aside and letting his mouth assume its place.

Of course, you yelped.

“Joel!”

You winced, both from saying his name and feeling so raw. Joel grinned at the sound and suckled your clit.

It was drenched. You and Joel, too, were doused all over and practically gleaming under the rays of late afternoon sun then pouring through the window. For a second, you cast a look outside like you had before, but it was only to brace your body for the bliss at hand. You stared and felt a crude, carnal shockwave seize you head to toe. It traveled fast and made you release, again, or else just continue the same flow as before—and this time, into Joel’s waiting mouth. He lapped at you feverishly now.

He squeezed your legs and licked you dry. He worked in merciless circles, like his life might have depended on making you stay at this peak. All the while, you were tearing at his hair. Riding his face as your body fell apart.

That was alright. This pleasure was yours for now, but there was still time yet to make it worth his while, you reasoned in a half-intoxicated state. Your legs vibrated as you started to crawl—limp—back up in the bed and, numb with elation and a desperate need to please, you stretched your arm toward the night stand. You huffed.

You reached blindly but got it. The box. Weak fingers found the first plastic strip and tore yourself a square. Then, lifting it to Joel, you ignored the last stabs of pleasure between your legs. This was fun, but still his.

“Go on,” you told him, breathless, “Fuck me.”

Joel quirked a brow. He took the condom, still panting himself. He brought the latex to his tip out of habit, then:

“Yeah? Are you sure?”

“Uh-huh.”

Your head was swimming. Somewhere entrenched in the furthest recesses of your brain you could feel it, that dizzying, self-centered pleasure. You pushed it back.

You suffocated it, and you spread your legs wide for him. You let him lay you down and tug the rubber over his cock, then nudge at your hips to situate himself in just the right way. How he liked it. He seemed to be content, and your heart swelled. In this airy, buoyant state, you felt more at ease to speak, sure that he’d understand.

“This should cover some of it, right?” you panted out.

Joel slowed.

“What?”

You sucked your bottom lip between your teeth, eager to keep going. But you steeled yourself, just barely, then.

“Sex. Now,” you said, “It’ll cover some of my car repairs.”

Instead of nodding like you’d expected, Joel only blinked. Then you opened your mouth to speak again, and his body stopped you cold. He planted a hand beside your head on the pillow and raised his hips; you felt his heat leave with it. You reached for his backside immediately, to try and pull him back into that pre-missionary position he’d held, when Joel brushed you off. His face was hard.

“Money?” he quipped.

“Yeah,” you started, then remembered how you talked outside of the bedroom, when he seemed more serious, “We’ll go again. All week. You can even put it in my—”

Joel balked, like you’d just slapped him across the face.

“No,” he said, sharp.

“No,” he repeated, more to himself this second time. Almost as though he couldn’t believe what you were suggesting—and making him guilty by association.

Joel clenched your pillow like a vice and shook his head.

“You’re not getting paid for this,” he finished, and when your gaze penetrated his, confused, he squeezed harder.

“Thought you wanted it.” Joel added, almost shamefully.

“I do! I do…I just—” you sputtered.

“What? Think you need to offer up a week and a half of fucking to make it worth my time? Is that what this is?”

Well, in a way, maybe.

You weren’t sure what to say. Former dizzying bliss was dwindling fast, and now you were facing him cold. Sober.

Increasingly irritated, again.

“I just need money, Mr. Miller—”

“It’s Joel, hon,” he bit back, for the fourth time that day. His eyes flared with something more, maybe annoyance, but then he was tempering it just as fast. He ran a hand through his damp grey hair and shook his head, pausing, “It’s Joel. I know you need the money, baby, but it’s—”

“It’s what we agreed,” you protested, “What I need—”

“Well it’s not what I want!” Joel barked.

Anger surged again, and this time, evidently, the feeling was harder to keep at bay. He was scarcely able to rein in his features, settling on a grave little scowl instead of a frown, and he sucked in shorter, shallower breaths through his nose. You felt him let your pillow go.

“Forget it—the cash.” Joel grit his teeth even tighter, “Forget these payments and the goddamn allowance I’ve had you on. I can’t do that anymore. It’s not right.”

Your heart sank.

You didn’t know what to say.

Luckily, Joel’s voice resumed on its own.

“Whatever you want, whatever you need, sweetheart…”

He stopped. Silence followed, then stretched on for one full, terrible minute. In that interim, you could see his chest rise and fall fast. He was trying to slow it down.

“Whatever you need paid off, I’ll do it. Anything. You don’t have to touch me again. It was wrong of me to allow that in the first place,” he rejoined, tone cooling.

Sounding guilty, too.

Above you, Joel didn’t seem keen on holding your gaze, so he fixed his stare someplace on the headboard instead. Then he moved off your body, slowly.

In spite of the distance he attempted to give, he was still crowding your space. Looming large and bare and weary as you’d ever seen him, knees shuffling back awkwardly through a mass of cotton sheets while his eyes shifted low. Away. The rest of him filled your lungs with a heady cologne scent and your stomach with a thousand tiny blades—you were hurt that he wasn’t sticking to his end of the bargain. You were mad that he was trying to claim the moral high ground now, after everything you’d done.

Mostly, though, you were just upset that you felt like you were losing someone close. That Joel Miller was more of a confidant, friend, and father figure than your own dad had ever been, and that got all fucked up over money. Your lips pursed, and something stung behind your eyes when you reached for him again. Your throat stung, too.

“The reason I agreed to do this,” Joel went on, and the ache in your head worsened when he winced from your touch, “was ‘cause I didn’t want you getting ‘help’ from anyone else. I was selfish. And that’s not an excuse…”

He started to move off, hand dropping from yours.

“…but it’s the truth. I’m sorry.”

At length, Joel found your gaze, and the eyes said it all over again: I’m sorry. You might’ve believed them, too.

But you were you, and you couldn’t help but press:

“Why?”

Your voice was small. Joel was trying to stand from the bed, but you grabbed at his hand again and made him meet your eyes. Confusion was painted across his own.

Kneeling in front of him, curious, you tried to clarify.

“Why’d it have to be you?”

Judging from Joel’s expression as soon as you did, you got the sense that this question made him feel dumb. He frowned, but he held your stare and answered anyway.

“Because I wanted you first,” he replied, “Before all this.”

Your stomach twisted. He did?

You didn’t need to ask twice to know what that meant. What he’d said, in words and with a look, was enough. Still, it was always in you to know more, to be sure, so you crept a little closer. You let your hands roam up and—

“No,” Joel said, as soon as your fingers reached his side.

You’d just wanted to feel him, maybe prod him further on what he’d just said through acts that didn’t require verbal articulation, but he refused. He backed up in bed.

“This isn’t about—” he started, low.

“Sex. I know,” you answered for him. Then your touch grazed his thigh, and you were dying to have more. To be told in a way you both knew and understood. To touch, “You want me to believe you really…liked me before?”

“More than you know.”

There was that blunt, open pragmatism in the Joel you’d always known. Perhaps guided by natural inclinations, or else your hand on his leg, drawing higher. Moving closer.

Showing skepticism through your eyes and the hint of a playful, disbelieving smile starting to curl at your lips.

“When you met me?” you teased.

You’d known of Joel for years, and had met him a couple times as a teenager at various firm holiday functions. You probably hadn’t exchanged more than ten words altogether before starting law school a few years back.

“Hell no,” Joel answered, fast, “When you started work.”

His gaze was timid again. It was fixed on his thigh where you’d started to slide your index up the warm, muscled expanse of his skin, and though you could tell he was more than hesitant, you wanted to know. Wanted to feel.

It wasn’t so easy convincing a man you’d been working for—and fucking, largely without feeling—to pay bills that you wanted him here and now. But you needed to try.

That maybe, somewhere along the way, you’d come to want him, too. That cash wasn’t the only thing at stake.

You crawled between his legs, then straddled his hips.

Your lips smiling still as you did: “How much?”

Joel blinked back. Dazed.

“What do you m—”

“How much did you like me? When did it start?”

Joel sighed when your heat rubbed his. He tried grabbing ahold of your hips, when you glanced down and saw he’d already discarded the last condom. You couldn’t have that if you wanted to continue this talk.

You reached back and grabbed another.

“Darlin’,” Joel said, strained, “We shouldn’t…”

“Says who?”

You’d already worked the rubber halfway down his length when his heavy-lidded gaze locked with yours. You saw lust there, mixed with worry. Curiosity. You kept going.

“Says your dad, if he ever finds out what I’ve done to his little girl,” Joel replied, closing his eyes at the feeling.

You had the latex worked down to the base of him when you smiled. Felt him seize your hips, lids fluttering open to find you in their soft, glossy stare, and you felt better. Like clockwork, you went together and joined, at last. You felt Joel squeeze your backside and groan when you first sank down to take him whole. You shuddered, too.

But you tried to steady your voice as you spoke.

“Semantics, Miller,” you told him, only faltering a little, “Things you are ‘doing’ to his little girl. Not just ‘done.’”

There, you had a point. Surely your father would have had some choice words for his business partner and best friend if he knew how far Joel’s cock was currently stuffed inside your tight, wet cunt. It might even piss him off, if he weren’t too drunk to receive the news himself.

Joel blinked hard, signaling that he knew this too, and presently watched your body swallow all eight inches at once, after you’d raised yourself up to just the tip and sank back. Your ass fell to his groin with an obscene sort of squelch, and your walls involuntarily clenched. You both let out sounds of pleasure, and held on tighter.

Your hands on his chest for stability, while one of his own held your hip and the other fumbled around for your clit, gliding through the sheen of your arousal on his front. You rocked your hips and felt how much it really was—how you’d drenched his whole abdomen with your last release. You smiled at this and stared, pleased with the pretty, sticky display you’d laid bare all over Joel’s belly.

When Joel wasn’t watching you ride, he stared there too.

“Not so ‘little’ anymore,” he mused quietly. Then he looked up to find your eyes, seeing them as glazed as his, “And I ‘like’ you, hon. Present tense. Not just…‘liked.’”

Alright.

“How much?”

You wanted to say it with some confidence. Nonchalance. Then Joel’s cock nicked a particularly sensitive ridge inside your walls, and that thought was gone as quick as it had come. You gripped the flesh of his upper chest and rolled your hips harder. Let out your breaths in little fractured whimpers while you rode him more. Another sweet feeling twisted low in your gut.

With just a glimpse of that, Joel moved his hand from your heat up past your hips and waist, to squeeze one of your breasts. His fingers were wet. You could feel them, equal parts warmth and wanton yearning as the pads pinched your nipple and gave it a firm tug. He grunted.

Clearly, there was more to it than just the touching and feeling for him—Joel’s eyes drank in the sight of your skin as it glistened with the arousal he’d just smeared. He thumbed at the wet, stiff peak and swallowed. And, just as you were about to adjust the rhythm of your hips bouncing on him, his free hand joined the first and pulled you down. You cried feeling his cock wedge deep; your hands fell to either side of his body when he yanked your face down to his. He fucked up into you from underneath

You squealed, soft, “Joel!”

He kissed your open mouth. Made you lay flat overtop him while he fucked your dripping hole. You whimpered.

“Joel—” Again.

“I like you so much, sweetheart,” he said, in answer to your last question, lips close, “Does she like me too?”

As if to save him the trouble of a swift reply in words, your body told him instead. You squeezed around his cock, and with another desperate cry, bit his shoulder. He hammered your poor, aching pussy with a groan of his own, and he held your body down to his. Grinning.

Kissing the side of your head while he pounded away. Stroking your hair, “Is that a ‘yes’? She like her daddy?”

Drool was bound to slip out of your mouth any second. Your lips were locked in a permanent ‘o’ while he drilled from under you on the bed. Still, you managed to nod.

“Uh-huh—oh, fuck, fuck, da-ddy. Yes, daddy.”

You squeezed your eyes shut as another blistering wave seared your insides. Joel was relentless with his thrusts now, driving himself in and out without stopping or slowing. He must’ve known you were close. He was too, judging by the sounds of his grunts and hushed tone.

“Let daddy take care of her then, baby. All of her. OK?”

His words trickled through your ear as sweet as honey. His cock was less kind, but that was okay—you liked it.

You loved him here. Taking care of you. Her. Everything.

And, in this half-coherent state of fuckdrunk pleasure, you were tempted to give in to whatever he begged.

It would be so easy. Joel cradled your face in his hand, practically beaming with pride while he fucked you over and over, and your legs were spread, walls were stretched, eyes practically rolling back, and you felt more secure than you’d been in ages. Joel could care for you.

He rubbed his thumb over your cheek and hummed.

“Daddy’s got you,” he said, voice all warm assurance.

Nudging you closer and closer to your peak—and perhaps some other form of surrender. Release.

Submission?

Joel wouldn’t be so bad for that.

He could fuck you well and leave you content. Make you forget what it meant to be strapped for cash and saddled with guilt and worry over bills every month. Joel could provide, for now. His eyes said as much; his fingers threaded through your hair and rubbed your scalp. He cupped your face, all fifty-six years in his own looking as handsome as they’d ever been. He felt good. He felt safe.

You were hot. Your legs trembled and ached.

“Is that something you’d want?” he pressed.

And, still holding Joel’s gaze with a heavy-lidded, fucked out look of your own, you surprised yourself by nodding, slowly. Your body was spent, but the curve on your lips, then his, was sincere; Joel nodded back as he grinned.

“Yeah? You mean it, sweetheart?”

He flipped you both over and got on top, never breaking apart. You wound your legs around his back and let him cup your cheeks again, and from this angle, you felt it. You wouldn’t try and fight it now; you just kissed him.

Then you came for a third time, walls clenching and squeezing and gushing again, smearing Joel’s front as he fucked you right through it. His groans were a little more subdued than yours, but in their timbre, you could hear his desperation. He emptied himself inside you, in the condom, and kept holding your face all the while.

You felt a low pulse between your legs. Then another. And another. And another. Joel’s hips began to still, his hefty greying belly bumping lightly against your skin while he drained what was left in his balls, and you swore that his bones might’ve creaked from the sheer force of those final thrusts. He seemed exhausted. Somehow, though, the man looked even better in this state—haggard and worn as he was, the face above your own was soft. Smiling, faintly, and kissing you constantly.

You couldn’t pretend you didn’t enjoy it; you were far too tired and fucked out of your mind to protest right now.

Joel trailed a path with his lips from your chin to your ear. He kissed the hinge of your jaw and sank himself deeper.

“Mr.—” But you caught yourself, shortly, “…Joel.”

He lifted his head, not apologetic in the least.

“Maybe just one more—” he started.

“No,” you finished for him, sharp.

Still smiling, but with your eyes on him in a thinly veiled threat. Joel accepted that and kept his dick where it was.

What followed was gradual but natural enough. A little awkward as you broached that uncharted territory of remaining in the other’s presence after the deed was done, but Joel didn’t seem like he wanted to leave the bed, and you had nowhere else to go until dinner with your dad at eight. There was a moment you wanted to separate your body from Joel’s, if only to slip off to the bathroom by yourself, but the man just held you closer.

“You think your old man will mind if I joined tonight?”

Here the fuck we go.

“He’ll kill you.”

You pushed hard against his hold without getting so much as an inch of give. Joel had to fight back a chuckle.

“Oh, yeah? Why?”

“Because,” you began in a huff. Wriggling with very little success in his arms, while you were pinned in missionary, “I smell like you. You smell like me. My dad’s a drunk, but he can sniff stuff like that out in a heartbeat. Too risky.”

You punctuated those words with a still more serious look, but before you could nudge at his chest again or say something more, you were forced to swallow a scream. Joel’s grip tightened even more, and he moved to stand up from the bed—with you still in his arms and impaled on his cock. He started to walk to the bathroom.

“Great. Shower’s got plenty of room for the two of us.”

“Joel!”

“Glad I don’t have to keep reminding you of my name.”

His voice was smug. Your gaze was hard. Joel was still hard himself, amazingly, and you almost groaned when you felt the head of his cock bump somewhere soft and sensitive inside. He toted you into the big, bright room.

“If not tonight, how ‘bout tomorrow? Just you and me.”

He would never stop this shit. He reached for the faucet.

“Still too dangerous. You know that,” you chided. Your resolve only wavered a little when you felt the hot water start to pelt at your back. Joel closed the glass door, “Besides…I need to focus on figuring my shit out right now. Work and bills and getting myself a rental car soon.”

Joel paused. He turned, still holding you.

Then, just as swiftly as he’d stepped inside, he carried you right back out of the shower. You whined in protest.

He took you over to the bed and set you down. He left to find his wallet and keys. You might’ve been tempted to voice your displeasure in some other way—namely, by marching back to the bathroom, locking the door, and bathing alone—but before you could speak a word, Joel was back. He looked down at you and held out his fist.

“What’s—”

“Your dad and me’ll be up to our eyeballs in bullshit working the Garcia audit tomorrow—and I know you don’t want him seeing us leave together anywhere—so we can meet at Bohanan’s at six. How does that sound?”

You blinked.

“I don’t…have a car.”

Joel opened his hand. Keys dropped out.

In a single glance, you could see they weren’t his.

Joel drove a garish Super Duty F-450, not an Audi. The cogs were quick to turn in your head, but clearly not fast enough, because Joel was closing your fingers over the keys before you could breathe so much as a syllable to him. When you did, it came out more like a stutter. Palpably mad but far too rattled to get much out:

“Joel, I-I can’t—”

“I’ve been meaning to buy one anyw—”

“You’re insane,” you started to push the keys back, and for some reason, your heart was thudding extra hard as you did. You went on, unblinking, “You don’t…need to.”

“I want to.”

Joel’s hands were warm when he pressed both of his palms to secure yours between them. He could probably feel the way it shook a little, but he didn’t seem to care. His gaze was too busy trying to find, and hold, your own while you swallowed and stared and racked your numb brain for any words of defiance. At length, nothing came.

All you could do was meet that look. In the soft brown irises above, you could see it all—the need to comfort, and care, and provide where he could, offer better than the hand you’d been dealt and maybe, interspersed with those feelings somewhere, a simpler need in him to give.

For once, you wanted to believe it.

Fun fact: This fic was inspired by true events‼️💯 My life 😫🤪😤😈 Like reader, my truck is also busted as SHIT and needs $2,700 in repairs!!!! Unlike reader, I will not be sucking and fucking Joel Miller to recoup my losses (not asking for donations, just wanted to give y’all a giggle at my misfortune LOL)

#ENOUGH BULLSHITTING WE NEED MORE GLUCOSE GUARDIAN JOEL ON THE TL NEOWWWWW #🫵🏼😐#i’m begging y’all to write more for this very particular and off-putting dynamic bc i love it dearly #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller imagine #joel miller one shot #joel miller tlou #the last of us fic

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suddenly-stickmin · 1 year ago

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I LOVE THESE PIECES SOOOOOOO MUUUCCHHH LEGIT HAVENT STOPPED THINKIN BOUT EM SINCE THE MOMENT YA SHARED EM RHRHRHHGHHG THANK YOU SO MUCH AGAIN RRAAAGHGHGGHHGGH

I made an art trade with @suddenly-stickmin and I made them THIS :D

I HOPE YOU LIKE YOUR TRIOOOO :D AND GIFT <3

#TUMBLR IS FINALLY WORKING PROPERLY FOR ME AGAIINNNNN #I CAN REBLOG THESE AWESOME PIECES #THEIR STACKED UP POSE. THE WAY RUPERT'S GUN IS POINTING RIGHT AT DAVE THATS MY FAAVVVORRRITTEEE #ALL THEIR EXPRESSIONS ARE SOOO PERFECT TOOO AUGHUHGU #JOHNNY N DAVE'S LITTLE FACES IN THE SECOND PIECE WHILE RUPERT'S BEGGING #let my mans rupert carry his gun... please johnyny....#the charles and burt too sob sob i love their expressions as well

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regressionschool · 2 months ago

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Trigger [an ABDL Hypnosis Story]

The café was comfortably lively, a gentle hum of voices and the occasional clink of silverware against ceramic filling the space. Sunlight streamed through wide windows, glinting off the water glasses, and the air smelled of fresh coffee and warm pastries.

Molly sat across from Dave, stirring cream into her coffee with small, absentminded motions. She had barely touched her croissant, only nibbling at the edges while her thoughts drifted. Dave, on the other hand, was cutting into a stack of pancakes with practiced ease, unfazed by the conversation unfolding between them.

“I just can’t wrap my head around it,” Molly said, shaking her head slightly. “Like—Emma just… lets it happen?”

Dave chewed, swallowed, and lifted his coffee cup. “It’s not really ‘letting,’ though, is it? It’s what she wants.”

Molly made a noise, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff. “Does she? Or is it just what he wants?”

Dave arched a brow but didn’t respond immediately. He took another bite, letting the syrup soak into the pancakes before cutting another neat square. “She seems happy. I mean, she always said she wanted something different, right?”

Molly’s fingers tightened around her cup. “Different isn’t the same as being put back into—into toddlerhood. That’s not just a ‘different lifestyle,’ Dave. It’s… regressive.”

He shrugged. “And?”

“And—” Molly exhaled sharply, setting her spoon down a little too hard. “And I just don’t get how she could want that. Like, really want it. No responsibility? No autonomy? Just being put in—” she stopped, shaking her head. “It freaks me out.”

Dave took a sip of coffee, watching her over the rim of his mug. He didn’t argue, didn’t tell her she was overreacting. That wasn’t his way. Instead, he let the silence sit between them for a beat before saying, “I think it freaks you out because you can’t imagine wanting it. But that doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”

Molly frowned. “I didn’t say it was wrong. I said it was scary.”

Dave tilted his head slightly. “Same thing, in a way.”

Molly opened her mouth, then shut it again, glaring at her croissant like it had personally offended her. She didn’t like that—when Dave did that thing where he made a point without actually making one. It left her feeling unsteady, like she had to defend herself when she wasn’t even sure what she was defending.

She pushed her plate away slightly, leaning back in her chair. “I just keep thinking about it. Like, if that can happen to Emma, could it happen to anyone? What’s the… trigger?”

Dave chuckled, shaking his head. “Molly, you say that like it’s a virus or something.”

“Well, isn’t it?” she shot back. “One day, she was just our friend Emma, and now she’s…” She trailed off, searching for the right words. “She’s in nappies, Dave. Full-time. And not just that, but he makes the choices now. What she eats, what she wears, when she sleeps.”

Dave tapped his fork against his plate thoughtfully. “She let him.”

“That’s what scares me,” Molly admitted. Her voice was quieter now, but no less intense. “That she let him. And she’s fine with it. More than fine. She’s… content.”

“Would it be different if she wasn’t?”

Molly blinked. “What?”

“If she was miserable,” Dave said. “If she hated it. Would you feel better?”

She scowled. “That’s not the point.”

“I think it might be,” he said, and for the first time, there was something pointed in his tone. “If she hated it, you could see it as something being done to her. But she doesn’t. So instead, you have to deal with the fact that she chose it. And that makes you uncomfortable.”

Molly crossed her arms, looking away. “It should make you uncomfortable too.”

Dave sighed and set his fork down. “I don’t know, Mol. Maybe I just don’t care as much as you do. It’s weird, yeah. But people do weird things all the time. If it makes her happy, why should it matter?”

Molly shook her head, staring out the window. Outside, people walked by with shopping bags, strollers, coffee cups in hand. Just… normal people. People who weren’t Emma.

She could almost see her in her mind—Emma, giggling, dressed in something soft and pastel, clutching a stuffed animal. Not a woman anymore. Not in the way she used to be.

Dave studied Molly for a long moment, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his coffee cup. The tension in her shoulders, the hard set of her jaw—it was all so familiar. The same reaction he’d seen before, whenever Emma came up in conversation.

He sighed. “You know, it’s funny.”

Molly frowned. “What is?”

He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping just a fraction. “You keep talking like you don’t understand. But I think, deep down, you do.”

She scoffed, opening her mouth to retort, but Dave cut her off with a single phrase, low and deliberate:

“Little minds don’t worry.”

Molly’s breath caught. For a second, nothing happened—just a flicker in her expression, a slight widening of her eyes. Then, like a ripple spreading across the surface of a pond, something shifted.

Her lips parted, her brow furrowing in confusion. Her fingers, which had been tense around her coffee cup, suddenly slackened, as if the very concept of holding it had become too complex. She blinked rapidly, her gaze unfocused.

“Wh—” Her voice came out small, uncertain. She shook her head, strands of hair falling into her face. “Whazza…?”

Dave sat back, watching as it unfolded.

Molly’s posture sagged, her body language morphing from sharp and guarded to something looser, more instinctual. The weight of her own thoughts—thoughts that had moments ago felt so heavy, so complicated—seemed to vanish.

Her expression flickered through confusion, then something closer to frustration. “S’fuzzy,” she mumbled, bringing her hands up to rub at her temples. “Don’—I don’ get… um…”

Her tongue tripped over her own words. Concepts unraveled like loose threads, slipping through her grasp. Even the sentence she’d just started—what was it supposed to be? What was she even trying to say?

Her eyes darted to Dave, wide and almost pleading.

“Davey,” she whimpered.

He hummed. “Yeah, Mols?”

“F’eels weird,” she murmured, shifting in her seat. “Dunno—s’diff’ent. Ev’rything all… ‘spicy’.”

Dave tilted his head, amused. “Spicy?”

Molly pouted, frustrated by the word she couldn’t quite find. “Mmmm, not spicy, but—y’know! All wiggly ‘n’ tingly ‘n’ funny.”

As if on cue, she let out a sharp gasp, her hands darting down to her lap. A slow warmth spread beneath her, soaking into the fabric of her jeans, pooling against the seat.

Molly let out a breathy little whimper as the last remnants of adult thought crumbled. “Uh-oh…”

A dark patch spread beneath her, creeping outward, the undeniable hiss of her accident filling the air.

Dave chuckled, reaching over to ruffle her hair. “That’s okay, kiddo,” he said lightly. “Little girls don’t worry ‘bout things like that, remember?”

Molly blinked up at him, her bottom lip wobbling, the lingering ghost of something wrong flickering across her features before fading into soft, placid contentment.

She wasn’t an adult anymore.

She wasn’t supposed to worry.

She didn’t worry.

Dave sighed, shaking his head with a good-natured chuckle as he glanced toward the café staff. A few nearby patrons had already started whispering, their eyes darting toward the growing puddle beneath Molly’s chair. He caught the eye of a barista, offering an apologetic smile.

"Sorry about this," he said smoothly, his tone warm but firm, the way a responsible caretaker would explain a toddler's accident. "She’s still getting the hang of things."

The barista, a young woman with tired eyes and a sympathetic expression, only nodded. "Don’t worry about it," she murmured, though her gaze flicked toward Molly, who was now squirming in her seat, fascinated by the way the damp fabric clung to her legs.

Dave turned his attention back to her, brushing a few stray strands of hair from her face. "Alright, Mols," he said gently, slipping into the comforting role she now expected of him. "Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?"

Molly only giggled, tilting her head up at him with big, unfocused eyes. "Mmmkay, Daddy," she lilted, the title slipping past her lips effortlessly, as if it had always been that way.

Dave’s lips curled into a knowing smirk, but he didn't linger on it. Instead, he rose, moving around the table and helping Molly up. Her legs wobbled slightly, unsteady now that her adult coordination had slipped away.

As she stood, the full extent of her accident became clear. Her jeans were soaked, clinging to her thighs, the damp material darkened almost entirely down to her ankles. She looked down, blinking slowly at the mess, but there was no shame in her expression—only mild curiosity.

She poked a tiny finger against the wet denim. "Squishy," she declared with a giggle.

Dave grinned, ruffling her hair. "Yeah, kiddo. And that’s why we wear proper protection, huh?"

Molly giggled again, her gaze unfocused and dreamy. "Mmhmm!"

Dave led her toward the back of the café, past the staff-only sign. No one stopped them. Maybe it was the way he carried himself, so confident, so sure of his authority over her. Maybe it was the way Molly so clearly wasn’t in charge of herself anymore, her small hand tucked securely into his, her posture loose and trusting.

Inside the staff restroom, a sight that would have mortified Molly just minutes ago now greeted her without a flicker of concern—

An adult-sized changing table.

Dave patted the cushioned surface. "Up you go, kiddo."

Molly obediently reached her arms up, letting him lift her onto the table without a second thought. She kicked her legs idly, her soaked jeans sticking to her skin, a little pout forming on her lips.

"Wan’ dry," she mumbled.

Dave chuckled. "That’s the plan, sweetheart."

With practiced ease, he peeled away her jeans, the damp fabric clinging for a moment before slipping free. He balled them up and set them aside, then made quick work of her sodden panties. Molly didn’t react, other than giggling as the cool air hit her bare skin.

She squirmed as he wiped her down with a warm cloth, but it wasn’t from discomfort—it was the way a toddler would squirm from tickles rather than modesty.

Then, he pulled out the final piece.

A puffy, pastel-colored Pampers—one big enough for her, decorated in soft patterns that made it impossible to mistake for anything grown-up.

Molly’s eyes widened, but not with the resistance she might have once had. No, this time, it was delight.

"Ooooooh!" she cooed, her fingers twitching eagerly.

Dave smirked. "Like it, baby?"

Molly nodded enthusiastically, reaching out to poke at the plastic shell as he unfolded it. "Is crinkly!" she giggled.

He lifted her legs effortlessly, sliding the padding beneath her before securing the tapes snugly at her waist. The thick bulk forced her legs apart slightly, and when he patted the front, she let out a soft, happy hum, wiggling against the plush comfort.

"There we go," Dave murmured, smoothing her shirt down over the top of her new, much more appropriate underwear. "All fresh."

Molly beamed up at him, wiggling her toes as she enthusiastically poked at the front of her new padding, fascinated by the way it crinkled under her touch.

"Dis is way better!" she declared, giggling as she gave the front a few experimental pats.

Dave laughed. "I thought you’d see it that way, princess."

Then, he picked up her jeans, inspecting the soaked fabric with a smirk. "Well, kiddo, looks like you’ll have to go without these for a bit."

Molly didn’t even blink.

If anything, she giggled, swinging her bare legs with delight.

The Molly from before—the one who had argued, who had frowned and questioned—was nowhere to be found.

She was just Mols now. A little girl in nothing but a crinkly diaper and her soft shirt, giggling as she prodded at the thick bulk between her legs.

#ab/dl diaper #diaper stories #ab/dl stories #regression school #ab/dl girl #wetting diaper #diaper bulge #ab/dl #diaper hypnosis #hypnok1nk #hypnosis

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ticifics · 6 months ago

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All I've Ever Want

Dave Lizewski x fem!reader

Summary: Dave and you finally give in to your bottled-up feelings

Warning: a lot of kisses, sexual tension, suggestive situations, a little smut, no use of y/n

It was late, the veil of night already draping over the sky, and for a moment, you completely forgot where you were. That was until you felt a puff of warm air tickling the back of your neck. The realization of your surroundings made your cheeks flush crimson.

You remained still, analyzing the familiar interior of the room. The only source of light was the television, long forgotten, where the DVD logo lazily bounced around the screen, barely illuminating the lilac walls of the attic. To your right was an empty pizza box and soda cans, along with a stack of books and your precious pom-pom pens. The bedroom door was shut, but even so, you wondered if Mr. Lizewski had seen you with Dave on the bed.

Well, it wouldn’t be the first time, but it was no less embarrassing.

When you and your aunt moved into the house across the street, it was only a matter of time before you befriended Dave, your adorable and kind neighbor. You remembered the day you met him: Dave was all dark curls and bright blue eyes, smiling shyly beside his mother. While the adults droned on about boring things, you two hit it off, animatedly debating who was the strongest superhero in DC. After that, you became inseparable. His house became an extension of your own, and there were countless times your aunt had to carry you, half-asleep, back across the street to your bed.

Dave was as familiar as the back of your hand. For the longest time, you considered him the highlight of your days. He always knew the perfect jokes to draw out your smiles, and he was so kind, incredibly kind—though a bit of an idiot sometimes, but what could you expect from boys?

He had held you after an especially low physics grade, rubbing your back while you could do nothing but sob uncontrollably, whispering that no one cared about Torricelli and his damn equations. He kept you wrapped in his arms until you calmed down, tracing soothing circles on your back and brushing his lips affectionately against your forehead.

It was during that time you realized he wasn’t just a lanky teenager anymore. There were muscles under those clothes—and he had grown taller, with broader shoulders.

Your perception of him shifted. And before you knew it, your heart would nearly leap out of your chest whenever he got closer. Suddenly, you became very aware of him.

Damn hormones.

Of course, you refused to admit your feelings for a while. Dave was your friend and nothing more. But with every brush of his fingers, every lingering touch of his hands on you, and every conspiratorial smile, the butterflies in your stomach spun furiously.

Fuck.

You were in love.

Not that you ever confessed your erratic feelings. Absolutely not. Your friendship with Dave was too important to risk ruining it with sappy confessions. So you buried any romantic thoughts about him deep in your mind and pretended everything was normal.

Most days it was easy. With Marty and Todd acting as buffers, it was easy to forget the closeness with Dave. Even when your shoulders were pressed together in the comic book store booth and all you could think about was his scent filling your lungs. And when you stood on your tiptoes to whisper something in his ear, you certainly didn't daydream about being so close that your lips were mere millimeters from his skin. And no, you didn’t waste your precious time admiring his hands. God, you were a loser.

Your crush on Dave was in the past.

That was the lie you told yourself every day. Hoping one day it would become true.

Earlier, you had planned an afternoon of studying, a chemistry test was scheduled for next Thursday and it would be good to review organic functions. However, you and Dave quickly forgot about any problems involving ketones or methyls, snuggling on his bed with greasy slices of pizza. You had brought the Dirty Dancing CD in your bag and convinced him—forced him—to watch the movie. But apparently, you had both fallen asleep while Baby was taking her private dance lessons.

You blinked a few times, spotting the digital clock by the bed. The red numbers glowed; it was already 9:13 PM. Damn. You should be home.

Slowly, you tried to get up, only for his arms to tighten around you, holding you against his chest. Your body tensed as you realized where his hands were; the left rested on the soft curve of your waist, the right... — you swallowed —, the right hand was near your chest. Though his fingers weren’t curled around your breasts, their presence in the area was undeniable; firm and warm.

“Dave?” you whispered weakly, noticing from his lack of response that he was still deeply asleep.

With a shaky sigh, you thought about the situation you were in. It wasn’t the first time you had shared a bed or slept together; that had become a habit years ago when you were nothing more than kids addicted to movies. But now things were different. Dave was no longer a little boy. With him behind you, his body pressed perfectly against yours, it was impossible to stop your mind from wandering down sinful paths. You could feel his chest rising and falling with each slow breath, as well as his long legs tangled with yours.

It was fine, it meant absolutely nothing. All you needed to do was slide out of bed and run back home.

As you tried to move again, Dave held you tighter in his iron grip, making you gasp in surprise. When had he become so strong? You hadn’t managed to move an inch!

You shrank as he pressed his nose against your neck, inhaling deeply, sending shivers down your spine. “Dave…?” you tried again, your voice slightly firmer. “I need to…”

“Stay.” He interrupted you, his voice sleepy and raspy. So close that the blend of syllables and consonants vibrated against your skin.

When had he woken up? The realization that he was holding you of his own volition, so close to him, sent unwanted butterflies to your stomach. For a foolish moment, you wondered what would happen if your feelings were reciprocated, but you quickly pushed those thoughts away.

You turned your head, catching a glimpse of his face. The curls fell over his face, giving him an angelic look, and the closed eyelids kept you from seeing those bright irises. A relaxed, even satisfied, expression crossed his sleepy face. His soft, pink lips were slightly parted. Painfully beautiful. The sight made an involuntary smile spread across your face.

“I need to go home,” you whispered, the words shaped by a smile.

“Why?” He didn’t open his eyes, his voice still sleepy enough for you to question whether he was truly awake or caught between consciousness and the land of dreams.

“It’s late and…” With furrowed brows, you asked, “Dave, are you awake?”

“Yes—I mean, no. What difference does it make? Just stay a little longer, I can take you home after.”

Even though you lived, quite literally, across the street, Dave insisted on walking you to your front door every time. No exceptions, it was sweet. He’d cross the street with his arm around your shoulders or holding your hand casually, and then say goodbye with an adorable smile.

But you had to go home. Put some healthy distance between you and bury any depraved thoughts about him deep in your mind. And take an especially cold shower.

“I’ve stayed too long, I need to go. So be a good boy and let me go.” When he made no effort to release you, you huffed impatiently, twisting in an attempt to break free from his grip.

“It’s not enough.” He murmured, holding you so tightly that your ribs complained. You hated that a small part of you loved this little show of strength. That was it, you had serious problems.

“Dave!” You grunted, without success.

Out of breath, you sucked in air between your teeth. You could have kicked him, but his frayed nerves would hardly let him feel pain. The only alternative was to keep fighting for your freedom, and that’s what you did. Grabbing his forearms in an attempt to force him to loosen his hold, you lifted your legs off the bed and twisted desperately.

A squeak escaped your lips as he huffed in annoyance, his large hands easily spinning you on the bed, as if you were a damn rag doll, pushing your back into the mattress and quickly collapsing over your body. Trapping you definitively between his arms and legs. The bed frame creaked under the force of the impact. “Quiet.” He said, the word seeming to scrape his throat.

You froze for a moment, assessing the compromising position you were in. With Dave on top of you, between your legs, his weight fully pressing down on you, making it difficult to breathe. You wondered if he could feel your heart pounding furiously against his chest. With his head pressed against your chest, his curls tickled your chin, and they smelled so good… You quickly pushed that thought away. Your face burned with embarrassment, feeling warm breaths brushing against the sensitive skin of your neck.

Grabbing his broad shoulders, you tried to push away, taking in air noisily. As with the other times, it was pointless. “D-Dave! I can’t breathe!”

His laugh irritated you, but when he lifted his head and looked at you with those big, bright eyes, you knew it was pointless to try to seem annoyed. “So dramatic.” He teased, though you suspected a slight blush stained his cheeks. Dave might have been acting tough now, but he was still shy and—sometimes—awkward.

You took a theatrical breath, hands still on his shoulders, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath his shirt. “You’re heavy, you idiot!” You scolded, false irritation coloring your words.

He flinched, looking embarrassed for a few seconds. The dim light from the TV cast shadows across his face, only highlighting the edges of his features. “I wouldn’t have done that if you were a good girl and stayed quiet.”

The indulgent choice of his words made your cheeks burn. It was far too easy to imagine them in a different context, amid sighs and moans of pleasure. Damn. What was your fucking problem?

Embarrassed, you bit your lip between your teeth. “I-I... hm, I n-need to go.” You repeated, unable to meet his gaze.

“Why?” He questioned again, his voice an octave lower. His blue eyes scanned your face, daring not to move a single millimeter.

It was hard to think clearly and rationally with him so close, deliciously pressed against you. But you made an effort, looking up at the ceiling in an attempt to clear your mind.

“Dave!” You laughed, shifting uncomfortably, trying to find a better position for your legs. “We’re past that phase, you know I need to go home.”

You wondered if he could hear the frenzy of your heart pounding against your ribcage. His face was absurdly close to yours. The heat radiated from his body, and his eyes—oh, God, he was looking at you now, so intensely it felt like he could see even the thoughts you hid.

“You can’t stay still, can you?” Dave murmured, his voice a mix of drowsy and husky, with a hint of humor, although his eyes carried something more—something that made the air in the room feel heavier.

You tried to laugh to break the tension, but the sound died before it could escape. He didn’t move, not even blinking, as if he were memorizing every detail of you in that moment: eyes slightly wide, the lower lip caught between your teeth, the blush coloring your cheeks treacherously.

“Dave…” Your voice came out low, almost a plea. You didn’t know exactly what you were asking for, but you needed to say something to fill the silence that only seemed to make the space between you grow.

“I just…” He quickly looked away, but his eyes returned to you almost instantly, this time focusing on your lips. The movement was so subtle you barely noticed, but your stomach flipped with the realization. He blinked, as if he had just noticed what he was doing, and the tips of his ears turned as red as the reflection of the digital clock. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to... crush you.” He tried to laugh, but the sound also seemed muffled.

“It’s okay.” You managed to say, even with your uneven breathing and a million things running through your mind. But when he tried to move to get off you, your fingers—almost instinctively—grabbed the fabric of his shirt. “Wait.”

The request was spontaneous, as unexpected for you as it was for him. Dave stopped immediately, his eyes searching yours, confused and hesitant. “Wait?” He repeated, the word carrying a mix of hope and doubt.

Silence settled between you again, but this time it seemed to carry something tangible, almost electric. Your eyes fell, against your will, to his lips—and it was then you realized he was doing the same. The small smile he tried to hide with a nervous sigh only intensified the butterflies in your stomach.

“You’re driving me crazy,” he suddenly muttered, so low you almost thought you imagined it. His eyes widened slightly, and he immediately started to stutter. “I mean, not crazy-crazy, but... oh, damn, I never know what to say around you, and—”

“Dave.” Your voice, firm and soft, cut through his confusion. Your eyes met again, and this time, no one looked away. You felt something warm, burning slowly in your chest, as the intensity between you became almost unbearable.

He swallowed hard, the dark curls falling slightly over his forehead and his blue eyes shining with something that seemed to be a mix of doubt and courage. He looked like he was about to say something but hesitated, his gaze lost as if searching for the right words in the air between you.

“I…” He started, his voice hoarse and low, and stopped, furrowing his brow as if in an internal battle. You didn’t say anything, feeling the tension catch your breath. The weight of him on you, though light, brought an odd sense of comfort, as if the universe had decided that this was the only place you should be.

“I can’t take it anymore,” he finally confessed, his voice coming out in a whisper so full of emotion that you felt a shiver run down your spine. His eyes wandered over your face, lingering on the curve of your lips before returning to your eyes. “Being this close to you and, at the same time, so far... it hurts.”

Your heart raced. You wanted to respond, but the intensity in his eyes made the words stick in your throat. He took a deep breath, as if he needed all the courage in the world to continue.

“I don’t just want to hold your hand.” His voice broke, almost cracking, but he kept his eyes on yours. “I want you. All of you. Every part. Not as a friend, not as someone who smiles at me and pretends not to see how trapped I am by you. I can’t do this anymore.”

You felt your heart speed up even more, and a sudden wave of courage bubbled within you. The pain and passion in his eyes reflected your own feelings so perfectly that, for the first time, you didn’t want to hide anything.

“Dave,” you started, your voice a little hesitant, but soon found its strength. “I can’t take it anymore either... pretending that everything is fine, that I can just be your friend when all I want is...” Your voice faltered, but you found his eyes again, gaining strength as you saw hope rising in them. “All I want is you.”

His lips parted in surprise, and for a moment, it seemed like he was lost. Then, before you could say anything else, he took action. In one instant, you were finishing your confession, and in the next, his lips were on yours.

The impact of the kiss sent a shiver up your spine, as if every fiber of your being had awakened at once. His lips were even softer than you had imagined, a softness almost contradictory to the urgency with which he kissed you. His taste—warm, with a touch of sweetness mixed with pure desire—filled your palate, overwhelming your senses until you lost all sense of where you ended and he began.

Your breaths mingled, warm and ragged, as if you were both fighting for air but unable to pull away. His hands found your waist, fingers tightening with enough pressure to set your skin on fire, and you felt the weight of his body pressing even more firmly against yours. The pressure was delicious, every movement making your mind spin.

You couldn’t help it; your fingers moved on their own, finding the dark curls you had always loved. They were as soft as they seemed, and you wound them between your fingers, tugging them gently. The sigh he released against your mouth was like a spark in a fire, igniting something even more intense between you.

He deepened the kiss, and you gave yourself over completely, feeling every curve of his lips, the subtle but undeniable strength of his hands holding you tight. One of his hands slid down your waist until it found the curve of your hip, fingers pressing the soft flesh with a care that was both possessive and gentle. You felt his heat against your skin like a wave, and the weight of him against you was a physical reminder that he was there, all his, with you.

It was feverish, desperate, and absolutely perfect. Your hands, which had been shy before, now explored with more confidence. Your fingers traced invisible lines on his neck, while your other hand slid down his shoulder. Each touch seemed to draw a new sigh from him, and you loved the sound, loved knowing that you could make him feel that way.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathless, faces so close that your breaths still mingled. He looked at you with an intensity that made your heart race, eyes shining as if he were seeing something sacred.

“You... have no idea how long I’ve waited for this,” he whispered, his voice rough, heavy with emotion. His lips were red and slightly swollen, and the sight made you lose yourself for a moment before responding, with a shy smile.

“I think I do,” you whispered, running your fingers lightly through his messy curls. And, as he smiled, still panting, you knew, without a doubt, that you could never live without this again.

He didn’t say anything. He just leaned in again, without hesitation, without asking for permission. The kiss that followed was not gentle or restrained; it was fierce, almost to the point of pain, filled with an urgency that made your heart pound. He kissed you as if he were a starving man, as if the moments you had just shared were not enough, as if he wanted to consume you completely.

You loved it. The impact made you lose it completely, your thoughts disintegrating as his weight pinned you to the bed, feeling his chest crush your breasts. The intensity was overwhelming, and every movement of his lips against yours made you feel like you were on the verge of falling apart. It was almost unbelievable—to be here, in his bed, where you had spent so many afternoons playing, laughing, and discussing your favorite movies and comics. That familiar space, which had once felt safe and innocent, was now imbued with something entirely new, something devastating.

Your hands, trembling and bold, began to explore. Your fingers moved up the curve of his back, feeling every muscle contract under your touch. It was dizzying, discovering how he reacted, feeling the heat of his skin under his thin shirt, realizing that he was as vulnerable as you were at that moment.

His hands, in turn, slid down the side of your body, firm and full of purpose, until they found your leg, his fingers kneading the soft flesh. When he pulled it, positioning it around his waist, you felt a shiver run through your entire body. The surprise almost made you gasp, but the gesture did not scare you — on the contrary, it awakened something even more intense inside. He held you like you were precious, but the way his fingers squeezed your thigh said something else: that he wanted you in every way possible.

When your breath finally betrayed you, he broke the kiss, but didn’t pull away. His hot breath fanned your skin, and before you could say anything, his lips were on your jaw, trailing a slow, scorching path of wet kisses down your neck. His touch sent waves of heat through your body, and you writhed slightly beneath him, unable to contain yourself, liquid heat pooling between your legs.

“You’re so beautiful…” he murmured against your skin, his voice husky and full of emotion. Each word came between one kiss and another, his lips exploring with an almost adorable reverence. “I’ve wanted this for so long. I wanted you.”

You felt your heart tighten in your chest, a mix of emotions that seemed about to overflow. He stopped for a moment, just to look at you. His gaze was filled with something raw, sincere, and made you want to never leave the damn bed again.

“I love being the reason for your sighs,” he said softly, his fingers tracing a soft pattern on your skin, where he had mistreated it before. “I love seeing you like this… and knowing that, for the first time, I can say that you are mine.”

His words were like an echo of your own thoughts, and you could hardly believe that this was happening. There, in that moment, it was as if all the lost time had finally been recovered, as if every unconfessed desire had found its answer.

“Dave…” His name escaped your lips like a sigh, full of desire and emotion, before you pulled him back to you. The kiss that followed was just as devastating as the previous ones, but this time you were the one leading, the one setting the pace. Your fingers slid into his messy curls, holding them firmly as your lips met in a feverish, passionate clash. You heard a hoarse sound, almost a moan, escape him as his fingers tugged at your hair, which only served to further ignite the fire that burned inside you.

For a moment, you pulled away just enough to watch him. The blush on his cheeks spread across his face, his lips were red and swollen from so many kisses, shining under the soft light of the room. His hair, always a little messy, now seemed completely untamed, and you couldn’t help but smile a little at the thought that this was all your fault. He was beautiful, and the sight of him like that—vulnerable, surrendered, and yet filled with an almost raw intensity—made something inside you shiver.

You wrapped your other leg around him, holding him tighter against you, as if the world might suddenly intervene and tear you apart. The movement caused his weight to shift, pressing him even tighter against you, and it sent a rush of liquid heat through your body. A noise rasped in his throat at your movement, his body tensing as he pressed against the softness of your body. It felt like instead of blood, fire was coursing through your veins, every fiber of your being ablaze at the closeness, at the way he touched you, the way his lips sought yours as if they were the only thing that mattered.

His hands were no longer hesitant. One held tightly to your waist, while the other slowly moved up your sides, as if he wanted to map every inch of you. There was strength in his touch, as if he wanted to mark you somehow, as if he wanted you to feel that moment on your skin even after it had passed. When he leaned down to your collarbone and began to place small bites on your neck, your breath caught. Each bite felt carefully placed, not just as a show of desire, but as a silent promise that he was there, that he wanted you completely.

You arched your body against his, unable to control the reactions he was eliciting. Your nails dug into his shoulders, pulling him even closer, desperate for any friction. The space between you was nonexistent, but it still felt like it would never be enough. Every touch, every kiss, every sigh that escaped you was filled with an overflowing urgency, as if years of pent-up feelings had finally found their way to the surface.

“You’re a dream,” he murmured, his lips moving against your skin, his voice so low and husky that you could barely hear him. The confession made something inside you melt, even as your hands explored his back, every muscle that moved beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.

He looked at you again, his eyes bright and full of an emotion you could barely name, and you knew he felt exactly the same as you: that this moment, so charged with intensity, was something neither of you wanted to end.

Then, without hesitation, he kissed you again, and this time there was a desperate urgency in his movements, as if he needed your lips to breathe. The way he pressed you against the bed, with the weight of his body and the strength of the kiss, made your heart race and your thoughts disintegrate, leaving only the feeling of having him so close.

His hand, previously hesitant, slowly descended to the hem of the shirt you were wearing. He paused for a moment, as if asking for silent permission, but the look you gave him, full of surrender and desire, was all he needed. His fingers slid beneath the fabric, finding the soft skin of your waist, and the touch was like an electric shock that ran through your body. You shivered against him, unable to contain your reaction, and he smiled against your lips, as if he loved the effect he had on you.

His weight was crushing and yet comforting. You could barely move beneath him, but it didn’t matter. In that moment, you didn’t want to move; you just wanted to feel, to absorb everything he was offering. It was a weakness unlike any you’d ever felt, a numbness that wasn’t numbness but complete surrender. He was all that filled your mind, every thought, every beat of your heart.

His other hand moved down to your hip, gripping it tightly enough to make you gasp. You could tell he was trying to hold something back, to keep you from moving against the bulge in his pants. But you couldn’t feel him pressed against your core—the way he held you, the way his fingers gripped your flesh with a kind of almost feral need, said it all. That realization made your pussy clench around nothing, starving for any attention.

You couldn’t help it; your hands started moving again, exploring his arms, moving up his chest, trying to memorize every contour as your own desires grew in intensity. He seemed intoxicated, his kisses growing deeper and more desperate, as if he wanted to mark you with each one. And when his lips finally pulled away from yours to come up for air, it was only for a moment, before they went back down to find any patch of sensitive skin.

The soft bites he placed on your skin were like spreading flames, each one more intense than the last. You felt his lips form words against your skin, a low, husky whisper that made you shiver. “You’re mine… you’ve always been mine.”

The sound of those words, along with his overwhelming weight and presence, made you feel like you were going to lose your breath completely. Everything around you seemed to disappear except for him—Dave, who was no longer trying to hold back, who wanted you as desperately as you wanted him. And you knew there was no going back; not after this.

With his eyes fixed on yours, Dave let his fingers work at the hem of your shirt, slowly pulling it up, as if he wanted to savor every second. When the fabric was finally ripped away, he stopped, staring at you with an intensity that made your heart race. The silence that followed seemed to vibrate with something unspoken as he simply admired you, watching your chest rise and fall with each ragged breath, the shape of your breasts covered by a thin bra that left little to the imagination. His mouth felt dry.

You felt the heat of his gaze travel over your exposed skin, and embarrassment began to creep in, but then he broke the silence, his voice low and husky. “You’re beautiful… so beautiful.” His words were filled with a caress that made you feel completely disarmed, and you realized that you had nothing to be ashamed of. The desire in his eyes was so evident, so overwhelming, that it made your own fears evaporate.

His fingers lightly touched the edge of your bra, tracing a soft, almost reverent path. The touch seemed to set your skin on fire, and the heat that ran through your veins was almost too much to bear. You arched your body involuntarily, moving towards him, a low moan escaping your lips without permission as you felt him press his cock harder against you.

His hands returned to exploring your body with increasing urgency, pulling your bra down instead of removing it from your body. His fingers kneaded your breasts, seeking the pressure that made you purr like a kitten. When he buried his face in your chest, he wasted no time in mouthing the sensitive flesh, sucking on the hard tip until you whimpered. He seemed to want to devour you, and the frenzy that this aroused in you made your pussy respond, staining your panties with more of your arousal. Your own fingers roamed his torso, exploring every line, every muscle that contracted under his touch.

He paused for a moment, staring at you with a silent question in his eyes, his mouth redder than ever. A look that said it all—he wanted to make sure you were okay, that this was what you wanted. His response was instinctive, almost automatic. You writhed beneath him, your hands gripping his shoulders, your voice shaky and urgent. “Dave… I want you. Please.”

That was all he needed to hear. He kissed you again, this time harder, more eager, as if he wanted to take you in completely. His lips left yours only so he could move down to your neck again, exploring every inch with hot kisses and soft bites that made you tremble. Only then did he grind his hips against yours, groaning against your skin as he established a rhythm. The seam of your pants brushed against your clit, sending waves of pleasure through your body.

You felt his fingers tighten around your waist, as if he wanted to mark you right then and there. Your body responded automatically, moving against his, every nerve ending burning with urgent need. Your hands moved lower, finding the waistband of his pants, hesitating only for a moment before undoing the button, your fingers trembling as you unzipped him. He shivered when you touched him, feeling his cock twitch against your fingers. Dave groaned your name as you circled the pre-cum-covered tip. Your own body reacted to it, imagining what it would be like to have him stretching you from the inside, slamming against your cervix. Your toes curled at the thought.

“Dave?” Mr. Lizewski’s voice came from the other end, casual but loud enough to make your heart race for an entirely different reason. Your fingers stilled instantly, terrified at the thought of being caught in this situation. “Is everything okay in there?”

Dave reacted instantly, his body tensing as he hurried to cover yours with his, his arms wrapped around you like a shield. “Yes, Dad! It’s okay, it’s okay!” he replied, his voice louder and more hurried than usual.

You held your breath as Dave looked at the door, a blush staining his face. His eyes met yours briefly, shame and embarrassment reflected in his features, before he called out again, “It’s okay in here!”

The silence that followed was brief, but it felt endless, until Mr. Lizewski spoke again, and this time there was a hint of amusement in his voice. “Is your friend in the room with you, Dave?”

Dave froze, his eyes meeting yours once more. His gaze was intense, as if he were weighing what to say, and it made your heart race again, but not from nervousness—this time it was from something deeper. The intensity of that moment, the way he was looking at you, almost took away what little breath you had left. His hand that remained on your hip left a reassuring caress.

Finally, he answered, casually, “Yes, Dad, my girlfriend is here.” Your mouth fell open in surprise at his words, your heart beating painfully fast. Girlfriend. Girlfriend! Dave gave you a crooked smile, raising an eyebrow as if daring you to contradict him. You didn’t. He pressed his face against yours, his lips gently pressed against your jaw.

Mr. Lizewski chuckled from the other side of the door, which made you bury your face in your hands in sheer embarrassment. “Well, her aunt called to ask her to come home. Apparently she needs help with the roast or something.”

You tried not to groan in embarrassment as you answered, your voice sounding thinner than you would have liked. “Oh, thanks, Mr. Lizewski. I’ll be right there.”

The sound of his father’s footsteps walking away was followed by a tense silence that was broken when they both started laughing at the same time, unable to contain the mix of relief and embarrassment they felt.

Dave lowered his head and kissed you again, this time gently, his lips sealing a silent promise. “We’ll keep this up,” he murmured, his voice low and husky against yours.

He picked up your shirt from the floor and helped you put it on, your hands still a little shaky as you tried to fix your messy hair and disheveled clothes. “There,” he said with an embarrassed smile, looking at the damage he had done to your skin. It would take days for the marks to fade. “I think everything is fine… or almost.”

Later, when he drove you home, the nervousness returned, but this time it was mixed with something else—a certainty. At the door, as you prepared to enter, Dave stopped, his eyes fixed on yours once more.

Unlike all the times before, he leaned in and kissed you, a brief, sweet touch that made your heart melt. "Good night, girlfriend," he whispered, with that shy but meaningful smile.

#dave lizewski x you #dave x reader #dave lizewski #dave lizewski x reader #kick ass #aaron taylor johnson #atj #atj x reader #a lot of kisses #fluffy #romance #writers on tumblr #ao3 writer #a little smut #dave lizewisk x y/n #dave lizewski fanfiction #kick ass x reader

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eerielakeerie · 2 months ago

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there's a panel being held by the Center for Puppetry Arts like two days after my birthday with a bunch of the people from early Sesame Street/Muppets Show, specifically talking about the early work culture at the Jim Henson Company

there are online tickets

i really really can't afford it but also i'm about to drop the money anyway

ok fine i admit it: i am not, in fact, normal about the Muppets

#panel is stacked asf #fran brill & steve whitmire & dave goelz & frank oz #AND rollie krewson and bonnie erickson #like idk if i can pass that up #ham shut up challenge

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gingerteafairy · 3 months ago

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𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐧 | 𝐝𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐳𝐞𝐰𝐬𝐤𝐢 ᯓ★

tags n warnings: latina!reader, suggestive. @ikkyfics

"Babe." Dave’s voice was barely above a whisper, hesitant, like he was embarrassed about what he was about to ask. Which, to be fair, he totally was—his face was flushed all the way down to his neck.

The dead silence of the library only made it worse, amplifying every little noise, making it feel like the whole world could hear them.

"What is it, sweetie?" You lifted your gaze, smiling as soon as you caught the way he tensed at the nickname, his fingers twitching slightly like he didn’t know what to do with them.

"I… I saw online that, um, where you're from… Latinas have a special way of calling their boyfriends." He shut his eyes tight, like he needed to summon the courage to even finish his sentence. His breath hitched when he cracked one open—only to find your face way closer than before.

"Yeah, we have affectionate nicknames, but they’re a little different from just ‘babe.’" You chuckled, deciding to take full advantage of the moment by leaning in, intertwining your fingers with his. "Wanna hear some?"

"Yes. Please." His voice was quiet, almost breathless, and he licked his lips—suddenly dry from the nerves.

"Alright. We have ‘mi amorcito,’ ‘mi vida,’ ‘papasito,’ ‘papi…’" You deliberately lowered your voice on the last word, dragging it out just enough to see the immediate effect on him.

You bit your lip, playing with the tension, then leaned in closer—so close your lips barely grazed the shell of his ear. With a sultry whisper, you purred, "Infeliz, mentiroso, hermoso, maldito desgraciado…"

Dave’s eyes widened as he inhaled sharply, his foot tapping against the floor in nervous energy. "A-And… what else?" His voice had dropped, rougher, as he subtly adjusted his posture, shifting slightly in his seat.

You laughed softly, eyes twinkling with mischief as you tilted your head, watching him come undone. Then, just for the final touch, you murmured, "Te quiero, Davezito."

Dave let out a strangled whimper, turning his head so fast he almost knocked into you. His lips were parted, his pupils blown wide, his throat bobbing as he swallowed thickly. "I have no idea what any of that means, but—please—keep saying it…"

His breath hitched, and just as he moved, fingers twitching to pull you in for a kiss—you pulled back. Standing up with a smug little smile, you brushed off your skirt like nothing had happened.

"W-Wait, what? Where you goin?" He panted, blinking up at you with wide, almost teary eyes, like you had just stolen the air from his lungs.

Leaning down slightly, you gave him a knowing look. "I have other Spanish lessons to give, but not in the library."

A beat of silence. Then, suddenly, Dave rebooted—he blinked rapidly, processing, before scrambling to shove his books haphazardly into his bag.

"I’m gonna be fluent in Spanish by the end of this." He muttered, half to himself, half to you, moving so fast he nearly knocked over a stack of books.

#dave lizewski x y/n #dave lizewski x you #dave lizewski x reader #dave lizewski fanfiction #dave lizewski #x reader #imagine #reader insert #fanfic #aaron taylor johnson x you #aaron taylor johnson x reader #aaron taylor johnson fandom #aaron johnson #aaron taylor johnson #kick ass x reader

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hotchner-edu · 10 months ago

Note

hi! I know you’re on a little writing break but if you get the chance what about where reader has to do like hand to hand combat with an unsub like JJ does in s7 bc her and hotch get paired up but they take him out first and so it’s up to her to get them both out of there alive or something and then him and everyone on the team is impressed bc reader doesnt look like the type to be able to do that or something 🤓

The Claws Come Out (Drabble) | Aaron Hotchner

It was no secret that you and Spencer were a bit coddled on the team, being the two youngest agents with, according to Derek, the demeanor of a kitten cosplaying business casual. You and Spencer have grown to just accept the picture the team has painted and prove your capabilities in other ways on the field.

"How's it looking so far, Spence?" You mumble and stare at the map he's pinned up on the board. Derek has his arms crossed, swaying a bit in his chair as he waits for the next phone call from the unsub. Hotch is standing beside your chair, eyebrows pinched together as he directs his attention to the board.

"I've narrowed it down to two places." Spencer hums, stepping back to analyze his work.

"But..?" You can sense how he's trailing off.

"They're on opposite sides of town. Deducing from the echoes we heard from his last calls, and the strong emotional connections he has with the previous crime scenes, we're left with..." Spencer points to two distant ends on the map. "The warehouse he was fired from and the church he frequented as a child." He finishes and clears his throat, turning around to look at Hotch.

"So we split?" You suggest and whirl your chair around to look up at the stern man.

Your unit chief considers it for a second before nodding and looking around the precinct. "Alright. Reid, you and Dave stay here and wait to see if Thompson calls again. If he does, keep him talking." He then turns to Derek. "Morgan, I want you, JJ, and Prentiss to go to the warehouse."

"And we'll go to the church." You finish softly and smile, standing up and stretching your arms as you turn to your boss. "Can I drive?"

Unfortunately, you're yet again relegated to the role of passenger princess as Hotch navigates through the town, caution for the speed limit thrown into the wind. "He's not going to go down without a fight."

Hotch's words sound cautious, and when the car turns into the church parking lot, your eyes widen as you see Thompson's vehicle parked haphazardly by some bushes. "He's here. I'll tell the others."

"We can't wait for them to get here." Hotch is already unbuckling his seatbelt, only waiting until you send a swift text before hurrying to the church entrance.

You're trailing behind him, gun unholstered and pointed toward the concrete. "Only one entrance." You huff out with a worried sigh, watching as Hotch gently pushes one of the tall doors open, his other hand gripping his gun.

Fortunately, neither of you are immediately gunned down as he swiftly opens the door and ducks out of the way. It seemed that your unsub wasn't sitting at a pew, firearm at the ready.

You motion that you're going to go investigate one of the narrow hallways to your right, and Hotch goes deeper into the church. With your gun raised, you carefully step through the dimly lit passageway, seeing stacked storage bins coated in dust, and old books stacked on some rickety shelves.

No sign of Thompson.

Just as that thought brushes across your mind, you hear a familiar grunt along with some crashes. Hurrying out of the room, you rush back into the nave, eyes immediately zeroing in on your unit chief laying on the ground.

Some of the candles by the pews are knocked over, and you're only able to snap out of your shock when a harsh kick from your right sends your gun sliding across the floor. Recovering quickly, you see Thompson's shoe coming in for another hit, this time aimed at your face, and you duck breathlessly.

Seeing that the man is unarmed, you pop back up on your feet and close the distance between you both to send a punch across his face. Your right hook ushers a surprised grunt from his lips, and you quickly take advantage of his unsteady balance by sending a spinning back kick right to his sternum.

He flies back a bit and hunches over before letting out an enraged cry and lunging for you, hands flailing. You meet his hits with a sidestep and you send a kick to his backside, his momentum combined with your kick sending him headfirst toward the ground.

You see him trying to reach for your gun that's a few feet in front of him and you hurry to kick it away, yelping when he grabs your ankle and tugs you back, sending you crashing to the floor too.

He tries to get on top of you, breathing in harshly as he shuffles closer. Flipping onto your back, you grunt and lay your foot down on the ground to steady yourself before using the other to kick up toward his chest. He groans as he falls back, clutching at his chest that was likely aching from your previous kick.

Getting up on your feet, you watch him scramble to do the same. You can tell from his hunched shoulders and heavy breathing that he's having a hard time catching his breath and that this exchange was nearing its end. Grunting in frustration, you roundhouse kick him in a flash, the adrenaline practically bursting from your pores.

It's almost comical the way he flips over the pew behind him, crashing onto the floor in an unconscious heap. Catching your breath, you immediately hurry to retrieve your gun. However, as you turn around you're met with the shocked faces of your team at the entrance, guns lowered.

Blinking slowly at them, you offer a sheepish smile before turning to go check up on your boss. Your movements snap them back to reality as they hurry to call for backup and medics, Derek already marching to cuff your unconscious unsub.

No one says anything about the altercation until your hand is bandaged up and Hotch is cleared of any serious injuries. As you're walking away from the ambulance, Emily sidles up to your right and swings an arm over your shoulder.

"Kitty's got claws." She hums out with a bright smile.

"It was nothing." You shake your head and chuckle softly as she leads you over to where the team is circled together.

Rossi smiles brightly when he sees you, hand moving to pat your shoulder. "I heard from a little birdy that you saved the day. Good job, kiddo."

"Yeah, we were going to intervene, but you were winning." Derek jokes and shrugs. "But when were you going to tell us you could do all of that?"

"I was honestly going to wait for the day where you challenged me to hand-to-hand." You snicker softly. Derek rolls his eyes and shakes his head affectionately, calling out to Spencer with a teasing remark as he approaches with his hands in his pockets.

Your eyes dart around the vicinity, your head perking up a little when you see Hotch walking toward you all after shaking hands with the local police chief.

Slipping away from the group, you walk toward him with a small grin. "You gave me quite the scare, y'know?"

An all too fond smile flickers across his face. "I'm fine, but good job today. You've got a great roundhouse."

"It was nothing." You shrug before furrowing your eyebrows and looking at him inquisitively. "Wait, you saw that?"

"Yeah, I came to after you landed on the floor." He says with a faint smirk, raising a hand to brush against yours. "Are you okay though? It seemed like a hard fall."

You don't comment when his pinky hooks around yours. "Yeah, I'm okay. I'm more sturdy than I look."

His eyebrows raise in amusement and his face softens as he keeps his gaze on you. "We should have you training the new recruits then."

"That'd be fun." You muse out as you turn to look at the cars around you. "Actually, Hotch, I'm so okay in fact that I think I'm fine enough to drive us back."

His chest rumbles with a chuckle as he shakes his head and walks toward the Buick you both took earlier. "Not a chance."

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotch x reader #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds aaron

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pedroscurls · 2 months ago

Text

eyes on you (one-shot)

summary: dave has been single for a while now - focused on his work, but you manage to capture his attention. the only downside? you're already spoken for and your husband is his colleague.

pairing: dave york x fem!reader content warnings: 18+, legal separation (not with dave!), neglect in relationship (again, not with dave), mutual pining, sexual tension, dave wants to take care of you basically, brief mention of dave's PTSD, reader has a child, no use of y/n. word count: 5.1k a/n: ok - please bear with me. this is my first time writing for dave york and i hope i did his characterization justice... i wanted to write a softer kind of dave 😭 anyway, this year has honestly been about stepping out of my comfort zone! this story is part of dev's (@penvisions) "give a little love" writing challenge! i got forbidden romance with dave york. hope y'all enjoy <3

On his way to his office one morning, Dave catches a glimpse of you from outside of the nearby coffee shop. You have a younger boy in your arms, who’s snuggling against the crook of your neck. Your body sways side to side with him and despite the crowd and business of the coffee shop, there’s a calm aura about you.

There’s a part of him that misses his girls—Carol having full custody of them in the divorce. He tosses his coffee cup into the trash and steps inside the coffee shop. Immediately, he’s welcomed by the sound of chatter, the coffee machines whirring, baristas yelling people’s names and he’s suddenly overwhelmed by the everything. He grips the strap of his messenger bag when he feels the walls beginning to close in around him—his eyes scanning the entire area, out of habit.

He’s forgotten momentarily why he even walked inside until his eyes meet yours. Dave watches your eyes soften at the sight of him, the corners of your beautiful lips curling upwards as if you knew what he was feeling. A barista yells your name and you break the gaze to retrieve your drink and Dave quickly walks to the register to order a black coffee—something quick, low effort because he sees you already begin to make your way towards the front door.

Dave doesn’t bother to make small talk with the young girl at the register. He just hands her a twenty, mumbles to keep the change, grabs his coffee and turns on his heel to catch up to you. He isn’t sure why he feels a sudden pull to you, but he knows that he’d regret it if he didn’t get the chance to at least speak with you.

Someone bumps into him and he’s already on edge that the coffee slips out of his hand and falls to the floor on his shoes—great, he thinks.

“I’m so sorry, man,” the stranger mumbles before rushing out of the door.

Dave sighs heavily and turns around to walk back towards the register. He doesn’t bother sparing you another glance because he’s sure that you’re already gone. At least I tried, he thinks. At the register, he’s about to open his mouth to speak until he sees you in his peripheral.

“Can we get a stack of napkins and can we get another refill of whatever he ordered?” you ask the barista who’s already smiling so brightly in your direction.

“Oh! Don’t sweat it. We’ll clean it up,” he says, turns around to grab a large cup to refill with coffee for Dave. Then, he turns back around to set it in front of you. “And this is on the house.”

“That’s sweet,” you smile. “Thanks so much.” You grab a sleeve to put on the hot cup of coffee before you turn to face him. “Figured you will probably need this.”

Dave looks down at you—this close, he can see the way your eyes sparkle against the natural sunlight that comes through the windows. The younger boy in your arms seems to be fast asleep, but Dave can’t help the way your smile makes him feel. Everyone around him disappears—all of the sounds seem to fade until all he can see and hear is you.

“You didn’t need to do that,” he finally answers. Dave reaches for the cup, feeling his fingertips brush against your own when you hand the cup over to him and he feels the heat in his cheeks rise. “But thank you.”

You shrug a shoulder—your eyes are staring so deeply into his own. “I won’t be cleaning your shoes, but—” you giggle and the sound makes his heart flutter.

“Do you work here?” he interrupts.

“What? Oh no,” you smile. “Just saw someone who needed help, that’s all.”

Dave isn’t sure why that made him feel so warm inside, but he smiles and begins walking out of the coffee shop alongside you. “He’s out like a light,” he points out.

You giggle again and Dave suddenly realizes that he wants to hear more and more of it. “He had a late night,” you tease. “I let him stay up an extra fifteen minutes—story time was very intense,” you smile.

“I have two of my own,” he adds.

“Two?” you say with a shocked tone. “I can barely handle this one.”

“They stay with their mom,” Dave says, holding the door open for you. You walk through it and he can’t help but let his eyes drift down your back to your ass—god, those yoga pants are definitely working in your favor.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you tell him, waiting for him to step out after you. You bite your lower lip and tighten your hold on the younger boy in your arms. Soon enough, it’s only going to be you and your son will end up having to go to two homes, alternating holidays with you and his father.

“Don’t be,” Dave smiles. “We tried to make it work and sometimes, it just isn’t enough. I just try to be with them as much as I can.” He sees the distance in your eyes and he furrows a brow—it’s obvious that you’re thinking about something else. “Hey…”

You finally look up at him, shaking yourself out of your thoughts as you look back up at him. “Sorry,” you laugh nervously. “Anyway, I should go. I hope you have a great day…”

“Wait, hey…” Dave sighs. “I’m Dave.”

Then, you smile—the same smile that managed to calm all of his nerves. You respond and tell him your name, see him smile as well and you notice the dimple on his right cheek.

“Can I walk you to your car?” He asks.

You nod, feel the young boy shift in your arms. “Sure.”

Dave walks alongside you and smiles to himself, glancing over at you. “So, what do you do?” He asks.

“Full time mom,” you answer. “But it’s the best job there is.” You glance over at him—you’re obviously very attracted to him, but your husband looks in the back of your mind. “What about you? What do you do for work?”

Dave shrugs. “Nothing exciting,” he answers too quickly. He doesn’t want to reflect on what he does for a living—if he’s being honest, it’s not something he’s proud of anymore. Especially since it cost him his marriage. “So, full time mom… What’s the plan for today?”

“Well, definitely needed my coffee,” you smile. “Then head to the store to grab some groceries…” you arch your brow and notice that his attention is solely focused on you. “Nothing exciting,” you repeat.

Dave laughs quietly to himself and stops alongside you when you near your car. He holds open the door for you when you begin to put your son in his car seat—the young boy wiggling slightly before he makes himself comfortable.

With your arms free—save for the coffee in your hand—Dave finally gets a better look at you. You’re wearing a faded dark grey v-neck and it’s low enough that he can see your cleavage and he has to quickly look away before you notice.

“Well, I hope you have a great rest of your day,” Dave says quietly. He’s usually so alert when he’s walking to work—making sure that he can hear and see everyone around him, but you’re making all of the tension that he normally feels disappear. It’s strangely comforting because he can feel—for once—like he can take a deep breath without having to worry about the possibility of something happening.

“Thank you, Dave. I hope you have a good one as well,” you smile in his direction. “And thank you for walking us back to the car.”

Then, Dave blurts out, “I hope you know that you made my day today. So, thank you.”

“The day just started,” you laugh quietly, cheeks heating up.

“Yeah,” Dave grins. “And it’s already starting out great.”

You bite your lower lip and then gently tap your coffee cup with his own. “Hope I get to see you around, Dave.”

“Me too,” he says softly. “Me too.”

The next time Dave sees you, it all but crushes him because there you are—hand in hand with one of his colleagues. You don’t seem to want to be here though, smile not reaching your eyes like it did that morning he met you at the coffee shop. He can see the way you tense up when the other man whispers in your ear and you immediately pull your hand from his grip to walk towards the bar area.

“Baby,” the other man calls out, but you just keep walking.

Dave bites his lower lip and walks after you, ensuring that none of his coworkers have yet to see him. He hears you let out a shaky sigh, waves to the bartender, and even despite the tension he can see in your body, you’re still so polite, so kind to the man behind the counter.

Dave straightens his tie, takes a deep breath and walks over to you. He tells the bartender to put your drink on his tab and when he finally gazes down at you, that same fucking smile is lining your lips. He can see the shock in your features, but before he can even say anything, you wrap your arms around him in a tight embrace. It catches him off guard, but he leans into you nonetheless. The way your body feels against his own makes his heart race even faster.

“Hey,” he whispers, his arms snaking around your waist. “Nice surprise seeing you here.”

You pull away and look up at him—you had been thinking of him every day since meeting him about a week ago. You would be lying if you said that you tried to go back to the coffee shop in hopes that you’d get to see him again, but you never could find the time to go back.

“Dave,” you say quietly. “It’s you.”

He smiles, arms slowly slipping away from you. Dave looks at you from top to bottom, biting the inside of his cheek at the way your dress clings to every curve. When he gazes back at you, he can see the way you pull your lower lip between your teeth.

“And it’s you,” he finally answers. “You know, I’ve gone back to that coffee shop every morning in the last week. Thought I’d never get the chance to see you again,” Dave admits.

“Me too,” you answer honestly. “Are you here with your girlfriend?” you ask quietly, hesitantly.

Dave shakes his head. “Work dinner.”

“Oh,” you reply. “Me too actually. Well, not me specifically, but…”

Dave nods, “Didn’t realize that you’re Robby’s wife.”

You clear your throat and suddenly take a step back away from him. “You work with Robby…”

“I do,” he sighs—Dave sees the change in your behavior and he glances over at the bartender who sets your glass of wine on the counter. He mutters a quiet thank you and sets the glass in front of you.

“You were in the military.”

“I was,” he answers.

“I can’t talk to you,” you finally say. “Robby will get upset and—”

“We’re just having a conversation,” Dave shrugs. “I wouldn’t worry about him.” He tilts his head, sees you glance over in Robby’s direction and quietly lowers his voice. “D–Does he hurt you?”

“No,” you answer quickly. “It’s just,” you sigh. You grab a hold of his hand and lead him back to the bathrooms, pushing him inside a vacant co-ed bathroom and locking it behind you. “I’m just here for show.”

“For show?”

“We’re getting divorced,” you sigh quietly, biting the inside of your cheek. “This is the last dinner I’m supposed to attend and he’s not making it easy.”

Dave lets out a sigh of relief—divorced, or at least about to be. He can’t help the excitement that he feels bubbling inside of him and he crosses his arms over his chest, watching your eyes trail down his face to his arms and back up. The mutual attraction is there, he knows it.

And you know it too.

“So, for show…” he repeats.

You nod. “I’d rather be at home with Mateo.”

“Mateo?”

He sees you relax, a large grin lining your lips. “My baby.”

“Ah,” Dave smiles. “Cute name. Didn’t get a chance to meet the little guy. He was knocked out when we met.”

You laugh quietly and Dave perks up, suddenly takes a step closer to you at the sound. “Yeah, he’s with the sitter tonight.”

“So, I’m guessing no intense story time tonight,” he teases.

You laugh again and it only fuels him further—excitement coursing through his veins until he’s inches away from you. You lean back against the sink and stare up at him, biting your lower lip as you stare into his eyes.

“No, not tonight,” you whisper. You feel his fingers brush your hair away from your face and you let out a quiet gasp—your body reacting to him instantly because you tilt your head and lean against his touch.

“You look beautiful tonight,” Dave whispers.

“Dave…”

“Yeah, baby?”

“We can’t,” you sigh. “Robby—He won’t make it easy if he knows that I’m seeing someone. We haven’t finalized the divorce, haven’t even told Mateo yet, and—”

Dave just nods, but he gently cups your cheek and brushes the pad of his thumb along your soft skin. He leans down and presses his lips against your forehead to place a light kiss before he’s pulling away.

“Okay,” he answers.

“I’m sorry. I really want to,” you shut your eyes against the soft kiss he places on your forehead. Even though he pulls away, his hand is still resting on your cheek.

“Me too,” he whispers. Dave lowers his hand to the side of your neck, brushes the pad of his thumb across your jawline and now across your lower lip. He watches you part your lips for him and he fights the urge to slip his thumb inside—to feel the warmth of your mouth, your tongue, and—

“Dave,” you sigh quietly.

“You can push me away, you know?” He teases.

“But I don’t want to,” you admit.

“Making it real hard for me to not kiss you right here, right now.” Dave adds, slowly pulling away as his hand drops back to his side. He makes it obvious now that he’s looking at you, at every inch of your body and he can feel his manhood stirring awake.

You don’t feel shy under his gaze. In fact, you feel empowered, sexy. Your cheeks heat up and when his eyes finally land on your own, a broad smirk lines his lips—and there’s that fucking dimple again.

“I’ll see you out there, baby.” Dave presses one last kiss against your cheek before he pulls away from you and leaves the restroom.

You sigh quietly, slumping against the sink as you turn to look at yourself in the mirror. Technically, you’re single, but you know Robby… if he finds that you’ve already moved on, he’d make this so much more difficult than it needs to be.

Throughout the dinner, you’re seated in between Dave and Robby. Robby’s arm is draped around the back of your seat, his fingertips brushing against your arm. You look up at him and he catches your gaze—he drops his hand immediately.

Dave switches his persona—professional but charming. He can keep the conversation going and you notice that the other men at the table—Robby included—hold onto every word that leaves his lips. The respect is evident, and when the other women look at him, you know just exactly what they’re thinking.

Because you’re thinking it too.

Dave is fucking sexy and he knows it. He flashes that smile that makes his dimple appear and his deep brown eyes lure you in. It’s only when he looks down at you that you feel the heat in your cheeks.

“Robby, you have a little boy, right?” Dave asks.

“Yeah, Mateo. He’s three.”

“Four,” you correct. “He’s four,” you answer, looking up at Dave with a small smile.

Robby’s jaw tightens but he masks it with a forced smile. His hand comes down to rest on your thigh and it startles you, feeling his grip around it. “Sorry, baby. Been busy at work lately,” he laughs nervously.

You don’t respond—instead, you grab his wrist and push his hand away from you. He looks down at you with narrowed eyes and you lean forward to whisper in his ear. “Stop, Robby. Or else I will walk out of this dinner.”

Robby just grunts in reply and nods, pulling away from you and flashing everyone else a smile. “I’ll definitely be in the dog house for that one,” he says, everyone else but Dave erupts in laughter.

“Anyway, he’s four and he’s just the sweetest little boy,” you continue, pulling the attention away from Robby. “The other day, he wanted to make me breakfast because—and these are his words—he wanted to take care of me.”

The women at the table melt at your words, hands gripping their husbands’ arms—you and Robby are the only ones with a child. Well, and Dave too.

“He’s a little protector,” Robby chimes in. “And he’s a momma’s boy.”

You force a smile and stay quiet for the remainder of the dinner. The other women at the table opt to do the same, only speaking up when their husbands are speaking to them—or if Dave addressed them specifically. There’s a part of you that can’t wait for this dinner to end, but another part of you that doesn’t want it to.

Only because of Dave. Having him sit next to you provides a sense of safety and security, and you yearn to just have another moment alone with him. You spend the rest of the evening with your eyes on your plate, but when your phone rings, you excuse yourself and stand from the table.

“It’s the sitter,” you smile apologetically. Your eyes meet Dave’s and the corner of his lips curl upwards before he turns back around to continue the conversation.

Robby makes no effort in walking after you—you know that he would rather have more time with Dave than with your son.

After about five minutes, you walk back to the table and grab your coat from the back of your chair. “I’m heading out, Robby.”

“Oh, okay. I’ll see you at home.”

You tighten your jaw and you’re about to say something before Dave chimes in.

“Everything okay with Mateo?” Your eyes soften instantly, but you can’t help the conflicting emotions that you feel. This is a question that your husband should be asking, not his colleague.

“Oh, everything’s okay. Something just came up with the sitter and she has to head home,” you answer. “It was great meeting all of you.”

Robby doesn’t stand up, doesn’t offer to walk you outside. Instead, he just leans further back in his seat with another glass of alcohol in his hand. You feel anger rushing in your veins and you want so badly to scream, to yell at him but instead you pull on your coat. Nonchalantly, you slip off your wedding ring and gently rest your hand on Robby’s shoulder.

He looks up at you and furrows a brow until you place your free hand in his—dropping your wedding ring into his palm. His eyes widen slightly and tears build in your own. Leaning down, you place a light kiss on his cheek and whisper, “We are done, Robert.”

A month later, you and Robby have established boundaries. While you’re both still living in the same house, he sleeps in another room. In front of Mateo, you both try to keep up with appearances and luckily, the younger boy doesn’t notice anything differently.

On one Friday afternoon, Robby lets you know that Dave and some other guys from the office are coming over for dinner. You tell him that you plan on leaving the house with Mateo, but he insists on you staying—mentioning that Dave actually wanted to see you again and also meet Mateo.

To him, he thinks he’s making an impression on Dave.

But you know what Dave really meant, and it made your heart race faster.

So, you set the table with the dinner you made just in time to hear the doorbell ring. Mateo’s small feet echo throughout the home when he runs towards the front door, standing on his toes to try and open the door. You look over in his direction, expecting Robby to answer the door but he’s nowhere to be found.

With a heavy sigh, you walk over to the front door, scoop Mateo into your arms as you gently tickle his sides. “You’re naughty, baby.”

“Just wanted to help, mama!”

You smile and place a gentle kiss on the tip of his nose before you open the door. Dave’s grinning at you, holding a case of beer in one hand.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

“Hi, Dave.” You can feel the heat in your cheeks as you open the door wider for him. “This is Mateo.”

Dave steps across the threshold and keeps his eyes focused on the both of you. “Hi, Mateo.”

“Hi!” He smiles, nuzzling your neck. “Mama made dinner.”

“She did, did she? No wonder it smells delicious in here,” Dave winks.

“She made my favorite.”

“Oh yeah?”

You bite your lower lip, feeling your heart race even faster at the interaction.

“Mhm! Pasketti!”

Both you and Dave laugh quietly. Mateo wraps his arms around your shoulders and rests his head against your own. “I did, baby. Now, can you go and be a big boy and get ready for dinner?”

He nods. “Okay, mama. I’ll wash my hands too.”

“Thank you, honey.” You set him down on his feet and watch him walk down the hallway to his own bedroom, leaving you and Dave alone. “Sorry, Robby’s probably in his office. I’ll go get him.”

Dave bites his lower lip and gently reaches out for your hand, turning you around. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Dave…”

He plays with your fingers with his own before he lets his hand drop back to his side. “Can I put these in the fridge?” He asks, motioning towards the case of beer.

“Oh, yeah, follow me.” You turn on your heel and walk ahead of him, leading him to the kitchen.

Dave glances around but his eyes stay focused on you. You’re wearing those same yoga pants and it sculpts to every curve—he clears his throat and tries to rid his mind of every dirty thought.

He bumps into you when you stop walking—too distracted by you.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. For a brief moment, he feels the curve of your ass press against the front of his slacks and his manhood begins to stir awake. “Clumsy me.”

“Distracted?” You tease, turning around to grab the case of beer from his hand.

His eyes narrow at you. “You wore those pants on purpose, didn’t you?”

You grin, tongue darting out to lick your lower lip and you watch his eyes stare at the action. “They’re comfy.”

“And your ass looks fucking great in ‘em,” he grins.

“You’re flirting.”

“I’m complimenting you,” Dave corrects.

You let out a quiet laugh and shake your head, placing the beer into the fridge. As you’re about to turn around and quip back, Robby enters the kitchen. Dave catches your gaze when you turn around—his big, brown eyes soften.

“Thanks, baby. Was in the office.” Robby says. You don’t respond, just give him a quick nod before you excuse yourself quietly to check on Mateo. You glance over your shoulder—Robby begins talking animatedly to Dave, but he’s staring right at you.

“Your wife not joining us?” Dave asks, sitting at the table with Robby and his other colleagues.

Robby shakes his head. “Nope. We have an agreement.”

The other men grin. “A woman who knows her place. Lucky you.”

Robby laughs. “Gotta train ‘em early.”

Dave tightens his jaw—he’s the only one not laughing, the only one who doesn’t find it funny. “That woman cooked you and your colleagues dinner and you talk about her like that? You let them talk about her like that?”

Everyone at the table quiets immediately. They are all intimidated by Dave and they clear their throats, beginning to apologize.

“It was just a joke,” Robby says nervously.

“Joke or not, you shouldn’t talk about your wife like that.” Dave can feel the anger in his veins—you mentioned that you were getting a divorce, but why in the hell are you still here?

“Well, won’t be my wife for long,” Robby shrugs. “She asked for a divorce. We haven’t told Mateo yet.”

“Oh shit, sorry man,” one of the other men comments. The rest of them share the same sentiment, but Dave wants nothing more than to be with you.

“Hey, Robby. Where’s your bathroom, man?”

“Down the hall, to your left.”

Dave nods his thanks and stands from the chair. He walks down the hallway and finds the bathroom, but he looks at the other door across from it that’s slightly ajar. He hears the sound of Mateo’s laughter, followed by your muffled voice. He glances over his shoulder and takes a deep breath, knocking on the door quietly.

He can hear you getting up and within seconds, you open the door and smile instantly at the sight of him.

“Hi.”

“Hello again,” he says softly. “You and Mateo not hungry?”

“We’ll be out in a few. Just want Robby to have enough time with you all first.”

“Why are you so nice to him?” Dave blurts out, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. That’s none of my business.”

“Mama’s gonna be right back, baby.” You tell Mateo, stepping out of the room and gently pushing Dave into the bathroom across the hall. You shut it behind you and lock it, staring up at him.

“I crossed a line. I shouldn’t have and—”

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” you admit, interrupting him. “Since that morning at the coffee shop, actually.”

Dave arches a brow and steps closer to you. He brings his hand up gently to cup your cheek and he watches as your eyes fall shut. You let out a quiet sigh and bring your hand to wrap around his wrist gently.

“Me too,” he confesses. “Robby doesn’t have to know,” Dave says quietly. “We can keep this a secret until you finalize the divorce.”

“He’ll find out, Dave,” you whisper. Slowly, you turn your head and kiss the inside of his wrist, lips moving upwards to press light kisses along the inside of his palm. You can hear Dave inhale sharply before his thumb brushes across your lower lip.

“Baby,” he says quietly. Dave steps closer—his front now inches from your own. He can feel your breasts lightly pressing against his chest and his free hand moves to rest on your hip—ready to pull you into him when the time is right. “Robby won’t even think about doing anything where I’m concerned.”

“You don’t know that,” you whisper. You can feel your resolve slowly slipping as you bring your hand up to gently play with the ends of his tie.

“Trust me,” Dave responds quietly as he steps closer—caging you in against the sink. His hands move to rest on the edges of it at either side, dipping his head lower until his nose brushes against your own. “You make all the noise go away,” he admits.

“The noise?” you ask quietly, eyes falling shut—you can feel his breath against your lips.

Dave nods. “My mind races all the time. It gets worse when it’s crowded and I’ve worked on getting it under control, but losing my girls, failing my marriage… It just amplified it.” He presses his lips against your cheek—lips catching the corner of your own. “But I saw you at the coffee shop when I was walking to work that morning and you—” he sighs. “There was just something calming about you. Then, you looked at me and smiled.”

You smile and move your hands up his chest to his shoulders, linking your hands now at the nape of his neck. “Dave…”

“I really want you,” he interrupts, “In any way that you’ll let me.”

“Will you kiss me?”

Dave’s smile broadens and he nods, closing his eyes slowly and pressing his lips firmly against yours. When he feels your soft lips, his hands move from the sink to rest on your hips—-holding you tighter, closer against him.

You lean into him instantly, fingers carding through his hair. His lips are softer than you imagined and the tension between you builds even further when you deepen the kiss. It isn’t quick or hurried—it’s slow, intimate, and almost as if you’re both savoring the moment. Your lips move with his own and you can feel the grip around your hips tightening even further.

He pulls back only slightly to gently nip at your lower lip—it causes a quiet whimper to escape your lips. It’s just enough for you to remember that you’re both on limited time. You have to get back to Mateo and he has to get back to his dinner.

Slowly, you pull away and Dave rests his forehead against your own. Neither of you make any move to pull away from each other, but he leans in repeatedly to peck your lips—he just can’t get enough of you.

“We’ll make this work,” he whispers.

You nod in agreement. “Just in the meantime,” you repeat. “Until the divorce is finalized.”

“I’m a patient man,” Dave smiles. “At least for you, I can be.”

You smile, eyes gazing at his lips. Dave lets out a quiet chuckle and moves a hand to your cheek, thumb brushing against your soft skin. “If you wanna kiss me again, baby, just do it.”

You roll your eyes playfully and lean in to press your lips firmly against his own—this time, more rushed, desperate. Dave growls lowly against your lips, his hand on your hip moving to reach back to squeeze your ass. You quietly let out a moan and he uses this chance to slide his tongue past your lips—hand moving from your cheek to tangle itself in your hair.

“Gonna be real hard for me to let you go after this,” he mumbles, breaking the kiss momentarily to press kisses along your jawline. Dave glances up in your direction and he smirks—he sees the way you tilt your head back, eyes shut, and your lips slightly agape as a quiet whimper leaves your lips.

“Dave,” you moan quietly, feeling his teeth graze your pulse point along the side of your neck.

He presses one last kiss on your throat before he pulls away. Dave bites his lower lip and watches you open your eyes.

“Robby’s out of town this weekend,” you tell him. “I can have the sitter watch Mateo.”

A large grin spreads on his lips. “Dinner at my place?” he asks.

“It’s a date,” you smile.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal character fanfiction #ppcu fanfiction #ppcu fandom #dave york #dave york fanfiction #dave york fanfic #equalizer 2 #equalizer 2 fanfiction #equalizer 2 fanfic #dave york x female reader #dave york x reader #dave york x f!reader #dave york x fem!reader #dave york smut #givealittlelovechallenge #story: eyes on you

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winterscaptain · 1 month ago

Text

all hearts.

Aaron Hotchner x Gender Neutral!Reader a joyful future fic

a/n: sorry it's late! stay tuned for a poll tonight!!

beta'd by @ssaic-jareau, my dearest love and keeper of the ajf keys

words: 3k content advisories: language, intense eye contact, gambling

summary: “life is not always a matter of holding good cards, but sometimes, playing a poor hand well.” — jack london. april 7th, 2012

The hum of the jet is steady, almost soothing. Derek and Emily are curled on opposite ends of the couch, semi-dozing, with Penelope in the middle. Dave has a toothpick and a crossword resting on his chest, sleeping. Spencer is nose-deep in a battered paperback, one knee bouncing.

You and Aaron have claimed the little table, a deck of cards spread out between you, loose change and a couple of granola bars forming the pot. Your legs stretch under the table until your calf brushes against his. Neither of you moves. The contact lingers, warm and familiar.

He deals with precision—five cards, always neatly stacked. It’s so Aaron it makes your chest ache. You pick yours up, fan them slowly. You watch him do the same.

And grin.

"Aaron," you say, voice pitched low, "you have terrible cards."

His brow arches, amused. "Do I?"

"You do. You get that little furrow when you're bluffing." You point with your pinky. "Right there."

His lips twitch like he might argue, but instead—shockingly—he laughs. A real one. Low and warm, like it bubbles from somewhere deep.

The vibration of it echoes in your chest.

"Three, please," he says, the laugh still in his voice.

You deal him three new cards and two of your own.

"Well?" you prompt.

He sighs and lays his cards down.

Garbage. A two of hearts, a seven of spades, jack of diamonds, four of clubs, and a mismatched queen. A statistical disaster.

You cluck your tongue and tear into your winnings—a granola bar he was never going to eat.

Next hand, you speak casually, not even looking up as you deal. "You've been letting me win." It's not a question.

His silence is louder than denial.

You glance up. "You have." Also not a question.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The reply is smooth, but also wildly untrue.

“You beat Morgan. Routinely. You outplayed Dave in Denver, but that’s no achievement, and you caught Spencer counting cards last fall.”

“That was blackjack.”

“Still. You’re due for at least one win against me. Statistically speaking.”

He studies you like a profile—layer by layer, careful not to show his hand.

“I like when you win,” he says, soft.

You blink.

“You get this smug little look on your face. It's very cute.”

You bark a laugh, caught off-guard—not by the words, but by the way he says them. Like it’s more than a compliment. Like it’s a confession. His foot nudges yours under the table. The subtle touch startles something in your chest. You nudge back, equal parts challenge and affection.

“Careful, baby. People might start thinking you have a weakness.”

“They’d be right.” His voice is quiet, like a shared secret. He looks at you, the eye contact heavy. “It’s you.”

He starts to shuffle again, gaze pinned to yours. You keep it, trying to stay collected. He’s fighting for the same thing, but he’s a little better at it.

You lean in, elbows on the table. “I want to beat you for real. Then you’ll see how smug I can actually get.”

His eyebrows lift, the faintest flicker of something fond sparking in his eyes. “That wasn’t your final form?”

“Not even close.” But you think he knows that.

He huffs a quiet laugh, not looking away.

“Well,” he murmurs, “if you want to earn it…” He slides your fifth card across the table like it’s loaded. “You’ll have to catch me when I’m actually trying.”

You lift the corner of one card, smothering a grin. “Game on, Hotchner.”

You fan your hand. Pair of eights, off-suit. Middling.

“Two,” you say.

He replaces them without comment.

You don’t ask if he wants to draw. You already know. You deal two and pause, waiting. He nods, small. You deal another. He checks the corners and drops his two originals.

“You didn’t even look at your cards.”

“I did," he insists.

“Not really.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you’re full of shit,” you say sweetly. “And trying to bluff me with hot garbage.”

To your delight, he laughs again.

“I’m right,” you sing, pointing at him.

He flips his hand: a seven, a three, a jack, a five, and a nine. An insult to the game.

“I wasn’t bluffing,” he says. “I was praying.”

You snort. “That’s not even close to playable.”

“I was hoping you’d fold. It worked once.”

You collect the cards and hand them to him with a smack in his waiting palm. “Once, I thought you had a soul.”

Aaron shuffles like he’s done it a thousand times (he has), cuts the deck with one hand (show off), and deals with such controlled precision that if it weren’t so hot, it’d be annoying.

You narrow your eyes. “You still let me win that one.”

Aaron meets your gaze. “What makes you think I let you win?”

“Beyond the statistical improbability of you getting all these bad hands, Derek. JJ. Spencer. They told me. Apparently, you win at least half the time with everyone else, but against me?” You tilt your head. “You’re worse than Rossi.”

“Maybe I just play worse when I’m distracted.”

“Excuse me?” He just looks at you. You pick up your cards. “That better not be flirting. I’m about to wipe the floor with you.”

Aaron leans in, voice low. “No mercy, then?”

“None,” you promise, looking at him from under your lashes. “Full capacity. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Aaron’s eyes lock on yours. Not playful now—searching.

“None.” he repeats, but it’s not a question.

It’s a challenge.

The table falls into an electric quiet. His knuckles graze yours when he leans in. Neither of you moves. The space between you shrinks and holds.

This time, you watch him transform.

He’s engaged now. Focused. Body angled forward. Shoulders squared. Not bluffing, not pretending—this is him, fully present. It’s exhilarating.

You draw. He draws. He bets. You raise.

He studies you with a profiler’s eye, dissecting tells you didn’t know you had. You fire back, sharp and teasing.

“You’re reading me like a suspect.”

He smiles. “You’re a worthy opponent.”

You hum, intrigued. “Still letting me win?”

“No.” A beat. “I’m trying. For real.”

Good.

The hand plays fast. You lay down your cards with confidence. “Three sixes.”

“Full house,” he says calmly, laying out his own hand. “Kings over sevens.”

You stare at the cards. At him. At the casual way he re-stacks his hand like he didn’t just mop the floor with you.

“No,” you say.

Aaron raises an eyebrow. “No?”

“No, because you’ve never pulled a full house on me. Not once. Not even close.” You gesture wildly. “That’s—that’s a statistical anomaly.”

He shrugs. “I told you. You wanted me to try.”

“I didn’t say succeed.”

He laughs again—he's in rare form—and reaches over to collect the cards. “Best two out of three?”

You nod. “And when I beat you for real—you’ll see smug.”

“Oh,” Aaron says, shuffling with maddening ease, “I’m counting on it. One-Love."

You deal. The jet hums around you like a metronome.

You flick your cards up. Your stomach lurches.

Ace of hearts. Queen of hearts. Ten of hearts. Three of clubs. Nine of hearts.

Your pulse kicks up. Four to a flush.

Aaron glances up, just once. Cool, casual. But there’s something in the flick of his eyes that makes you wonder if he already knows.

You’re not used to him being this hard to read. This deliberately opaque.

“Draw?”

You tap one card.

He replaces it for you and discards his own. One.

Interesting.

He looks at his replacement, then sets his cards down—face down—for now. His expression remains unreadable.

You slide your fingers along the edge of your card. You’re barely breathing.

You lift it.

Jack of hearts.

Your spine straightens.

You keep your face neutral. Say nothing. Just tip your head and place your bet without ceremony.

Aaron matches, then raises.

Bold move.

You raise him right back.

He watches you. Really watches. You can feel the weight of his eyes tracking every breath, every twitch of your knuckles, every blink.

Then, to your surprise, he calls.

You fan out your cards like you’re laying down a royal decree.

“Flush,” you say coolly, five hearts cascading like a prize. “Ace-high.”

Aaron lays down his hand without a word.

Pair of queens.

You blink.

He had to know he was beat. And he still called you? Was he testing you?

“I didn’t think you had it,” he says softly, almost like he’s impressed. “You didn’t blink.”

“That’s because I didn’t have to bluff.”

“One-One," he says.

You say it softly—“Tiebreaker?”—and his gaze flicks to your mouth before returning to your eyes

He nods. “Tiebreaker.”

You deal again. Calm. Centered.

The hand is good. Two pair—kings and eights. Then you draw.

Eight of diamonds.

Full house.

Aaron’s posture stays composed. But his eyes—his eyes flicker.

You bet. He raises. You raise. He calls.

You lay it out. “Full house. Kings over eights.”

Aaron stares. Then laughs. A real one. “You have got to be kidding me.”

The sound of his laugh coils in your diaphragm, warm and solid.

“Best three out of five?” he asks.

You smile, pulling the pot toward you with a hand. “Only if you really try.”

“Oh, you haven’t even seen smug yet," he murmurs, eyes locked on yours with a look that burns—measured, deliberate, and just shy of a dare.

You match it. “Then let’s play.”

Aaron shuffles like a man with something to prove. You can hear the snap of the cards, precise and steady, the flex of his fingers confident in a way that makes you narrow your eyes.

You’re onto him.

He deals.

You fan your cards. Draw two.

You glance up at him. His expression hasn’t changed, but there’s something too relaxed in his posture. He’s either bluffing—or he has something dangerous.

Your instincts say bluff, but the goosebumps on your arms say danger.

Still, you lead the bet. One chip scrap.

He matches.

You raise.

He raises back. Instantly.

You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re not suddenly this fortunate.”

He just sips his coffee. Doesn't blink. “Your move.”

There's something there, behind his eyes. Is he that good? You hesitate, your breath catching, then call. “Alright, Hotchner. Let’s see it.”

He watches your face. Something in his expression shifts—admiration, regret, something private. You've lost.

Then he lays his cards down.

Straight. Six through ten. Mixed suits.

You groan, falling back against the seat with a dramatic sigh. “You’re kidding.”

He shrugs, gathering the cards again. “You’ll get another chance.”

“Oh, you can bet on it,” you grumble, half-laughing. "You're just lucky."

"I am, but that has nothing to do with the cards," he says, looking at you significantly. You stuff a smile. "Or maybe I’ve just been holding back longer than you thought.”

You shoot him a narrow look. “Now that’s a bluff.”

He smiles. Shrugs. And deals again. Another tiebreaker.

Each card flies from his hand with the same precision you’ve seen him use to disarm a suspect or slip his badge to local PD. His expression is back to that perfectly calm center—serene, unreadable, completely in control.

You lift your hand.

Queen of clubs. Queen of diamonds. Five of spades. Seven of hearts. Jack of spades.

Another two pair.

You glance at Aaron. He’s studying you this time, not his cards. Like he’s already seen what he needs to and is gauging you instead of the numbers in his hand.

You raise your brow. “Draw?”

He discards two. You match him, tossing the five and seven.

When he deals your replacements, the first card practically sings in your palm—Queen of spades.

Trip queens.

Oh, he’s in trouble.

You keep your reaction locked down, drop your new cards neatly into place, and rest your chin on your knuckles. “Your bet.”

Aaron tosses in two napkin-chip scraps and leans back, casual as anything.

You match. Raise one. He watches. Matches. Raises you back.

Oh, we’re really doing this.

You raise again. He matches. Raises.

The pot is growing. Neither of you are blinking. It’s gone eerily quiet around the table, the low hum of the jet pressing in around you.

You meet his eyes. He doesn’t flinch.

+++

Dave has heard most of the game, his sleep light. He cracks an eyelid, watches Aaron closely—not just his hands, not just the cards, but the man. Every flick of the eyes, every recalibrated breath. There’s history here. Not just between you and Aaron, but in Aaron himself.

Dave remembers Haley. He’s seen Aaron love with caution, with reverence, with a quiet kind of terror.

But this? This is Aaron choosing ease.

You don’t look at him like he might break. You push him. Tease him. Laugh when he bluffs and don’t flinch when he shows his teeth. And Aaron? He lets you.

Dave’s been around long enough to know what it looks like when a man rebuilds himself from ashes. But he also knows the rare, sacred moment when that man chooses softness again. Willingly. Without armor.

You’re not just winning this hand. You’re winning him.

+++

You call.

“Let’s see it, Hotchner.”

He lays down his hand.

Two pair. Jacks and nines.

Your grin breaks before you can help it.

“Trips,” you say, flipping your three queens. “You’re so screwed.”

Aaron exhales through his nose—half a scoff, half a laugh—as he leans back in his chair. “I didn’t see that third queen coming.”

“You never do.”

He smiles. For real. A little teeth, even. “Remind me never to underestimate you.”

You lean in just slightly, stacking your winnings. “Please do. I like winning too much.”

2–3. Best of seven now. The table warmer. The looks longer. You’re toeing the line—and he’s letting you.

He wins the sixth hand.

By the time he deals the third tiebreaker, JJ stirs. Emily cracks an eye.

Derek perks up. He pulls his headphones down around his neck. "You two still going?"

Emily slides over to the nearest seat with a tired but amused groan. “Did I miss the dramatic reveal?”

“Hotch’s reign of suspiciously convenient losses has ended,” you say dryly. “We’re tied.”

“And I’m not folding this time,” Aaron adds, expression unreadable, but there’s a glint in his eye now that wasn’t there five hands ago. Something fond. Competitive. Engaged.

Penelope, still cross-legged on the couch with a blanket up to her nose, whispers to Spencer, “This is like Christmas.”

You breathe in, center yourself. Aaron fans his cards with one hand. You do the same.

Your heart thumps.

Queen of spades. Queen of diamonds. Five of hearts. Seven of spades. Three of diamonds.

Yes.

You school your face.

Aaron watches you.

He discards one.

You raise your eyebrow.

One? Interesting.

You discard two. The five and the three.

He gives you your replacements.

Queen of clubs. King of hearts.

Trip queens. Again. Not unbeatable, but strong. Solid. The air around the table shifts. Everyone’s watching now. Derek can see your cards. You sit up a little straighter.

Aaron’s eyes flick over you like a scan. “You always sit up when you’ve got a good hand.”

You smirk. “You always talk more when you’re bluffing.”

“And you always bite your lip when you’re holding.” He says it like he’s been cataloging you. (He has.) Like he knows what else you do when you’re trying not to smile.

The team oohs.

Emily leans forward. “Someone get popcorn.”

+++

You don’t see it, not the way Derek does. Not from the outside. You’re locked in, hyperfocused, eyes on Aaron like the cards barely matter. Like the game is just an excuse.

Derek’s seen you like this in the field—assessing, recalibrating, playing your angles—but this? This is different.

Hotch is gone. This is Aaron. And you… you’re the only person he plays like this for. The only one who draws him in close, dares him to let go, makes him try.

It hits him all at once, the shift.

This is foreplay with cards.

Aaron’s usual tells are gone, cleaned up and tucked away. But he’s leaning closer now. Letting himself laugh. Holding your gaze like he’s balancing a confession on the edge of his tongue. And you? You’re grinning like you already know the secret.

Derek’s been trying to figure out what you see in him since your chat. Not Hotch—the leader, the legend—but Aaron, the man. And now he's starting to get it.

It’s in how Aaron watches you. How he folds under your smile. How he reshuffles, recalculates, redraws the line between vulnerability and control just to keep pace with you.

Whatever this is, it’s not just poker. And it sure as hell isn’t casual.

+++

Aaron raises two chips (actual potato chips now). You raise three.

He doesn’t hesitate. He calls. “Let’s see it.”

You fan out your queens like a fan of knives, glittering and lethal. “Three ladies.”

There’s a beat.

Then Aaron lays his cards down, neat and even.

Straight flush. Six through ten. All hearts.

The silence is deafening, but it only lasts a moment.

JJ gasps. Emily drops her head to the table. Penelope shrieks. Spencer starts calculating the odds out loud. Derek's head tips back in defeat.

And you just… stare at the cards. Then at Aaron. Then back to the cards.

You flop back in your seat with a groan of epic proportions. “That is so unfair. You’ve been sandbagging for years.”

He shrugs modestly. “Statistical anomaly.”

The table loses it. Derek jostles your shoulder and you let him, keeping your eyes on Aaron. His smile is soft, at odds with his brutal, hard-fought victory.

You can’t even be mad. You’re too busy trying not to laugh.

You sit back up, reach across the table, and flip his cards face-down with a single finger. “Rematch. Next flight.”

“Looking forward to it,” he murmurs.

And you know—he means that in more ways than one.

+++

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