Mind Blind Saucy Side: Ambrosia Version

“Desk Job”

Featuring: Ambrosia and Button

Your meeting with Ambrosia begins with a kiss. It ends with the flagrant, torrid misuse and semi-destruction of Unity property.

Of course, the meeting wasn’t supposed to start with a kiss. Ambrosia called you to her office over an issue related to paperwork from your latest mission. Sally, it seemed, had yet again forgotten to sign her name on the dotted line (although she had decorated the margin of her report with a delicately-doodled daisy chain).

Daisy chains, Ambrosia informs you with one of her signature (adorable) frowns, do not follow protocol.

You move her name plaque to the side and lean across her desk.

“Protocol, Instructor?” you say, using a title that you haven’t called her in years. “Is protocol truly so important?”

Her eyes thaws at your coy smile, although she attempts to conceal your effect on her by deepening her scowl.

“It’s your job as Alavidze’s MIV to make certain that she files reports in accordance with Unity guidelines,” she says.

Your smile widens, and your voice lowers to a husky purr. “Oh, yes. I forgot how much you love paperwork.” Your fingers creep up the length of her exposed forearm, and Ambrosia’s skin prickles beneath your teasing touch.

A mischievous impulse overtakes you. “Instructor Kim loves paperwork so much,” you continue glibly, “that she wouldn’t even agree to date me until it was filed in triplicate.”

“You were my student.” Her breath catches as your fingers reach her elbow, dipping beneath the fabric where her rolled-up shirtsleeve ends.

You pretend to pout. “Rosy, sometimes I think that you love paperwork more than you love me.”

Your words, as expected, snap what remains of Ambrosia’s self-control.

She grabs your collar and drags you the remaining few inches across her desk, her lips crashing into yours. You’re hazily cognizant of a dull metal clang as her nameplate falls into the wastebin, knocked aside by either your torso or her elbow. Ambrosia’s fist twists the fabric of your shirt, making it slightly difficult to breathe. Yet lack of oxygen seems a petty reason to tear yourself away from her insistent kiss.

Sensing your discomfort, Ambrosia loosens her grip on your collar. You gasp, before her other hand grips your chin firmly, keeping you in place and refusing to let you retreat for air.

Retreat isn’t allowed when you’re kissing Ambrosia Kim.

Thus, you mount a strategic offense of your own. Your fingers bury within her long hair, releasing it from its bun in a cascade of bobby pins, and your nails scrape against her scalp.

Ambrosia groans brokenly.

Your lips curve into a smile as she buries her face into the crook of your neck. Victory is yours.

“Forget paperwork,” Ambrosia mutters, before she assaults the defensive formation of your grin. Her tongue darts to the corner of your mouth like a lick of flame; her teeth nip your lower lip hard enough to make your nerve endings tingle. But her hand on your chin loosens, tenderly cradling your face as she watches you.

Ambrosia often kisses you with her eyes open. It took some getting used to—at first, you’d felt self-conscious and vulnerable. She was so aware of you, attuned to your every uninhibited response and involuntary moan.

The awkwardness persisted until you’d managed to keep your eyes open long enough to look back. In Ambrosia’s stare, you’d seen awe. Adoration. Worship, even. Now, feeling her pressed against you is often no longer enough: you want to watch her eyes trail over your body in effort to memorize your form, see the sheen that forms upon her brow, and immortalize the tendons on the back of her hands. You want to witness how she occasionally pulls back simply to gaze at you in wonder.

“Forget protocol?” you manage to gasp out. You’ll accept nothing less than her total surrender.

“Forget protocol.” 

Ambrosia pushes you back and meets you at the desk’s center, so that your neck no longer needs to awkwardly stretch. “Forget everything, except this.” Her lips capture yours once more. “Except us.”