Mind Blind Saucy Side: Ambrose Version

“Desk Job”

Featuring: Ambrose and Button

Your meeting with Ambrose 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. Ambrose called you to his 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, Ambrose informs you with one of his signature (adorable) frowns, do not follow protocol.

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

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

His eyes thaws at your coy smile, although he attempts to conceal your effect on him by deepening his scowl.

“It’s your job as Alavidze’s MIV to make certain that she files reports in accordance with Unity guidelines,” he 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 his exposed forearm, and Ambrose’s skin prickles beneath your teasing touch.

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

“You were my student.” His breath catches as your fingers reach his elbow, dipping beneath the fabric where his 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 Ambrose’s self-control.

He grabs your collar and drags you the remaining few inches across his desk, his lips crashing into yours. You’re hazily cognizant of a dull metal clang as his nameplate falls into the wastebin, knocked aside by either your torso or his elbow. Ambrose’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 his insistent kiss.

Sensing your discomfort, Ambrose loosens his grip on your collar. You gasp, before his 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 Ambrose Kim.

Thus, you mount a strategic offense of your own. Your fingers bury in his short hair, disheveling its combed immaculacy, and your nails scrape against his scalp.

Ambrose groans brokenly.

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

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

Ambrose often kisses you with his eyes open. It took some getting used to—at first, you’d felt self-conscious and vulnerable. He 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 Ambrose’s stare, you’d seen awe. Adoration. Worship, even. Now, feeling him pressed against you is often no longer enough: you want to watch his eyes trail over your body in effort to memorize your form, see the sheen that forms upon his brow, and immortalize the tendons on the back of his hands. You want to witness how he occasionally pulls back simply to gaze at you in wonder.

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

“Forget protocol.” 

Ambrose 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.” His lips capture yours once more. “Except us.”