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hannie-dul-set · 28 days ago

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fire and brimstone (and you’re a moth made of gasoline) — ONE.

SYNOPSIS. having fought tooth and nail out of high school, university, and law school, only to end up working for a law firm that basically serves as a clean up dog after the biggest organized crime group in the district, you thought you couldn’t get any lower than this.

the bar is in hell, and yet you’ve managed to limbo six feet beneath that. alternatively— na jaemin is the personification of hell, and your very existence just makes him even worse than he already is.

PAIRING. na jaemin x female! reader. GENRE. gang! au, lawyer! au, office! au, comedy, drama, romance, very light angst, this is a sitcom, hate to love(?), a somewhat questionable power dynamic, asshole! jaemin (my beloved…my kryptonite…) but he’s also an idiot, jaemin has an eye contact thing, inspired by the manhwas “weak hero” and “study group.” WARNINGS. an abundance of criminal activity (including but not limited to organized crime, fraud, blackmail, DUIs, unethical and illegal occupational practices, etc.), blood and violence, suggestive themes, eventual non explicit sex, jaemin with a tattoo, legal inaccuracies because i am not familiar with south korean laws, so i’m just using my own country’s as reference. also because this is just a stupid thirst fic. who gives a damn. WORD COUNT. 9k.

NOTE. my goal for this fic is to make as many male characters either detestable or unesttling, and make you like them against your will. in other words, meet mark and doyoung HAHAHAHAH. this is mostly still exposition!!! establishing facts and relationships and dynamics and whatnot. more jaemin next chapter. too much jaemin, even. anyway, enjoy! CHAPTER TWO.

IT’S SUPPOSED TO BE YOUR OFF DAY TODAY. You’re on sick leave— that is, sick and tired of drafting legal papers, meeting clients, reading piles and piles of documents every single damn week, so you decided to use your once-a-month get out of jail free card to stay in bed playing Stardew Valley. It’s pre-planned. You’ve already faked sneezes and coughing fits at the office yesterday. You’ve already called your Division Chief this morning. Kim Doyoung can’t do shit when you’re allegedly bedridden and downtrodden with a fever. He can eat his own ass and suck it.

“You have a new case,” he informs you over the phone. “It’s from Nalkkeutta.”

Or so you thought.

“Hah,” a weak wheeze squirms out of your throat. “Sure. Okay. Got it.”

Motherfucking son of a bitch. Those two lines spring you out of bed immediately as though your bones have just been tased. God dammit. You’ve just managed to snag Sebastian into wedlock. How dare he throw another job at you right now? How dare he ruin your sweet, sweet honeymoon with the emotionally constipated 2D man of your dreams?

Still. It doesn’t matter if you just got married or have a collapsing lung right now. You haul your ass, get dressed, get out, and get into your car to drive to your district’s police station in a hissy fit, as per your boss, Kim Doyoung’s, instructions. This damned firm is working you like a dog, but you can’t bite the hand that feeds you. And neither can Kim Doyoung.

“Yes, sir, I’m on my way. Are the files ready? Can you send them to me?”

This case came from Nalkkeutta. NCT. Nal. Day. Kkeut. End. Ta. To burn. The day ends in flames. It’s a name that haunts the streets of Yeongdeungpo. It’s a name that’s synonymous with loan sharking, weapons dealing, and coughing up protection fees unless you want to get your shit rocked on an unfortunate walk home— under the guise of an honest to goodness security company to service your protective needs.

In the early 90’s, the government had a massive crackdown on gang activity and organized crime, subsequently snuffing out any emerging organized crime presence by officially criminalizing the mere act of joining a gang under the Revised Penal Code. But Nalkkeutta is relatively new. That scorching sunset symbol suddenly emerged in the district one day, around eight to nine years ago, and it’s marred the district of Yeongdeungpo with burn marks ever since.

And your life. You haven’t been lucky enough to be spared from that damned gang’s mess. In fact, you’re currently entangled with one of their messes right now.

The glass doors of the Yeongdeungpo Police Station shut behind you. You’re smacked hard in the face far too artificial lighting and sickly white walls and the words Patriotism, Justice, Honor mocking you in embossed silver. You grimace, cross your arms, divert your eyes with an impatient tap of the foot— and your arrival doesn’t exactly come unrecognized by the front desk and the others scattered around the lobby. One officer takes immediate initiative upon seeing your familiar sour expression, rustling out of a conversation to attend to you.

“Hey, attorney. How may we help you?”

You eye the man. You’ve come to know him by name— Jung Jaehyun— even without needing to take a peek at his uniform’s name tag. You spare him and yourself the small talk and jump straight to business. “I’m here to see my client,” you inform, followed by under-the-breath swears as you fumble through your phone for the e-file Doyoung had just sent because Nalkkeutt had the gall to demand you to run and fetch the bone they left behind here without even giving you the chance to look at it. Seriously. If they want you to do a good job, they should be more punctual than this. “His name is—”

Huh. You read the top line of the document. A lump forms in your throat. You read it again. Once more. And the letters neither shift nor fold, confirming with absolute certainty that you read the name of your client correctly.

It’s a name you haven’t heard of in a while. It’s name that stalked the corridors of the place you’d bid good riddance to eight years ago with a spit on the concrete ground.

“Na Jaemin.” There’s a bitter taste on your tongue when you pronounce his name— like your very digestive system can’t stomach it, rejects it, and wants to vomit it right back out. “His name is Na Jaemin.”

A nod from Jung Jaehyun. He turns his heels and leads you further into the station.

Empty footsteps echo against the slowly dimming hall leading to the private visiting rooms. The silence pricks at your memories— an uncomfortable sound you’ve grown accustomed to in the two years you’ve spent at Ganghak High School. It’s been eight damn years since you’ve graduated, yet one mention of a name reels you back into the past with a vividness that’s still as clear as the present.

In your memories, Na Jaemin was the guy who carried with him a pungent air of animosity and violence in his wake. On paper, he is your client, a member of the power-drunk gang that you’re tied by the noose with, and someone you have to defend. At present, he is sits right before you— tight-browed, tight-lipped underneath the singular light bulb hovering above the center of the table, looking as though he’s one clock tick away from flipping the table over (the only thing maintaining a safe distance between the both of you), and leaving on his own accord.

Your eyes meet. Your head snaps down to avoid his gaze.

“Good day, Na Jaemin-ssi,” you manage to choke out. “I will be your lawyer for the case against Yoon Naksung and company.”

You’re not sure how you feel when there isn’t even a click of recognition on his part when you introduce yourself and mention your name. You realize that what you’re feeling is a mixture of fear, relief, and absolute revulsion when he responds with, “So, when the fuck am I getting out?”

There’s a ring in your ears.

It’s the sound of your heart trying to escape from your chest.

You inhale sharply. Fuck. You’re not sure if you have the willpower to push through this, and you can’t even ease your nerves or melt your frozen bloodstream with a sigh because he’s staring right at you— impatient, as though he’s counting down the seconds in his head after a one-sided declaration that you have a limited time to willingly answer before he forces it out of you by the throat.

That fucking looking in his eyes. That damned stare that instinctively triggers you to look down, look away, look anywhere else but directly at him. It’s a habit that everyone in Ganghak used to have. It’s a habit that’s still deeply instilled in your psyche, in your muscles, in your instincts to the point that despite being the person in authority at the moment, you have your head down, throat dry, and doing your damn best to read his case file despite the letters looking all wobbly from your anxiety.

Disturbing the peace. Three counts of physical injury. Less serious. Thank fuck. That makes things a little bit more hopeful, but that doesn’t mean you’re free from hell. Hell is sitting right in front of you, handcuffed because the cops have deemed his very existence a threat to public order and safety. You muster up a bit more confidence knowing he can’t reach over the table to sock you in the face.

“You’re an alleged offender, Na Jaemin-ssi. You’d have to be detained until the trial.”

Na Jaemin sneers, a kick against the table leg with a grunt. “Fucking useless,” he spits. His chair is tipped back, head turned away. You firmly press your lips together. You wish he’d just completely tip over and crash his skull and die.

For someone currently detained for a possible criminal offense, Na Jaemin sure seems very much unbothered yet annoyed at the same time. He sits relaxed on the foldable chair, shoulders slumped as if he owns the place, and he stifles out a lazy yawn— drawing attention to his busted lips and handful of scratches littered all over his cheekbone, temple, and forehead— a stark contrast to the vibrant purple splotch painting over his right jaw. You make a mental note to schedule a physical examination on his ass to record his injuries.

“But…I can make sure you don’t get arrested” You proceed with caution. His evident annoyance is flecked with momentary interest. You suck in a deep breath. “Were there any other people involved besides you and the three witnesses? Was anyone else there?”

You’re not sure what you were expecting as a response. Whatever it’d be, you just hope you get some useful information. Any sort of information. However, it seems like you just asked the wrong question.

“The fuck? Hell, if I know.”

All that interest is eradicated by a sharp glare. Na Jaemin lets out a huff and a sneer. You’re stressed. You’re beyond stressed. This is impossible. Of all people, why did it have to be him? Back then, you’d always had a feeling that he was part of something sketchy, whether it be some ragtag juvenile group or whatever the fuck. You didn’t care enough to find out. But, christ jesus, he just had to be in fucking Nalkkeut.

That sun tattoo sprawled on the back of his impatient hand— the gang’s symbol, sun rays etched into the bumps of his veins and calloused skin— tap, tap, tapping on the table with the clunk of his handcuffs tells you that he isn’t just some disposable grunt either. The urgency in Kim Doyoung’s tone when he called earlier confirms that dreadful conjecture as well. He’s up there. Way up there, and you have no choice but to fight back the urge to swallow your own tongue.

“I—I understand. That’s fine. Then…can I ask what events led to the incident?” you tentatively try to prod, taking a peek at his expression to see if you’re greenlit to ask this. His face brightens up. One corner of his mouth twitches upward, revealing a sliver of teeth. You flinch. He looks deranged.

“That bucket wearing dumbass looked me in the eye,” he starts, smiling. “So I punched him right in the socket. Then his friends decided that they wanted a beating too.”

Na Jaemin is leaning back on the flimsy plastic chair as if he’s reminiscing a happy memory. Jesus christ. He’s always been like this, but it never fails to scare you shitless. You’ve always wondered why he was so insane, but the fact that he currently is and has been in Nalkeutta explains a lot of the things you’ve seen in high school. No high schooler had any business pulling up the gate with a BMW, nor was it reasonable for anyone at your age at the time to afford at least five Cartier watches considering the neighborhood you were in. Yet Na Jaemin and his lackey’s always showed up in the days that he thought was convenient in some sort of Chanel tracksuit and dozens of gold and silver accessories.

You were lucky enough to have never gotten punched in the nose with the absurd amount of rings on his fingers— a taste which he seems to carry until today, you notice while keeping your eyes down and trained on the table. They aren’t allowed to keep any personal belongings in the holding cells, jewelry included, fucking obviously. How this guy managed to keep his is beyond your imagination.

“So, it wasn’t one-sided,” you try to confirm, try to get a good enough testimony to help his and your sorry ass in court. “Can you testify their participation during the trial?”

Wrong move. Very wrong move.

You jump in your seat when he suddenly lurches forward, chained palms slamming against the rocky table with a loud thump and a clink. “Hey, Little Miss Attorney. Listen very carefully,” he rasps. He’s leaned in closer now, making it a hundred times more difficult to keep your head down and not look him in the eye. “I beat all three of them half to death, and that’s all that matters. This question and answer bullshit is pissing me off. Are we done here? Can you fucking leave now?”

You’re scared shitless. You really are. It’s two years worth of trauma suddenly jumping you from behind a wall and throttling the air out of your lungs— of course you’re fucking terrified, and Na Jaemin can smell it like the rabid dog he is.

The problem is, he isn’t the worst of your fears. This mutt is leashed to an owner that would have your head as a dinner treat if you don’t manage to get him out of this stupid cage. So you don’t have much of a choice in the matter. Damned to hell if you do, damned to an even deeper hell if you don’t.

“Na Jaemin-ssi,” you start. Your jaw is tight. It takes everything in your power to force it open and speak. “I need you to cooperate with me so I can get you out of here. Help me help you, alright?”

You’ve really been trying your best to phrase your sentences in a way that doesn’t sound demanding, that you’re leaving it hp to him because you know this bastard doesn’t like being told what to do. But your careful attempts don’t matter against a volatile son of a bitch. “Why’d you even need my help? Ain’t that shit your job?“ he barbs, a slight scoff hanging off at the end. “Seems like Mark hired a useless fucking lawyer.”

Twice. He just called you useless twice. The sheer level of offense you feel momentarily overpowers your nerves— a biting tick near the side of your temple, and you dig your fingers into the clothed skin of your thigh.

The Mark he’s referencing did not hire you because you’re useless. In fact, that guy regularly asks for you specifically whenever his gang is caught in any civil or criminal trouble because you’re the only damned attorney willing to get her hands dirty to find an out— and competent enough to pull it off in exchange for an extra zero on your commission.

Meaning, this bastard is at your mercy. And he has the audacity to piss you the fuck off.

“Strike a nerve?”

Apparently, you failed to hide the scowl polluting your expression. When you sneak a glance at Na Jaemin, he appears to be amused at his successful non-attempt to get under your skin, a lazy, lopsided grin on his face.

You get it together. Mark Lee, that fucking bastard. It had been fine for the past few months when all you’ve had to mediate were petty settlements and bails and lesser criminal offenses, but you’ve never had to deal with one of his executives directly before— who just so happened to be your high school bully, at that. You close your eyes shut, press your lips together, and release a deep breath from out of your nose as you stand up.

“I’ll handle it. There’s nothing for you to worry about, but I will need to arrange a meeting with you again before the trial.”

Na Jaemin simply shrugs and waives you off. Your tight lips force themselves into a smile as you nod and stomp your way out.

Fucking bastard, fucking piece of shit, fucking, god damn it—

You leave the station with a jumbled up head and with all your five senses screaming themselves into oblivion. Shit. Fuck. What the fuck. Had Kim Doyoing emailed you the file a lot earlier, you wouldn’t have gone here and welcomed yourself directly into hell. You could try to settle with the victims, but in case they won’t agree to a compromise, you’d have to pull a defense out of your ass considering that your client is the most uncooperative asshole you’ve ever been cursed to deal with.

It doesn’t help that spending two years in high school with Na Jaemin is reopening pages and pages of trauma that you thought you’d successfully managed to file away— stored in a safety vault in a little corner of your head that need not be reopened. But just meeting him— talking to him directly when you’ve never even dared to before— brought a rusty crowbar to that vault, mercilessly ripping it apart.

Having cancelled your off day, the car ride to your office building is spent thinking about how to scrape up a case to defend the bastard you thought you’d finally been freed from eight years ago. The bastard who’d made the last two years of high school a literal level hell of dread and desperation.

Even for Nalkkeutta, this has got to be the worst kind of torture anyone could ask for.

*‎

The next morning, Nalkkeutta’s boss is gracious enough to answer your request for a meeting.

Mark Lee shows up to the conference room of JSS’s Criminal Division, accompanied by a polite knock on the already open door, a humming smile, and a Kim Doyoung— who you very clearly don’t remember inviting to this meeting. Mark enters the room with a good morning. You nod and your eyes skip over him, flitting over to meet your boss’s gaze by the door instead. “You must be very busy, sir. What are you doing here?”

The wrinkle that forms between Doyoung’s eyebrows signifies that he very much understood your polite version of a fuck off. “I just wanted to escort our client,” he replies, adjusting his glasses.

You smile at him. “The escorting usually ends when the client has arrived at their destination.”

Doyoung’s jaw stiffens. Mark seems to be sufficiently entertained by the exchange, attention hopping back and forth between you and your boss. The latter surrenders and ends the episode with a sigh and a nod, completely glossing over you to speak to Mark instead. “Mr. Lee, please let me know if you need anything.”

You hear Mark respond in a pleasant tone, “Don’t worry, I know I’m in good hands,” but you don’t look at him yet. You force the gravity of your gaze onto Doyoung— an unwavering smile that creeps him out just enough to finally give up and leave the room, shutting the door behind him with a click, and finally allowing you to relax your shoulders and sink into the glossy, wooden table.

“Ugh.”

Stuck-up prick. The bane of your fucking existence, had it not been for the reappearance of Na Jaemin, the other capricious asshole in your life. Your head cocks up, hearing the scratching noise of a chair being pulled out. Mark sits right in front of you, maintaining a smile. “Bad morning?” And you finally speak your first words to him, in the form of a raging rant about his hot mess of an executive.

“Hey, be honest, do you want me fired? Do you want me to make my first ever loss? Your employee, Na Jaemin, told me he got into this mess because Yoon Naksung and his friends were looking at him for too long. Does that make sense to you? Is that how a sane man operates? How the hell am I supposed to defend that in court? How the hell am I supposed to defend his ass when he gives me fucking nothing to work with, and all while having the balls to call me useless?”

You’re out of breath by the end of it. Whew. That felt so freaking good.

“Sorry.” You eject yourself out of your tantrum upon hearing Mark’s not-so-apologetic apology. You leer at him from across the table, watching the stillness of his apparent pleasant expression. “Jaemin can be kind of rude sometimes.”

This guy is Nalkkeutta’s boss, you remind yourself. He’s the source of your fattened up bank account and worsened sense of justice and morality for the past five months—

“Rude is an understatement. He’s a fucking piece of shit.”

—and he’s also somewhat your friend.

“I’ve never seen you this angry.” Mark laughs, relaxing into his seat. “Was he that bad?”

Nalkeutta and JSS Law firm’s partnership has existed prior to your employment here. However, you’ve know Nalkkeutta’s boss even before you’ve entered law school, much less started working here. Kim Doyoung doesn’t know this, obviously. Their background check on you did not go as far as finding out your regular patrons throughout the four years you spent working at a run-down cafe-bar downtown throughout the entirety of your undergrad.

The cafe’s name was The Hangman. Pirate-themed, which was used as a frequent justification by your boss to never fix the broken chair legs, unkempt storage boxes, and occasional leaky ceilings. They add to the aesthetic, he says.

Anyhow, it was then that you first met Mark Lee, around three weeks into your first shift. He’d usually come in at around 10 p.m., order an old fashioned at the counter, flash you a pretty and boyish smile, then quietly read on the same spot until one in the morning before thanking you and leaving. Each time, you clock the hardbound cover titles. The Laws of Human Nature. Man’s Search for Meaning. Leviathan. Confessions of an Economic Hit Man.

Frankly, the crap he regularly reads worked better to make him look more daunting than his overall appearance. Mark Lee wore the visage of a cute, college literature major— covered in knit beanies and warm cardigans and all— but carried books and ordered drinks that made him seem like he was fifty-seven years old. The only time you found an opening was the time he finally brought a long something other than self-help or pretentious nonfiction. Kafka on the Shore. “I didn’t peg you as a Murakami guy.”

Mark Lee was taken aback when you first talked to him. He asked what made you say that.

You referenced the previous books he’d been carrying along. He blinked, laughed, then said that he actually preferred reading fiction. He’d only been reading all that obnoxious bullshit (your words) because he was fascinated with the mental gymnastics (his words) some people were capable of, and he was just compelled to read more. You’re still not sure how much of that defense was true, but that doesn’t really matter because your conversations gradually strayed away from books to your daily life instead— your classes and readings and the annoying customers you’d regularly had to deal with at work. It’s mostly you doing the talking, and it’s mostly because you otherwise had no one else to talk to to kill time during your night shifts at The Hangman.

“Was he that bad?” you parrot, sarcastically. “He said that you did a shit job picking a lawyer. You tell me, Mark Lee. Do you think your executive is a stellar guy?”

Mark only laughs. You grunt and slump in your seat, arms crossed as you observe Mark’s expression from across the table. It seems like he doesn’t mind you talking shit about his people this much. His lips are pressed in a perpetual, easygoing smile as he eyes the set of folders and documents on your side. You bite the inside of your cheek. From his appearance alone, you wouldn’t have guessed him to be the head of the most notorious gang in the underbelly of Yeongdeungpo. In fact, you would never have guessed it if you didn’t take an extra shift one day at The Hangman.

You ended up staying later than your usual 2 a.m. to cover for a co-worker. It was a weekend, so you didn’t mind much. Mark Lee hadn’t shown up that night. That is until you saw him come in at the store thirty minutes after two— deviating from his usual routine in more ways than one when he didn’t stop to order a drink, when he was with someone else who you were frankly too intimidated to look at for too long. When he went in and up the staircase at the back of the bar that was otherwise off limits because it led to your boss’s office in the upper area— and none of your supervisors came to stop him nor even attempt to look at him when he came back out with his big, scary companion walking three steps behind him while carrying a large and heavy looking black bag.

This happened a few more times. And Mark Lee would always smile at you when he’d pass by the bar counter. That’s when you knew something was up. But you knew better than to dig your nose into that kind of business.

Unfortunately, you didn’t have the ability to see the future back then.

You look at the guy sitting in front of you right now. Mark Lee’s eyes flit up from your documents to look at you again, hands clasped together and resting gingerly on the conference table. “I’d sincerely like to apologize on his behalf,” he starts. You feel a thump in your chest. “But I hope his uncooperativeness isn’t making it impossible for you to win the case, attorney.”

Yup. That was a threat. Get my errand dog out of jail— even if he bites you in the process, is what he’s trying to say. Mark Lee may have been your bar regular and friend at some point, but right now he is your client— the most important client your firm has ever had the pleasure of receiving. He is not your friend right now. He is your high school bully’s boss. He is the head of the biggest organized crime group in the district. And your law firm is just one of the many cogs running his criminal machinery. One slip up, and he could just wrench you out without a second thought.

“Of course it’s not impossible. What do you think of me?”

You slide the first file you have down the table. Even if Na Jaemin is fucking useless, you’re not letting him ruin your flawless performance record. You’re not letting him give Mark Lee a reason to throw you away.

“What’s this?”

“The witness list. Yoon Naksung, Hong Hyunjae, and Ma Gildong,” you start. “Your dog fucked them up really badly. I already met their lawyer. He was being dodgy about it, but I doubt they’d let him off with a simple settlement.”

A glint flickers in Mark Lee’s eyes are your introduction.

“I already have another meeting scheduled with him this week. I’d like to talk to the three victims personally, but you know I’m not allowed to do that.”

He hums, glossing over your file before setting it back down on the table, fingers pressed firmly on the page as he looks up with a pleasant smile. “When should I take care of them?”

A shiver crawls down your spine. “I’ll let you know depending on how the second meeting goes,” you answer. “Even if the three of them testify, there won’t be enough evidence to prove his guilt beyond reasonable doubt based on what the prosecution has so far. I don’t know why the fuck their counsel is even bothering with this. Na Jaemin would effectively be acquitted from his criminal charges.”

Your client appears to be satisfied, but you’re not done yet.

“However, that won’t absolve him from civil liability.”

No way in hell.

“Yoon Naksung’s party can still sue for damages. And they have enough evidence to guarantee a win. Na Jaemin would be fined at most, and I’m sure it’d be very easy for you to cough up a couple thousand for him. But that’s still a loss for me. And I can’t have that stain on my record.”

Your brows wrinkle. You release a breath.

“Talk to Yoon Naksung. Or Hong Hyunjae. or Ma Gildong, or whatever. It doesn’t matter. It might be hard to get through Yoon since he’s the one fighting the most for this, but the other two would be pretty easy. I hear Ma Gildong’s business isn’t in good shape lately. The address is on the file.” You rise up, leaning forward to reach an arm over. You drop an index finger on the exact spot on the document you were referencing, landing a firm thump on the table. “If the court hears that all of them were all equally beating the shit out of each other in a drunken episode, not remembering who started what, instead of it being a one-sided beating from your exec just because they looked at him wrong—”

Your eyes flit up. You meet Mark’s gaze— unblinking and dilated. You clear your throat and look away.

“Then—then, their case won’t be merited. The court would dismiss it in pari delicto.”

Mark Lee seems pretty fucking happy to hear that. He’s all smiles and applause and it stresses you the fuck out. “I knew I could count on you, attorney.”

You sigh, slumping back down in your seat. “I already have Na Jaemin’s medical report. If you could get at least two of the witnesses to cooperate, that would be great.” Mark responds with a nod and a hum. You sigh again. “We have so many competent lawyers here. Why do you keep specifically asking for me? Next time, go ask Doyoung, or something. I’m tired.” You’d give up this illegal but lucrative money machine just to see Kim Doyoung experience the life-or-death stress you’ve been experiencing these past five months. You really would.

“Because you’re good,” he responds lightly— genuinely. A little too genuine for your liking. Mark shoots you a smile as he tucks his abandoned seat back under the conference table. Uh oh. Here he goes again. “How about officially joining Nalkkeutta as the head of our legal department?”

“Hah,” you snort. “My hands may have gotten dirty, but I can still wash them, Mark Lee.” The look on his face tells you that he isn’t taking you seriously. You leer your eyes. You’re serious. You don’t intend on being Nalkkeut’s clean-up dog forever. Five months ago, you just happened to have shit luck with the desperation to match. Both bad luck and desperation are bound to run out at some point. You just hope they manage to burn out before this guy could burn you alive. “I’ll get back to you once I’ve met with their lawyer again. For the meantime, just keep an eye on the witnesses. Let me know if you find anything of importance.”

His eyes linger on you for a while, still smiling. You know where his head is at. Your grimace— even harder when he asks again to confirm, “So, is that a no?”

“Hell no.”

Mark clicks his tongue. “Worth a shot.” At this point, he’s already halfway out of the conference. “See you again, attorney,” he bids farewell

“God, please, no,” you respond with a grunt. He laughs. The door clicks shut. You groan and become one with the almond table.

How many times has he tried to recruit you already? You’ve lost count. You’re already being regularly run through the wringer at JSS, how much more under Nalkkeut? Jesus, you don’t even want to entertain the thought. So, you busy your head with your current main stressor: the Na Jaemin case. You force your face off the table with a grunt and pull out your ipad to double check the trial schedule. Two weeks from now. Thursday. Fuck all. How did you end up here?

In retrospect, maybe it was actually all your fault. Three months ago— two months into working at JSS Law Firm— you decided that you were sick and tired of being trapped in Kim Doyoung’s legal counsel team as an associate, without being granted any personal recognition or accolades. You wanted to prove your worth. You wanted to get your credit. This time, you’re going to get your first fucking big girl case. Even if it meant discourteously bulldozing into Kim Doyoung’s office like a chihuahua looking for a fight.

Which you did, only to be shell-shocked and surprised to see the face of your old bar counter friend— who might also be a gang leader— in the middle of a very…confidential conversation with your supervisor.

“Attorney, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Too late. You’ve already overheard their conversation. They were discussing a case much like your current one— one of Mark Lee’s executives got caught in the middle of an illegal firearms deal, and Doyoung was having trouble looking for a lawyer stupid enough to take the case.

He shooed you out, but you stayed. You simply had no choice. You had to bite the bullet. This was a spring-loaded opportunity, and you didn’t intend on feeling from it.

“I’ll do it. I can handle it.”

You did get your big girl case, alright. You won. But you also had to book a full body spa session after your first time shaking hands with a criminal— just to feel somewhat cleaner. Obviously, you’ve become a lot more jaded now. Your boss has decided to dump all of Nalkkeuta’s major cases onto your desk since then, and Mark Lee has been trying to poach you ever since.

JSS. Jinsilseong. Integrity. What a load of bullshit. Where’s the integrity in working as criminal clean up dogs? There’s neither integrity nor justice here. Yet you’re able to afford a decent apartment because of that tarnished integrity. Dirty money. You make yourself sick, but drive home and back to work again for the next few days with the car that money bought you, because there’s no way in hell integrity can give you a comfortable life.

*‎

“How’s your Nalkkeuta case going?”

Kim Jungwoo comes over to greet you at the division breakroom while you’re in the middle of making yourself a cup of instant coffee after three fucking hours of being hunched over your cubicle the whole day. You jolt upon hearing his voice, flitting your head over to the direction of his voice, and you’re greeted by a face that clearly has gotten his eight hours in.

Unlike you. Jungwoo and you joined the firm at about the same time, yet somehow you look as though you’ve been trapped here for a good ten decades. He bats his eyes at you with a pretty boy smile while waiting for your response. You grunt.

“Dreadful. Horrible. Do you want to take it from me and liberate me from this misery?”

The laugh he gives you in response probably means a no. You click your tongue, grunting as you set aside to give him space on the counter. “Is it that bad?” he asks, rustling through the cabinets for a coffee stick somewhere. Kim Doyoung should restock and feed his poor laborers better.

“Yoon’s party won’t settle. They’re dead set on pursuing a cIass action.” Jungwoo manages to fish one stick out. “Not to mention my own fucking client refused my visit. I miss the days where all I had to do was summarize court transcripts and deliver correspondences for Doyoung. You never really know what you’re missing until you lose it.”

That was a lie, but you’re miserable. You were able to meet all three of the witnesses last week, in the presence of their lawyer, obviously and unfortunately. Yoon Naksung seems to be their leader, because the moment you uttered the words ‘settlement’ and ‘compromise,’ he nearly jumped off his seat to full-on throttle you. You’d ask why the hell he’s so hostile, but you read their written testimony on the day of the incident. He recounted all the heinous crap Na Jaemin spewed out while he beat the shit out of them. Things you’d rather not repeat out loud. The other two witnesses didn’t seem as passionate as Naksung, like they just wanted it to be over with and forget how much Na Jaemin humiliated their asses by wiping their faces on the ground and proceeding to call them a bunch of bitch babies.

Anyhow, you have your last attempt of negotiation this afternoon with their lawyer. Honestly, it doesn’t even matter at this point. You just want to let the court know that you’ve done your due diligence of attempting to reach an amicable settlement. You’ve got other cards up your sleeve— you’ve always had.

Which is why Kim Doyoung doesn’t buy your whining and complaining when overhears it in the breakroom.

“Get a grip.”

You flinch. Doyoung makes an appearance by shoveling in between you and Jungwoo to the coffee storage. You two step aside. He releases a silent swear upon realizing there’s no more instant coffee left. So, he decides to release his pissy attitude onto the innocent cupboard door by slamming it shut with a loud bam!

You and Jungwoo look at each other. Bad executive meeting. Very bad, you two mentally agree, sharing a look and a nod. JSS has been dealing with negative press lately. Director must have dumped the burden of fixing it onto him. Poor guy. He deserves it.

Doyoung manages to compose himself in a matter of seconds. He inhales, chest rising, then adjusts his crooked glasses with a huff from lips, finishing it up by giving you a lowered stare. “I’m not really worried about your performance,” he carefully pronounces. “Nalkkeut always asks for you for a reason. Mark Lee gets along well with you, too. So, quit being dramatic.”

He gets along with you because you both like Haruki Murakami, never dug your nose into his business, and always cleaned up his messes. You doubt you’d get the same grace if you fucked this one up, especially considering it concerns one of his executives. Sure, you’ve managed to weasel your way out of your previous cases without much trouble besides your inherent workload. The problem this time is your client.

Ugh. Na Jaemin. That bastard. How dare he decline your visitation request when his freedom is on the line here? You need to brief him for the trial, make sure he doesn’t do anything fucking stupid that would jeopardize your case and fuck not only himself, but you over as well. His freedom isn’t the only thing on the line. Your record is. Your freaking license is. As much as you really don’t want to see his face again, you have to. And the only comfort you can find at the prospect of meeting him again is the very clear evidence that he does not remember you— whereas your bones are already shaking at the mere thought of having to face him again.

It sucks. This sucks. But even if it does, you force yourself out of the office later in the afternoon to meet the witnesses’ lawyer at a cafe downtown.

His name is Jung Sungchan from the District Prosecutor’s Office. He’s baby-faced. He still has the light in his eyes. You’ve never even heard of him before this case. Meaning, he’s far too irrelevant to have the gall to strut into the cafe, say his piece, then leave without even buying a freaking coffee.

“See you in court, attorney.”

Of course this meeting ends the same way as your other meetings have had: no settlement, no compromise, no nothing. You release a scoff once he sees himself out with a cocky ass grin and a pep in his step. Hah. Fucker thinks he’s winning. This bitch is a toddler in the field compared to you. You’re gonna show him just how ruthless the law could be in the hands of someone that could bend it. He has no idea what’s coming for him.

You pull out your phone. You text Mark a go signal. [Give me an update tonight]. You stare at your string of texts you’d just sent, squint, contemplate for a second, then bring up your phone to your face. [Also, please send a message to your locked up exec that I really have to meet him soon. Tell him to stop rejecting my visitation requests. Please. For the love of god]. You hit send again. You exhale. That does it. You fix up your things and prepare to start leaving.

While you make your way to the cafe’s exit, you unfortunately overhear a conversation. Not that you’d even tried to overhear. There are two girls sitting next to the counter— one with straight black hair and blunt bangs, the other one with a very bad bleach job— and they’re both just talking really, really loudly.

“That’s what you get for fucking my man, you tramp,” sneers the fake blonde.

“I’m telling you, I really didn’t know he was taken!” straight hair screeches back.

Oh, fuck. You didn’t want to hear this drama. You try your best to maneuver past them quickly, quietly, but you end up hearing more information as you walk by. “I already broke it off and apologized! Please just take down the post already—”

“There’s no way you didn’t know, and there’s no way in hell I’m taking your disgusting texts down. All your friends and family deserve to know how much of a dirty, manipulative skank you are. So that they’d know to keep their boyfriends away from you!”

“Look, I’d get down on my knees to apologize, but you posted not only my private texts, but my fucking nudes were in them, you bitch! I’m not fucking proud of hooking up with a man I didn’t know was taken, but you’re going too far! I—I could sue you for this!”

“Hah! As if! If anyone, I’m the victim in this situation! Not you! You’re the affair partner who seduced my man!”

Goddammit. You jerk back after a sudden stop six feet away from the exit. You shit your eyes, mutter a silent breath as you continue to listen to the high-strung argument behind you. Normally, you’re not one to butt into these things. It’s none of your business, and quite frankly, you could give less of a fuck. But maybe it’s because you’ve yet again been subject to do something that desecrates the very principles of your occupation— the very notions of what is just and lawful and good— that you find yourself spinning your heels and stomping back into the opposite direction before you could even reconsider.

“Excuse me. I apologize for interrupting without consent, but I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation.”

You just want to balance out the scales of your negative karma— even by just a little bit. You’re doing this for no one’s good but your own. The two girls snap their heads at you, one visibly more annoyed than the other. You gloss over it.

“The right to privacy of communication is heavily protected by our laws and Constitution,” you begin. Blondie furrows her brows at you, a loading symbol practically spinning above her head. Straight hair looks at you, confused. You keep a straight face, digging into your bag. “Prying into the privacy of another’s conversation is a civil offense and a cause of action for damages. That’s one thing. Posting someone else’s sensitive and explicit conversations is another story.”

You pull out a card. “Who the hell are you? Why the hell are you butting in?” she snaps, the sound of her chair scratching the ground as she stands up in a huff to level you. You set your business card down onto the table, the words ATTORNEY AT LAW, all caps, facing right side up.

Blondie’s eyes look down. Her face pales. Then she looks up to meet yours. You almost snort.

“It is a criminal offense punishable by three to seven years imprisonment, or a fine not exceeding twelve million won. Or both.” You could very well be jumping the wrong ship here, but you got a fair sense that Blunt Bangs was telling the truth from how desperate she looks, and that Fake Blonde is simply high on a vengeful power trip over the wrong person. “And, considering the fact that you publicized it online through a post, if I heard correctly, it would also be considered a cybercrime. Meaning, you could be charged for both.”

You didn’t think she could get any paler. You’re proven wrong.

“Wow. That’s an impressive feat considering you had no idea you were committing those crimes. Amazing.”

It doesn’t take much longer for her to sputter out something incoherent and stomp out in a panicked frenzy while mashing something onto her phone, most likely trying to delete the post. Sometimes witnessing firsthand the dredges of humanity gives you a little bit of comfort that you’re not the shittiest person in the world. You release a breath, readying yourself to leave once more, only to be stopped by a quiet excuse me from the same table.

You look down. You’re met by the way too happy smile of Blunt Bangs. She looks cheerful. Oh, god. You’re not used to this kind of positivity. You feel a shudder down your spine and force down a lump in your throat.

“Hi,” she starts. “Thanks for helping me. Jeez. What a psycho.”

The girl asks if she can buy you a drink as a thank you. You have not known kindness ever since you started working at JSS, and, by proxy, Nalkkeutta, so you were possessed with the inclination to say yes even though you’ve just had an americano with three shots. You settle with a warm jasmine tea to spare your stomach lining. The girl introduces herself as Natty, and starts giving you an unsolicited rundown of how Fake Blonde just suddenly started sending her swears and death threats the other day alongside the revelation that she was apparently her fling’s girlfriend.

She came here all the way from Mapo just to apologize again and beg her to take down the post. And then you witnessed how that went down. “I really had no idea,” she huffs in complaint for the nth time. You take a sip from your half-empty cup, glancing at the time. It’s 4 p.m. Sweet. Doyoung still thinks you’re having the meeting right now. One more hour before you have to clock out. You decide to pay a bit more attention to Natty as a thank you for allowing you to slack off on the job. “Oh, by the way. Can I ask something?”

You set down the cup on the saucer. “Sure.”

“Did you maybe go to Ganghak High School? Around eight to nine years ago?”

And then you nearly choke on your own fucking spit. What the hell? You stare at her, wide-eyed in both surprise and innate fear. “Why...why do you ask?” Natty takes that a yes and immediately lets out a squeal, followed by the squeal of your name, followed by a very slow process of recollection on your part of a girl with similar blunt bangs in your repressed high school memories— then it clicks.

“I recognized your name on your business card, but wasn’t sure if you were the same person! Whoa! You’re a lawyer now! That’s amazing!”

Blunt bangs. Dark hair. Sharp eyes. Pretty smile. You remember being classmates with a girl with that same description. You think they both have the same name. You don’t get the chance to second guess yourself because she starts talking about more people you vaguely remember in Ganghak— the class president who’s apparently on his third try at taking the Civil Service Exam, that one couple who apparently recently got married just two months ago in Jeju, that one kid who had once gotten his head dunked into the trash can on the first day of senior year because he came in without knowing the rules of the school.

He didn’t know who ran it. You did. Natty did. And that confirms the fact that you two had indeed been in the same hell once.

“Hey, do you have any idea what happened to Na Jaemin? I haven’t heard a single thing about him since we graduated and I moved towns.”

You look at her, a stiff smile on your face. She was your classmate. She was his classmate. If she can remember all those other people and what their roles were back in Ganghak, she’d very clearly remember yours as well. “I don’t know. I haven’t heard about him either.”

Natty gets the realization and immediately flinches out an apology. “O—oh, haha. Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring him up.”

“No, it’s alright,” you hum, smile softening. “I haven’t heard of him, either.”

Christ. This man really haunts you everywhere you go. Natty is great at conversation, and manages to smooth over that one bump as quickly as she can and proceeds to ask about any new hot places at Yeongdeungpo, ask about your job, you asking about what she’s up to in turn under it hits five in the afternoon and you have to return to the firm to clock out.

The both of you exchange numbers. You look at Natty’s saved contact on your phone with conflicted feelings.

Now that you’ve managed to slot the memories into place, you do in fact remember her. She was your classmate throughout the two short years you spent at Ganghak. On your first day, she was the first person who’d come up to talk to you— the only time she’d ever talked to you and vice versa. It took nine years for the both of you to have a conversation again. And there’s really only one person to blame.

*‎

(“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit—!”

It’s Monday. You race down the now emptied hallways, eyes quickly scanning each door label that you zoom past in the off chance that you got carried away running and missed your room. To think this is how your year starts. You were looking forward to using the opportunity before homeroom to introduce yourself and make some new friends, but no— you just had to doze off because you spent the entire yesterday unpacking.

It’s a new neighborhood, new school. You’ve heard that most of Ganghak High School’s students came from Ganghak Middle, meaning almost everyone already knows each other here. They’ve already formed their respective cliques and cohorts and groups. You’re currently an outsider, and you need to put in the effort to change that. You need to make a good impression to get some god damned friends and not spend the rest of your two years here as a loner.

Which is why you feel a splashing wave of relief drenching your bones the moment you make it to your assigned class for the rest of the year— slamming a palm against the door, just in time for the bell to ring.

“Whoo! Safe!”

At least fifteen sets of eyes immediately zero in on you. You stand there by the door. You smile and nod.

“Hi, good morning.”

No one responds. They all look at you— some stares lingering longer than the others— but they all eventually divert their eyes before five seconds, releasing what you could only assume were sighs of relief, and then proceed to drown the classroom in a silence that’s so, so unnatural for a large group of fifteen to sixteen year olds.

That should have been your first sign that this school was far from normal.

What a great start, you mentally huff, scanning the classroom the seat you’ll be stuck with for the next two years, and you eventually clock a pair of empty desks in the middle of the back row. You walk over to the available seat, waiting to see if anyone calls out saying it’s theirs, and after a few moments of no objections, you sit yourself down on the wooden chair.

The moment you hook your bag on the left side of your new desk, you swore that the heavy silence pervading the classroom just got heavier.

You look up. You see someone from the center row, peeking over her shoulder at who you assume is you with a somewhat nervous jitter— as if she’s having an argument with herself in her own head and for some reason, you’re involved. That should’ve been your second sign, but despite your confusion and frustration, you sit still. You sit still until one side eventually wins the girl’s mental argument and she rises up from her seat, tentatively stalks up to you as the class’s eyes follow her short walk with anticipation, including yours.

“Hi, uhm,” she practically squeaks out, hesitant, eyes quickly flickering over to the classroom door before looking back at you. She inhales and smiles. Her bangs are covering her eyebrows. “I’m Natty.”

You greet back and introduce yourself. This is a really fucking weird first interaction, but you take what you can get. “Hi.”

The expectation would be that she’d ask you if you’re new here, if you’re a transferee, if you’d like to join her and her friends for lunch, but no.

Natty completely diverts your expectations by saying, point blank, “This may sound weird, but…you should maybe pick another seat.”

You blink. What the hell? “Why?”

The answer comes in the form of the sound of the classroom door violently swinging open, followed by a series of hushed exclamations, and Natty’s suddenly paled face snapping away from you within the same moment, scampering to return back to her seat at the center, without even giving you the grace of a response.

You didn’t think the room could get any quieter, but it does, even with the sound of graveled footsteps marching their way over to you— the only thing you can see of the late student’s arrival because for some damn reason, everyone has their head down, and you felt compelled to follow and shut up and catch up to your confused and bated breaths as you listen to the chair next to you screech against the tiled floor, and feel the presence of someone plop themselves down with a rattle and grunt, and at that moment, you feel like you were given the subconscious permission to look up again.

So, you do.

And when you do, you immediately lock eyes with Natty. Sorry, she mouths with a hand up her cheek, then just as quickly turns back to the front, leaving you to think— what the hell just happened?

Hesitantly, you crane your head to the right, sneaking a glance at the person who just yanked the atmosphere down into hell with just his arrival, the person who you’d be stuck with for the rest of the year by virtue of your seating arrangement.

Much to your surprise, you’re not met by a face. You’re met with someone hunched over, a mop of messy hair with his face buried into crossed arms over the desk with an aura that immediately repels you from prodding even an inch closer. You nudge your seat away to the left, making sure not to cross the invisible mark marked by the gap between your two desks. The only sign of life you glean is the rhythmic rise and fall of his shoulders— invisible to anyone but you solely because of proximity— which leads you to the conclusion that he’s sleeping.

Sleeping. Something tells you that it’s better that he stays this way. That something is the sigh of relief from the person sitting right in front of you as your homeroom teacher finally walks in.

At this point, you still haven’t seen your seatmate’s face. The only time you know of his name is during attendance, when your teacher calls out a hesitant, “Na— Na Jaemin…?” after double-taking at her class list, answered by nothing but a heavy silence despite having all seats in the classroom filled. She quickly nods in acknowledgement and moves forward after that. Just who the hell is sitting right next to you?)

*‎

Beyond your control, memories from that time of your life continuously flash behind your eyes as you drive back to the firm. A buzz from your phone momentarily interrupts you. It’s from Mark Lee.

[Thanks, attorney. We’ll take care of Ma Gildong first tonight. You can see Jaemin on Monday, next week 🧑‍🎓].

Na Jaemin on a Monday. You grimace. What a load of crappy poetic irony. You reply with a thanks and a middle finger. Mark Lee beeps back with a bright grin in emoji form.

fire and brimstone (and you’re a moth made of gasoline). © hannie-dul-set, 2025.

#na jaemin x reader #jaemin x reader #nct dream x reader #nct x reader #jaemin x you #na jaemin x you #na jaemin fanfic #jaemin fanfic #nct dream fanfic #nct fanfic #nct scenarios #nct imagines #na jaemin smut #jaemin smut #nct dream smut #nct smut

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wandaslovey · 4 months ago

Text

ᴠᴇɴᴛᴜʀɪɴɢ ɪꜱ ɪɴᴇᴠɪᴛᴀʙʟᴇ

: ̗̀➛ dom!wandanat x sub!fem!reader

summary: desperate times call for desperate measures. after you lose your job and your roommate in the same month, you find yourself scrambling to find a new job to continue paying your bills. you apply for anything—even positions you most definitely are not qualified for. you’re surprised when you get a scheduled interview at the M.R. law. it was easily the most popular, well-known law firm in all of new york city. little did you know that interview would change the course of your life and open up a whole new world you never knew you wanted to experience.

au/background: wandanat who are two pretentious, successful and domineering women in between submissives. you, being the innocent little thing you are, have only heard the term “bdsm” once or twice and never really understood what that world consisted of. however, you’re curious, eager and always open to trying new things. you are somehow, something wandanat have always been looking for…they just didn’t know it.

a/n: i’ve been dying to write a wandanat series for awhile, i just wasn’t sure what i wanted it to be! now i know there are a few very popular wandanat fics out there (which i love), so i hope you all can understand that some themes/attitudes/characterizations may be similar to those other series’s. please note: i’m not purposely trying to copy or replicate anybody else’s work!

! ! parts ! !

☻ ↴

one: mrs. romanoff will see you now

two: a whole new world; a kinky place you never knew

three: is it too much, detka?

four: when life gives you dominants

five: when life gives you dominants pt. 2

six: the world we’ve charted before

seven: a different kind of attitude

eight: happy accidents

! ! one shots ! !

— uncharted territory

! ! au thoughts/reqs ! !

one || two || three || four || five || six || seven || eight || nine || ten

#new series #venturing is inevitable #VII #wandanat x reader #wandanat #wandanat smut #dom!wandanat #wanda maximoff x reader #natasha romanoff x reader

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iimplicitt · 17 days ago

Note

Ahhh okay I'm so glad you like the idea, I was kinda nervous ngl <3

HUNGRY EYES PART ONE | LN4 OP81

pairings: business partners landoscar x secretary! character

a/n-warnings: suggestive themes, language, inappropriate work relationship, secret relationships, older! lando & older! oscar, 18+, unprotected! smut, age gap (secretary is in her 20s), power play, sir! kink is alive and thriving, semi-public smut, choking, spitting, fingering, oral! (fem receiving), multiple parts SORRY i got carried away

wc: 4.6k

“She’s mine,” Oscar bit out, tempted to punch his long time business partner in the face.

“Sure, mate.” Lando smiled, looking wicked. “Wasn’t what she was telling me inside of my office, though.”

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

Her first month had been uneventful, to say the least. The paperwork was plenty, the calls all rerouted, emails answered swiftly, but still she grew bored halfway through the day. Pen tapping against the desk, the click click click matching in rhythm with the clock mounted on the wall behind her. As if taunting, each tick telling her she was wasting her youth away.

She could never rest easy, never felt like she could even lounge. Always performing, keeping her posture in check.

So many men around.

The hallways of the law firm constantly paraded by swathes of testosterone. Glowing eyes that looked at her chest as they muttered their good mornings as they walked to their desks. Or their gazes would be fixed on the two doorways on either side of her. Anxiety knitting their brows and tongues being burnt on too hot coffee.

This morning was different than no other, only there was a voice muffled behind the door on her left. Mr. Piastri was in office today. Early, he had been there when she arrived. Already in a meeting and an email waiting in her inbox, asking for invoices. A space down a PSA, not to be late.

She ground her jaw. She was never late. In fact, as her eyes flicked back to clock behind her she was early.

Biting her tongue, she simply sat herself down and smoothed out her skirt. Attaching the necassey files and ignoring his last statement, aggressively hitting send.

In her time there she had hardly spoken a word to him. Neither of them, really, her bosses. They didn’t frequent the building often, probably out doing business on some yacht in Monaco. Meetings drowning in champagne before waltzing into courtrooms with their three pieced suits and egos so big Narcissus would go slack jawed.

The few times she had spoken to them it tended be one sided. Their gazes on their phones as they walked by her desk, their only conversations, if she could call them that, done over email.

But she would watch the other men in the office, how they held their breaths, eyes waiting, practically drooling anytime either of them walked in the doors or held a meeting.

She grew rather spiteful.

Watching through the glass of the meeting room across the floor as Mr. Norris, the other owner, stood casually with a hand in his pocket as he went over some presentation. Seeing how the men of the firm practically swayed with each movement.

Great Mr. Norris. Brilliant Mr. Norris. Shining Mr. Norris. God-like Mr. Norris.

How the endearments piled up.

She scoffed.

“Problem?”

She flinched, turning to see Mr. Piastri leaned against the tall edge of her desk on one elbow, following her glance to the conference room and a barely there smile tugged at the corner of his lips, but other than that his expression remained blank. Stoney. As it always had been. Even when she heard him in meetings, his tone was always even. Dry. Slightly rough around the edges, but even tempered.

Commanding.

She swallowed dryly. “No, sir.”

His eyes turned back to her, his brown eyes looking dark in the lighting of the office. Shadows danced across the sharp planes of his face, casting certain parts into darkness. Making up a phantom. Staring at her as if he’d only just realised she was there.

“It doesn’t paint a pretty picture if our secretary is scowling at the CEO.” He commented, voice smooth. Sometimes it felt like he hated her. She often caught him staring at her, the slightest of frowns on his lips. Practically invisible, but there. She couldn’t read him. Which unnerved her. Nearly all the men in this office were like an open book, their pages pathetically falling open in her lap.

“I didn’t realise I was here to look pretty.” She shouldn’t have said it but the words were out into the air nonetheless.

He blinked at her, eyes slowly dancing to her name plate and she resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Of course he’d forgotten her name.

Mr. Piastri’s tongue ran along the inside of his cheek as he looked at her again. Really looked at her. Taking her in from head to toe and she felt a blush start to flare up her neck from his apt attention.

“You aren’t. Nor are you here to scowl.” He tapped a quick rhythm on her desk. “Don’t be late tomorrow morning.”

She should’ve waited till she heard his office door shut when she next spoke, “prick.”

Maybe she would’ve paled if she realised he’d heard her. Maybe she would’ve seen that string pull at the corners of his lips again before he disappeared inside his office.

Her eyes drifted to Mr. Norris again, her eyes narrowing slighting over her monitor as she watched an easy smile grace his lips as the presentation concluded. Muffled applause sounded from the conference room and she found her fingers hitting the keyboard a little harder than usual.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

“Good morning.”

She jumped slightly at the words, careful not to spill her coffee as she looked up at the passing figure of Mr. Piastri.

Was she imagining things? They hadn’t spoken in two weeks. Then again, he hadn’t been in the office since then. But he had never once said good morning to her.

“Good morning?” It left her like a question as she stared after him, only catching a glimpse of the slightly amused expression he wore before he shut the door to his office.

When she turned she jumped again, this time she did spill coffee and the hot liquid soaked into her white blouse. A string of curses leaving her lips as she quickly pulled the fabric away from her burning skin.

Her other boss, Mr. Norris, standing in front of her desk looking anything but sorry.

He clicked his tongue. “Someone is jumpy.”

She couldn’t help it as she stared at him. He’d never come to talk to her, not since her first day when he showed her where her desk was and that was it.

His eyes flicked down to her soaked top, his expression unreadable. “Are you busy?”

“I—“

“I need you to accompany me on a meeting.”

“Now?”

He hummed, already beginning to walk away.

“But,” she looked down at her shirt, at the list of emails she needed to answer, at the stacks of paperwork. “I— Mr. Norris—“

“We don’t have all day,” he called over his shoulder, his finger already pressing into the lift button.

Feeling as though her brain was short circuiting, she quickly scraped a notepad and pens into her purse before following after him. Sparing a glance to Mr. Piastri’s office, wondering if he knew where she’d run off to.

Stepping into the lift behind him, she swallowed thickly and kept her distance. Her wet shirt already started to feel cold and she wondered if she was having some sort of nightmare.

She eyed her boss out of the corner of her eye, watching how the light caught against his tan skin and sharp features. His hair always a mess of curls, a contrast to the neat hairstyle Mr. Piastri always adorned.

With shaking hands, she took out her phone and began drafting an email to the whole office, saying she would be out in a meeting when a large hand suddenly covered her phone screen.

Eyes flicking up, she was taken aback by how glittering his eyes looked. Darkened by the shadow of his thick lashes.

“That won’t be necessary.” He muttered, pulling his hand away before shoving it back in the pocket of his slacks.

“What?” She said dumbly.

“This meeting is a need to know sort of thing.”

She raised a brow. “Okay, but everyone is going to be wondering where I went.”

He looked down at her, a crease lightly forming between his brow. “Do they really bother you that much?”

She balked at him. “What is it that you think I do all day?”

His lips tugged to the side, revealing a dimple. “Make coffee?”

She could’ve sworn her eye twitched before a light laugh left him. “I’m kidding. They’ll survive you being gone for a few hours. Besides, maybe they’ll actually get their work done.”

“Meaning?”

The lift doors opened and he stepped out, leaving her to follow after him.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

She had gotten caught up late into the evening, well past the office closure to catch up on everything to-do, due to their shareholder meeting Mr. Norris had taken her to.

He was… not what she was expecting.

Sure, she saw how the men praised him from afar. But to actually sit next to him, watching how charismatic he was. Words woven carefully, expertly twining around those he was doing business with… she felt a little dazed. Or maybe that was the wine.

Nonetheless her cheeks were rosy and she was charmed. Not to mention he had taken her shopping for a new top.

Saying she could have whatever else she wanted but the whole thing felt entirely overwhelming. She wasn’t used to his attention.

Her whole body felt too warm as she stepped out of the dressing room to look in the mirror, catching the sight of him in the reflection leaning against the wall, eyes on her and tongue running along the inside of his cheek.

It felt wrong. Unprofessional. But nothing was happening, she knew that.

Mr. Norris was just… a lot.

She shook the memory away as she gathered her things, the only light in the office being her lamp and the red glow of the emergency exits.

Just as she shut off her lamp, a crack of lightning followed by the blinding light flickered through the windows and she groaned. Of course it would rain.

She looked down at her new shirt, knowing it was about to get soaked all over again because she didn’t have a coat or umbrella.

When she stepped outside, she rocked on her heels for a moment as she stood under the awning. Her eyes watched as rain pellets shot to the pavement and exploded against the already flooding streets of London.

Sighing, she held her bag close to her side and stepped out into the storm, the rain making quick work to drench her from head to toe as she walked.

She tried to hail a cab as she made her way towards the station. Anything to get out of her current predicament, eyes squinting against the blinding lights and the shadows playing tricks on her.

It wasn’t the safest scenario, she knew that. A woman out in the night, alone for that matter, was like a beacon for trouble.

So when a sleek black car slowed down she kept her head low and kept walking, her teeth chattering slightly and her heart racing before it came to an abrupt halt as a voice rang out from the vehicle.

Her name carried on the storm by a familiar voice.

She paused, her heels clicking against the puddles around her feet and she turned, trying to see through the window that had rolled down.

“Mr. Piastri?”

His expression for the most part was neutral, but his eyes glowed from the baseboard, looking at her like she was insane.

She probably looked insane. Wet strands of hair fell in her face and mascara was running down her cheeks in rivers of charcoal.

“Get in.”

“But sir—“

“Get in the car.”

His tone left no room for argument and she quickly slipped into the seat, the expensive smell of leather surrounding her and she watched as he reached a hand out to turn up the heat.

She still shivered, eyeing him like a deer in headlights as the car pulled away from the curb.

“I—“ she looked around the sports car, feeling a lump in her throat. “Your seats—“

His fingers flexed on the steering wheel, not looking at her. His whole body stiff. The air tense. “I’ll live.”

She blinked at him. Her mind not quite catching up. This was the second time she found herself alone with one of her bosses in a car that day. Only this time around the waters felt much more complicated to navigate.

He seemed agitated. Though his features were stoney and blank as per usual, there was something palpable circulating around him.

She wasn’t sure if she was supposed to say anything. The silence felt awkward and she played with a wet strand of her hair for a moment. “Sir-“

“Why on earth were you out there walking? In the rain, might I add.” His fingers flexed again. “Alone”

Her mouth opened a couple of times. So he was annoyed at her? Her brows furrowed. “I had to work late.”

His jaw rolled slightly. “Right, Lando.” Her other boss’s name left his mouth like a curse. “I have no idea why he took you to that damned meeting. And now look at you. Wandering the streets—“

“I’m not five, you arse.” She snapped. Not loving his tone but she could mildly appreciate his concern. She had to then remind herself this was her boss and she bit her tongue, pulling her eyes away from him. “Sorry,” she muttered.

It was silent for a moment and she began to worry she had royally fucked up.

Mr. Piastri’s voice was quiet, his voice nearly as warm as the heat blowing out of the vents. “That mouth of yours is going to get you in trouble one day.”

She froze for a moment before her fingers tightened on the hem of her skirt. Her stomach swirled a bit, a combination of worry and something else that was wholly inappropriate. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean—“

A light laugh left him, though it seemed more of an exhale.

He still wouldn’t look at her.

“It’s fine, your bluntness is appreciated. That being said, I prefer you didn’t call me anything such as a twat in front of my employees.”

She was being let in. Only a little bit. She couldn’t help it as she started to smile. “So only in private, then?”

She watched in fascination as that string pulled slightly at his mouth, his dark eyes sliding over to her for only a moment and it made her head spin. Her stomach swoop.

“Only in private,” Mr. Piastri muttered.

She felt like a line was being crossed. Just slightly. It was being carefully tread. Invaded. Redrawn. She knew better. Then again, maybe she was just delusional.

Her eyes then widened as she realised something. “Oh, I never told you my address.”

His fingers thrummed against the steering wheel, a nervous tick maybe? Did she make him nervous? The street lights made his eyes glow every few seconds and the smell of his rich cologne swirled around her.

He was quiet for a moment and she was about to just tell him where she lived to fill the silence when he finally spoke, the words snatching the air from her lungs.

“How about a drink?”

Her lips parted slightly, taken off guard by his suggestion. It was an offering. She knew that, she wasn’t stupid. But she still felt like she needed to pinch herself to see if this was real.

“Is that allowed?” She wanted to slap herself for the dumb question. She knew she needed to be smart about this but the air was hot and heavy, her head swirling, and when he looked at her again his eyes briefly danced down to her mouth and she threw her common sense out the window.

“It’s a yes or no, darling.”

His eyes held hers as street lights flicked by, the hum of the engine rattling her to her core and the world was spinning.

The word yes left her in an exhale.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

It was reckless. Utterly stupid. Wildly inappropriate. A screaming HR violation.

But the wine had made the world feel fuzzy and made her feel like the world was at her fingertips. That at the end of the day, did it really matter?

The world was ending, so fuck it. Right?

That’s what she kept telling herself.

That’s what she told herself as he pulled up to a nice bar. That’s what she told herself as she let him order a bottle. It’s what she told herself as she downed another glass. What her mind whispered as they stumbled into the back of a cab, the liquor in her veins making the world come alive as she felt the brush of his body against hers in the back seat. It’s what she told herself as she laughed behind her hand as she watched him struggle to open the door to his flat.

It was only a quiet murmur as she leaned against the counter, watching him pour two more glasses. Taking in the drunken flush of his cheeks and how his usually perfect hair was disheveled. Unkempt.

He looked devastatingly handsome.

She wasn’t doing anything wrong.

She’d gone out drinking with plenty of coworkers before.

They hadn’t even properly touched.

It was fine.

Cordial.

Friendly.

Until it wasn’t.

She leaned over the table, looking at some of his records he had brought out when he was suddenly behind her. His presence a heavy shadow before slowly she felt his body press into hers, his hands falling right next to her own on the table. Surrounding her. He was restraining himself, just barely. His breath held as his mouth danced close to her neck.

Her eyes flicked down to their hands. Almost touching. Her heart beat in her ears.

She wrapped her pinky over his index finger.

Permission.

She was spun around, his mouth on hers, the sudden contact almost violent as he backed her against the window that overlooked London from his penthouse. Her head would’ve slammed into the glass, but his hand had snaked into her hair and absorbed the pressure.

His fingers twining, tight, and yanked. Making her mouth fall open in a moan and he all but lunged on the opportunity. Tongue slipping into her mouth and exploring, his own groan leaving him and he slowly became unbound.

She felt more intoxicated in the sight of him unraveling than any of the alcohol she had drank. Oscar Piastri was always so composed. It felt like a privilege to see him like this. A power trip to know she was the one undoing him.

She couldn’t think as his mouth slid down to her jaw. Couldn’t think as his teeth sunk in, biting and soothing. Couldn’t summon a thought as his thigh wedged between her legs making her moan.

She didn’t think about how he was her boss. Didn’t think about how he was too old for her. Didn’t think about how half of London could see her riding his thigh and his hands pulling up her skirt.

He pulled back slightly, eyelids heavy and his fingers toyed with the hem of her shirt.

“Did he buy you this?”

She felt dazed. Her hands falling lightly from his hair to his shoulders as she looked down at her blouse. “Oh, Mr. Norris—“

The sudden sound of fabric ripping cut her off, her gasp barely leaving her before he was on her again. Her shirt fell to the floor in tatters, the cool air biting at her skin and she shivered when his warm hands danced up her back to undo her bra.

Just as it fell to the floor he picked her up as if it was nothing, her legs easily wrapping around his waist as he carried her through his home.

He kicked open a door which she could only assume was his bedroom before she let out a quiet yell as he dropped her onto his bed.

She sat up in her elbows, her mouth dry as she watched him undo the buttons of his shirt.

“Take off your skirt.”

“I—“

His hand reached out and gripped her jaw, tight but not painful, making her look up at him.

God, he was devastating.

Brown hair fell over his eyes, his cheekbones looking carved from marble by the low lighting of his room and he stared down at her, his gaze lustful and coated in barely tempered violence.

“Do as you're told.”

“Yes, sir.”

His fingers slid down to her neck and tightened as he tugged her forward, landing a messy kiss on her lips before dropping back to continue undressing himself. All the while his watchful gaze stayed on her as he observed her slip out of her skirt.

When she went to reach for her underwear he slapped her hand away as he crawled on top of her, spreading her legs with his knees as he went.

Mr. Piastri laced his fingers with hers and dragged her hands up above her head, his lips dragging against her ear as he leaned down.

“You have been haunting me, I hope you know that.” His teeth dragged down her throat, making her gasp as he settled his weight between her hips. She could feel him. All of him. Her thin underwear not leaving much to the imagination.

Part of her couldn’t believe this was happening. The other part didn’t want to think at all.

He leaned back and picked up his tie from where he had thrown his shirt on the bed, holding eye contact as he leaned over her again to tie her wrists back, then looping it around his head board.

She wasn’t going anywhere.

She loved it.

Before she could realise what was happening, he was sliding down her body and pushing her knees back, up, and out. Mouth latching onto her through her underwear and her hips bucked up at the heat of his mouth.

It was dizzying. And a bit embarrassing if she were honest, given the noises that were leaving her mouth and her body felt like it was being scorched as he laughed into her before pulling her underwater aside, fingers sinking in.

She clenched around him, desperate for anything. More. Hands tugging on their restraints and her back arching off the bed.

He leaned up on one hand, the other still dragging in and out of her, smiling like a devil who had just struck a bargain.

“Oh you young thing,” he mused. He was watching her so carefully. His voice dropping into a tone she’d never heard him use before. “You’re dripping.”

A whine left her involuntarily and he shut his eyes briefly at the sound.

“This is wrong,” he muttered, but still he lowered himself to his knees, nose dusting along the inside of her thighs. Making her shiver in anticipation.

“Please,” she managed to get out, breathless as she watched him.

“God, forgive me.” And he dove in like a man starved, fingers picking up their pace, another added, his mouth latching onto her clit.

She was shamelessly grinding into her boss’s face.

He was fucking her with his fingers and tongue, making her see stars. That small voice in the back of her head mumbled what on earth am I doing? But it was quickly snuffed out as she came. Hard. All over his face and his name was a shout ripped from her lungs.

He was climbing over her again but the world was still flickering in and out of focus as she came down from her high. His face buried in her neck and she gasped, arms yanking down but they were still bound tight as he sank into her, pushing her well beyond overstimulation.

She cried out, feeling more so than hearing him laugh into her neck as he slowly pulled out before slamming into her again. The thrust was brutal and unforgiving. Delicious and painful. Electric.

Too much.

He leaned back, one hand on her waist to yank her down onto his cock as the other rubbed circles into her clit.

She began to shake her head, tears pricking her eyes, moaning and everything was too vibrant. She was trembling. Coming again already but he didn’t stop.

“I can’t, I can’t—“

“No?” He said softly, slowing down his digits and he began to pull out of her. “That’s too bad,” he tsk-d. The sudden emptiness felt like whiplash and she was about to backtrack what she said when he suddenly yanked her back down on his cock, his hips rolling forward to somehow get even deeper than before. “You’re going to be a good girl and take it, though. Aren’t you?”

“I— Sir, oh my god—“

His hand snaked around her throat, choking her as he fucked her. “Use your words.”

“Yes,” she gasped out, feeling light headed with the pressure of his palm.

His hips snapped against hers. A warning.

She quickly corrected herself. “Yes, sir.”

Mr. Piastri’s hand left her throat and she sharply breathed in air, though it quickly left her again as he hand found his way back down to her cunt.

Barely a second later she was coming again, liquid squirting out and over his abdomen. It was almost painful, too much, too everything. Wonderful.

“God, what he would do to see you like this,” he muttered against her skin and she wasn’t sure she heard him right. Who? Her body tried to pull back as he kept thrusting into her, though he got more sloppy. Erratic. He was close.

Something snapped in her. A woman possessed, perhaps. Dazed and fucked out, maybe.

She wrapped her legs tighter around his waist and met her hips up with his thrusts, deeper and painful. A moan mixed in with her voice as she said, “more.”

“Fuck,” he rasped out, fingers digging into her hips so hard it was going to leave bruises and she watched in fascination as he came. His head was thrown back, the muscles in his stomach tightened and sweat glistened along his body as she felt his release began to drip out of her as he slowed down his pace before coming to a stop with his hips sealed to hers.

He collapsed, arms briefly catching himself so he didn’t crush her but she didn’t mind. Everything was so hazy. It felt like heaven, having him so close.

She wanted to touch him, desperately, only to have the reminder her hands were still tied and they began to feel sore.

“Sir,” her voice was soft, scared to break the spell.

He lifted his head. He himself looked dazed, a beautiful mess she felt honored to see. Fucked out in his own way and his eyes drifted to her hands, that smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he reached up and untied her.

Her hands fell, the flesh tender around her wrists and she felt her heart lurch a little as he rested his head back down on her chest. Exhausted and still feeling the tail end of intoxication.

Slowly, her hands drifted into his hair, playing with it softly.

“Oscar,” he said. His voice made her pause as she felt his heartbeat slowing against her skin.

“What?”

He lifted his head to rest his chin on her sternum and her hands fell from his hair to hold his face, her thumbs dancing along his cheekbones. His eyes were glowing and his own hand reached out to tuck loose hair that had fallen behind her ear.

“Call me Oscar.”

She smiled slightly. “Only in private?”

He observed her for another moment, still hard to read but that was okay.

Eventually he leaned up, pressing a chaste kiss to the top of her head.

“Only in private.”

part two

Tag list: @theonottsbxtch @fortunapre @c8lap1nto @ashbone @taasgirl @stopeatread @dying-inside-but-its-classy (let me know if you’d like to be added to the list!)

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kiwriteswords · 3 months ago

Note

Hiya! May i please request protective Aaron Hotchner? Thanks Ki!

To the Ends of the Earth [Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader]

Masterlist || Ao3||Word Count: 4k|| AN: LOVE PROTECTIVE HOTCH!! Thanks for requesting!!

Tags/Warnings: no use of y/n, canon-typical themes, reader was taken advantage of by a powerful figure, protective!Hotch, mentions of sexual assault/harassment, mentions of physical altercations, blackmail, canon-typical violence, angry Hotch, protective!Derek Morgan, Hotch's POV, Reader defending herself, established relationship, Strauss is a nightmare boss sometimes, Aaron "I must make sure justice is served" Hotchner, bureaucratic politics

Summary: When an opportunity of a lifetime turns into a nightmare for you, Aaron Horchner needs to make it right.

Aaron Hotchner was not a man given to fits of rage. His demeanor, honed by years of service and hardship, was one of controlled calm, a fortress of logic and order. But as he watched you move around the kitchen that morning, something stirred deep within him—a tumultuous blend of protectiveness and fury that he hadn't felt since the harrowing days of George Foyet.

Something was off about you. It had been for a few weeks now, ever since you returned from that high-profile assignment with the task force. Hotch remembered how proud he had felt when you were selected, the honor that lit up your eyes, the excitement that animated your every gesture. But now, the light had faded from your eyes, replaced by a haunted, distant gaze.

Your movements were mechanical, your smiles forced. You flinched at sudden movements and seemed to wrap yourself tighter in your own arms whenever the house fell too quiet. The changes were subtle, but to Hotch, they screamed of something profoundly wrong.

He watched now as you poured coffee with slightly trembling hands, the dark liquid spilling slightly over the rim of the mug. Hotch's jaw clenched. He approached you, his steps silent but purposeful.

"Hey," he said, his voice soft yet carrying an undercurrent of concern that made you pause and look up. "We need to talk."

You nodded, setting the coffee pot down a bit too quickly, liquid sloshing onto the counter. "I know," you murmured, avoiding his gaze.

Hotch reached out, gently lifting your chin so you were looking into his eyes. "What happened on that assignment?" he asked, his voice low and intense. "You've been different since you came back."

Your eyes filled with tears, and you bit your lip, a clear struggle within you. The room was thick with tension, the air heavy with unspoken fears.

"It's... it was nothing, Aaron. I—I just got overwhelmed with the work, that's all," you stammered, but Hotch's eyes darkened. He knew you. He knew when you were hiding something painful.

"Talk to me," he pressed, his hand firm yet gentle on your arm. "Please."

The floodgates opened then, and as you told him about your boss—the respected and powerful figure within the Bureau, the one with connections that reached the highest echelons of government—Hotch felt a cold fury settle in his stomach. The man had taken advantage of you, betrayed your trust in the most despicable way, and used his power to silence you.

"He told me... he told me if I said anything, it'd be the end of my career. He's friends with—"

Hotch cut you off, his voice icy, "I don't care who he's friends with."

You flinched at the steel in his voice, and he immediately softened, pulling you into a protective embrace. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I'm just so, so angry that he did this to you. That I wasn't there to protect you."

Hotch held you close, his mind racing. His instinct was to protect, to avenge, to rectify. But he was also Aaron Hotchner, a man of the law, bound by rules and protocols—even if his heart screamed to break them for your sake.

"We're going to handle this," he whispered into your hair, his voice a steady rumble of contained fury. "I promise you, I won't let him get away with this. No one hurts you and just walks away."

Hotch felt your body tense in his arms, the weight of your emotions palpable against his chest. He held you tighter, a silent promise in the embrace.

"Look at me," he urged gently, tilting your chin up so your eyes met his once again. In them, he saw a storm of hurt, fear, and defiance—a maelstrom that made his own heart clench with an indignant rage he seldom allowed others to see.

"I... I don't want to make this into something big, Aaron. It's... it's embarrassing," you whispered, your voice breaking with the weight of your vulnerability. "And I... I don't want to be seen as a victim. He's too powerful. What if—"

"No," Hotch interrupted firmly, his tone brooking no argument. His gaze was intense, almost piercing, as he spoke with a clarity that cut through the fog of your worries. "You are not a victim. And this... this man has committed a crime. His power doesn't protect him from the law—not from justice. Not as long as I'm here."

You searched his face, looking for the certainty that felt so elusive to you now. Finding it in his eyes, the relentless determination that defined him, a small, fragile sense of security began to weave through your trepidation.

"Aaron, I'm scared," you admitted, the truth sounding stark and raw between you. "I'm scared of the fallout, of what it means for us, for my career..."

Hotch's expression hardened, the lines of his face setting into that familiar mold of resolve that had carried him through countless challenges. "I understand your fear, and it's valid. But you're not alone in this—not now, not ever. We'll do this together and on your terms. We'll take every precaution, use every resource at our disposal. We'll fight this, and we'll win."

The certainty in his voice was more than just comforting—it was a bastion against the doubts that threatened to overwhelm you. Hotch stood, his posture rigid with controlled anger, a testament to his unwavering support.

"And if he thinks he can intimidate or silence you, he doesn't know who he's dealing with. He doesn't know who I am," Hotch added his voice a low growl of protective ferocity. It was the same tone he'd used years ago, a sound born of fury and pain from darker days. It reassured you, reminded you of the strength you had beside you.

You nodded, leaning into him, drawing strength from his presence. "What do we do now?" you asked, the practical part of you ready to take the next steps, no matter how daunting.

"We start by documenting everything. Every interaction you've had with him, anything that can support your case. We'll get statements from anyone who might have noticed anything during your assignment," Hotch planned out loud, his mind already sifting through procedures and protocols. "I'll talk to Strauss personally. We need to make sure this is handled by the book and with the utmost seriousness."

"And then?" Your voice was small, but your eyes were steady, meeting his.

"Then we make sure justice is served," Hotch stated simply. "And we ensure that this never happens to you, or anyone else, ever again."

The resolve in his voice was unwavering, the promise not just of a lover but of a protector, a leader.

The next day, Hotch’s steps were purposeful as he approached Erin Strauss's office, his jaw set in a firm line, his thoughts a whirlwind of strategy and barely contained anger. This wasn't just another bureaucratic hurdle; it was personal, and the stakes were far higher than usual.

Knocking briskly, Hotch didn't wait for a reply before pushing the door open. Strauss looked up from her desk; her expression schooled into one of cautious neutrality.

"Agent Hotchner, what can I do for you?" Strauss asked, her tone as meticulously controlled as the rest of her demeanor.

"We need to talk about an urgent matter," Hotch began, his voice laced with a severity that made Strauss straighten slightly in her chair.

"It's about the conduct of a high-ranking official in the task force assigned to an agent on my team. There have been serious allegations made against him," Hotch stated bluntly, not one to dance around the subject.

Strauss's eyes narrowed, a flicker of concern passing over her features before she masked it with a bureaucratic calm. "I'm aware of the individual you're referring to," she said slowly. "However, you know as well as I do the complexities involved. He has significant connections, Aaron. This could become a highly volatile situation."

"That doesn't excuse his actions or absolve us of our duty to act," Hotch countered sharply, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "We have a responsibility to protect our agents and uphold the integrity of the Bureau."

"Aaron," Strauss began, her tone firmer, more authoritative. "I understand your concerns, as well as your….personal connection to this, but we must approach this carefully. Rushing into this could backfire, not just on us but on your agent as well. We risk turning her into the subject of a very public, very messy scandal."

Hotch felt his frustration mount, the protective fury simmering beneath his cool exterior. "With all due respect, Ma'am, I'm not willing to let this go because it's complicated. If we start picking and choosing which battles to fight based on political convenience—"

"This is not about convenience, Agent Hotchner!" Strauss interrupted, her voice rising slightly for the first time. "It's about strategy. It's about ensuring we handle this in a way that ensures justice without causing unnecessary harm. I am not saying we do nothing. I'm saying we need a plan."

Hotch paused, the logical part of his brain recognizing the truth in her words, even as his emotions rebelled against the implication. "I want your assurance, then, that we will pursue this. That it won't be swept under the rug because he's 'connected.'"

"You have my word that we will take appropriate action," Strauss said, her gaze locking with Hotch's. "But I need you to be patient. Give me time to navigate this minefield. I need to talk to the Director, maybe even higher. This isn't just about the Bureau, Aaron. It's bigger than that."

Hotch's expression hardened the lines of his face set in determination. "Time is something I can give, Erin, but silence is not. If we don't see action, I will take this to every authority necessary."

Strauss met his gaze, a silent battle of wills taking place in the quiet tension of the room. Finally, she nodded. "Understood. Let's reconvene in forty-eight hours. I should have more information then."

Hotch nodded curtly, the promise of action the only thing tempering his rage as he left her office. The fight was far from over, and while the bureaucratic wheels turned slowly, his resolve was as swift and unyielding as ever. Justice, he knew, sometimes required more than just good intentions. It needed steadfast, relentless advocacy, and that was something Aaron Hotchner was all too ready to provide.

As Hotch sifted through the case files on his desk, his focus was frequently interrupted by a far more personal concern. The events involving you had left a residual tension that permeated not just his office but his every thought. It was during one of these distracted moments that he heard the familiar knock of Derek Morgan at his door.

"Come in," Hotch called, setting aside the files and steeling himself for the conversation he anticipated was about more than just BAU casework.

Derek stepped in, closing the door behind him with a seriousness that matched the gravity Hotch felt. "Hotch, I've heard about what happened. How's she holding up?" Derek's voice carried a mix of concern and protective anger.

"She's coping, Derek, but it’s far from ideal," Hotch admitted, feeling the weight of his responsibilities as both a unit chief and a partner, “She's strong, but this... this isn't something anyone should have to be strong for--what happened... it’s unacceptable."

Derek's presence was reassuring, a reminder that he wasn't alone in his resolve to address the issue. "We can't just wait for the system to grind forward. What are we doing to make sure she feels safe, not just now but in the future?" Derek asked, his stance resolute.

Leaning back in his chair, Hotch considered the proactive steps they needed to take. "Strauss is handling the investigation, but we need to tighten our own security measures. I’m thinking about revising our late-night protocols and perhaps reintroducing a buddy system."

Derek nodded, folding his arms across his chest. "And maybe we should look into a refresher on self-defense for the team. It's been a while, and it might help give everyone a bit more sense of control," he suggested.

"That’s a good point. I’ll arrange for a workshop. We should also consider implementing more discreet ways for team members to alert security. Fast and effective responses could make a big difference," Hotch said, feeling a strategic plan forming.

"Like panic buttons?" Derek proposed.

"Exactly," Hotch confirmed, his mind already running through logistics and implementations. "I'll ask Garcia to look into integrating something seamless yet powerful."

Derek’s next words struck a chord, emphasizing the culture Hotch always strived to foster within the team. "We need to make a statement, Hotch. Not just with new systems and training, but in how we handle this. We protect our own, not just out there," Derek motioned towards the world beyond their office walls, "but in here, too."

Hotch met Derek’s gaze, a silent acknowledgment of the shared commitment. "I agree completely. Let’s set up a team meeting tomorrow. We’ll discuss these changes openly and ensure everyone knows we’re serious about safeguarding our own."

As Derek left, Hotch turned his attention back to the files before him but with a renewed focus. The safety and well-being of his team, particularly you, now had a clear path forward. With Derek's support and the team's collective effort, Hotch was determined to transform this challenging situation into an opportunity to strengthen the BAU from within. The resolve in his heart was matched by the plans forming in his mind, and he felt ready to lead this crucial initiative.

The wheels of bureaucracy had finally begun to turn, albeit slowly. Hotch could feel a subtle shift in the atmosphere within the Bureau as whispers of the investigation started to circulate among the upper echelons. Strauss had been true to her word so far, initiating discreet inquiries that didn’t draw undue attention yet signaled a clear intent to address the allegations seriously.

However, just as Hotch was beginning to see a glimmer of progress, a new, more immediate crisis erupted. It was late in the evening, and you were at home with Hotch, the two of you trying to enjoy a quiet dinner together to take your minds off the ongoing turmoil. Your phone buzzed with the arrival of an email, and the change in your demeanor was immediate and alarming.

“What is it?” Hotch asked, noting the sudden pallor that washed over your face as you stared at your screen.

“It’s him,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “He’s... he’s threatening me, Aaron.”

The words hit Hotch like a physical blow. His jaw clenched, and his eyes hardened with a fury that had been simmering just below the surface, now brought to a boiling point by this new provocation. He took the phone from your hands; his movements controlled but brisk, and read the email himself.

The message was succinct, laced with venom and arrogance. The man threatened to ruin your reputation, to make sure you would never work in law enforcement again if you continued to "drag his name through the mud." The audacity of the threat, the blatant attempt to intimidate and silence you, ignited a fierce protectiveness in Hotch.

“This ends now,” Hotch said, his voice low and dangerous. He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor with a sharp screech. “I won’t let him get away with this.”

You reached out, touching his arm. “Aaron, what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to make sure he understands the consequences of threatening an FBI agent,” Hotch replied, his tone leaving no room for doubt about his intentions. “He thinks he can intimidate us into silence, but he’s gravely mistaken.”

Hotch’s first call was to Strauss, informing her of the new development. His words were clipped, his anger barely contained as he explained the situation.

“Erin, he sent a threatening email. He’s trying to intimidate her into dropping the charges. This is witness tampering, and it’s unacceptable. We need to act, and we need to act now,” Hotch insisted, his demeanor unyielding.

“We will start with securing a formal censure against him. I’ll also alert the Director immediately. This is serious, Aaron, and we’ll treat it as such,” Strauss responded, her voice reflecting a new urgency.

Satisfied that the Bureau was finally mobilizing with the necessary aggression, Hotch turned his attention back to you. He could see the fear and uncertainty that the email had sparked, and he knew he had to be the rock you could lean on.

“Listen to me,” he said, taking your hands in his. “I promise you, I won’t let anything happen to you. We’re in this together, and we’re going to see it through. No one threatens you and gets away with it. Not on my watch.”

As Hotch spoke, his assurance, his unwavering support, you felt a flicker of hope. Despite the darkness of the situation, with Hotch by your side, you believed that, somehow, everything might still turn out right.

Aaron Hotchner had settled into the kind of focus that came with years of late nights and urgent cases. The dim light from his desk lamp cast long shadows across the paperwork in front of him, the numbers and details blurring into a singular narrative of crime and consequence. He was deeply immersed in a complex profile, one that needed to be finished before morning, when a faint noise caused him to look up. It was a sound out of place in the quiet of the late evening, a soft shuffling, a hesitant step.

The sight that greeted him was one he was wholly unprepared for. You were leaning heavily against the doorframe, your face visibly battered and bruised, your clothing disheveled as if from a scuffle. There was a black eye forming, swelling under the stark fluorescent light, and blood was trickling from a cut on your lip, dripping onto your collar.

For a moment, Hotch froze, his brain trying to process the scene before him. His files, his profile, the pen still poised in his hand—all of it faded into irrelevance as a surge of protective anger rose within him. He was on his feet in an instant, his chair pushed back with such force it nearly toppled.

“What did he do?!” The words burst from him, laden with fury and concern as he closed the distance between you and him in a few long strides. His hands hovered just inches from you, itching to reach out, to confirm you were real and standing there, yet hesitating out of fear of hurting you further.

Your appearance was a stark, visual slap to his system, igniting a rage in Hotch that was pure and lethal, a reminder of the days when he'd hunted the most dangerous criminals. His mind raced with the implications of your injuries—how it had happened, where, and most importantly, who was responsible.

Seeing you in such a state, so vulnerable yet defiant, was more than just a call to action. It was a personal affront, a challenge to everything he stood for, both as the unit chief of the BAU and as the man who loved you. Your safety had been compromised under his watch, and the violation of that trust was something he took as a personal failure.

“Who did this?” His voice was a low growl now, demanding an answer, needing to know whom to direct his burgeoning wrath towards. The protective barrier he always maintained—the one that kept his professional judgment clear of emotional interference—was crumbling fast, chipped away by each drop of blood he saw staining your skin.

Your response was shaky but filled with a fire that spoke volumes of your resilience. “It was him. In the locker room,” you managed to say, your voice a testament to both the physical pain you endured and the psychological battle you were fighting. “There are no cameras there. He knew that.”

Hotch’s jaw tightened, his eyes hardening with resolute anger. You had defended yourself, survived, and prevailed, yet the cost was written all over your face, and it was a price too steep for him to bear without retribution.

“We’re going to Strauss now,” he stated unequivocally, the protective fervor in his voice leaving no room for negotiation. “He won’t get away with this. Not now, not ever.”

He quickly grabbed a first aid kit, gently tending to your wounds with a steadiness in his hands that belied the storm of emotions inside him. Once he was sure you were stable, he offered you his arm, ready to accompany you to Strauss’s office. The walk there was tense, each step heavy with the weight of the incident and its implications.

Upon reaching Strauss’s office, Hotch knocked firmly, not waiting for an invitation to enter. Strauss looked up, her expression turning from surprise to alarm at the sight of your condition.

“Aaron, what happened?” Strauss stood immediately, her eyes wide as they took in the visible marks of the attack on you.

“She was attacked by him, in the gym locker room. There are no cameras there. It was premeditated,” Hotch explained, his voice controlled but the underlying fury unmistakable. “She defended herself and subdued him. He’s still there, unconscious and handcuffed.”

Strauss’s face hardened, her eyes now reflecting a mix of anger and determination. “I’ll call security, have them take him into custody and ensure he’s watched until he can be formally charged. This is attempted assault on a federal agent, at the very least. We’ll push for the maximum charges.”

You nodded, leaning slightly on Hotch for support, both physically and emotionally. “Thank you, Strauss. I... I defended myself, but I want this to be handled by the book. We need to make sure he never has the opportunity to hurt anyone else.”

Strauss moved around her desk, reaching out to gently touch your shoulder. “You did good, and I’m sorry this happened under our watch. We’ll take care of it from here. And you,” she looked at Hotch, “make sure she gets to a hospital, and then take some time off. Both of you. You need to recover from this.”

Hotch nodded, his protective instincts fully engaged as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, guiding you out of the office. The rage still simmered within him, a fierce protectiveness that would not soon abate. But alongside it was a profound respect for your strength and resilience and a renewed commitment to stand by you, no matter what lay ahead.

That night, the world outside seemed distant, almost irrelevant as you and Aaron Hotchner returned to the sanctuary of your home. The hospital visit had been thorough but exhausting, leaving both of you drained yet relieved that nothing was critically amiss. Now, in the quiet comfort of your bathroom, Hotch took on the role of caretaker with a gentleness that made your heart swell despite the pain.

You sat on the closed lid of the toilet, watching him gather supplies—antiseptic, cotton pads, and some fresh bandages. The care with which he handled each item, his movements deliberate and focused, was a quiet testament to his concern for you. As he turned to you, his expression softened, his eyes meeting yours with an unspoken promise of tenderness.

"Let's get this cleaned up," he murmured, wetting a cotton pad with antiseptic. His touch was feather-light as he dabbed at the cut on your lip, the one that had stopped bleeding but still throbbed with every movement. You flinched slightly, not from pain, but from the intimacy of the gesture, the proximity in a moment filled with so much vulnerability.

"I'm sorry you had to go through this," Hotch said quietly, the weight of his emotions making his voice thick and unusually expressive. He paused, his hands steady as he tended to your wounds, but his heart was anything but calm. "I should have—"

The words trailed off as a tide of frustration and guilt surged within him. Hotch despised the feeling of helplessness, the gnawing thought that he might have prevented your pain had he anticipated the threat more effectively. It was a violation of his deepest principles, both as a protector and a partner, to see you hurt and know he had not been there to prevent it.

He gazed at your face, noting the bruises that marred your skin, each one a stark reminder of the violence you endured. It pained him to see these tangible signs of trauma on someone he cared deeply about. The instinct to shield you from harm was ingrained in his very nature, honed through years of leading a team that faced danger daily. Yet here, in the quiet of your shared space, the reality that you had faced such danger alone was a bitter pill to swallow.

As Hotch looked into your eyes, seeing the trust and understanding there despite the shadows of the recent ordeal, he felt a renewed surge of resolve. His role was not just to protect but to support and ensure such a breach never occurred again. This incident, while closed legally, would prompt him to reevaluate his own vigilance. The emotional undercurrent of this moment, the blend of regret and protective fervor, was a powerful catalyst for Hotch. It reinforced the essential truth that his duty to protect you extended beyond the physical; it was emotional, a bond forged in mutual respect and shared trials.

The silence that followed his unfinished apology was filled with a heavy understanding. He knew you didn’t blame him—you had faced the situation with incredible resilience. But he held himself to a standard that was often unrelenting. Hotch needed to articulate this, not just for you to hear, but for him to acknowledge it openly.

“You shouldn’t have had to handle this alone,” he continued, his voice firmer, reflecting his internal commitment. “I’m here, and I will do everything in my power to ensure you never feel that isolated again. We’ll increase security protocols, and I’ll personally review them.”

His promise was not just words; it was a vow, a pledge of his ongoing commitment to your safety and well-being. Hotch knew that recovery from such events wasn’t just about physical healing—it was about restoring a sense of security and normalcy. He was prepared to lead that effort, standing by you as both your staunchest ally and your devoted partner.

"Don't," you interrupted gently, placing a hand over his. "Don't do that to yourself. You couldn’t have known. And you were there when it mattered. You’ve always been."

He looked at you, really looked, as if seeing you anew, and nodded slowly. "It's over now," he reassured you and himself more than anyone. "He's in custody, and he's not getting out anytime soon. Strauss is making sure of it."

You nodded, feeling the weight of the past weeks begin to lift ever so slightly. "It’s hard to believe it’s over," you admitted, allowing yourself to lean into his care, into the promise of safety his presence provided.

"It is, though. And we're going to make sure you're safe, that this never happens again," Hotch said, his voice firm with conviction. He finished bandaging a smaller scrape on your cheek, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary, as if to impart comfort through his touch.

You reached up, your hand brushing against his. "Thank you, Aaron. For everything. I don’t know how I would have handled all this without you."

Hotch’s hand covered yours, his grip warm and reassuring. "You're not alone in this. You’ll never be," he said, his gaze holding yours. "We’re in this together, remember?"

As you nodded, a silence fell between you, comfortable and healing. It was the kind of silence that spoke of shared struggles and mutual support, of battles fought and won together. Hotch finally stood, helping you to your feet.

"Let’s get some rest," he suggested, his tone lightening a bit as he led you toward the bedroom. "You need to heal, and I need to make sure you stop finding trouble," he added, a hint of humor glimmering through the residual tension of the day.

You chuckled softly, leaning against him as you walked. "Deal," you replied, knowing that whatever the future held, you faced it not alone but together, stronger and more united than ever.

Tag List:

@zaddyhotch

@estragos

@todorokishoe24

@looking1016

@khxna

@rousethemouse

@averyhotchner

@reidfile

@bernelflo

@lover-of-books-and-tea

@frickin-bats

@sleepysongbirdsings

@justyourusualash

@person-005

@iyskgd

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buttercandy16 · 3 months ago

Text

Consequences to your Actions

PAIRING(s): Agatha Harkness x Reader, Rio Vidal x Reader

SUMMARY: A woman, betrayed by her wife, embarks on an affair with her boss, Agatha Harkness. Agatha's control leads to a divorce, but when the truth emerges, it’s too late—Agatha will do anything to keep her.

WARNING(s): Infidelity, Manipulation, Obsession, Implied Stalking, Betrayal, Deception, Abuse, Control, Gaslighting, Dub-Con, SMUT, and other Dark themes I forgot to mention.

A/N: The itching need to add Rio even if I'm only writing her as a minor character. Enjoy!

You should’ve known something was wrong the moment Rio started coming home late. At first, she had excuses—work meetings that ran over, urgent deadlines at her law firm, impromptu drinks with colleagues. You didn’t think much of it at first; your own work at Harkness Industries was demanding enough, and you weren’t about to begrudge her the same kind of schedule.

But as the weeks went by, the excuses started to feel hollow. She became distant, absent even when she was physically there. When she kissed you, it was fleeting. When she held you, it felt like her arms were a cage keeping something unspoken inside.

And then there was her phone.

It started buzzing at odd hours—late at night, early in the morning. She was quick to silence it, brushing off your questions with tight-lipped explanations. “It’s just work,” she’d say, or, “You know how chaotic things get this time of year.”

You wanted to believe her. God, you needed to believe her. But the unease festered.

Your life began unraveling on a quiet Tuesday evening. You hadn’t expected it—betrayal rarely came with a warning. As you walked into the apartment, exhausted from work, Rio stood in the kitchen, fiddling with her phone. At first, it seemed innocent, just another moment of routine. But when you greeted her, she flinched, quickly locking the device and shoving it into her pocket.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, your voice soft but tinged with curiosity.

“Nothing.” She gave you a nervous smile, brushing past to put the kettle on. “How was work?”

Her attempt to divert the conversation only made you more suspicious. It wasn’t like her to be evasive. Still, you brushed it off. Maybe you were overthinking things.

But the unease didn’t go away. In fact, it worsened as the days passed.

Late one night, unable to sleep, you saw Rio’s phone buzzing on the nightstand. The name flashing on the screen—"Unknown"—was strange enough. Stranger still was the message preview: “Can’t stop thinking about you. Last night…”

You froze, nausea twisting your stomach. Before you could react, Rio stirred, taking the phone in her hand and quickly silencing it.

“What are you doing?” she mumbled, clearly trying to sound nonchalant but failing miserably.

“Who is this?” you demanded.

“It’s not what it looks like,” she stammered, her voice shaky. “That’s—she’s just a friend. It’s not like that.”

“A friend?” You couldn’t stop the bitter laugh that escaped you. “Who texts their friends last night was amazing?”

She tried to defend herself, but the damage was done. You didn’t believe her. How could you? A message like that wasn’t innocent. Not when it left a dull ache pounding in your chest every time her phone buzzed. That pain, the uncertainty, stuck with you. It hung in the back of your mind at work, bled into your daily routines, and stole your ability to focus on anything else. You stopped going to bed with her. Stopped sharing your dreams or your fears because you weren’t sure if she deserved them anymore.

The seeds of doubt had taken root, and no amount of reassurance could pull them out.

At work, you found no reprieve. If anything, your performance began to suffer. Tasks that once came easily felt impossible to focus on. Meetings dragged on, your mind wandering to the phone calls and late nights that awaited you at home.

And that’s when Agatha Harkness began to notice you.

You’d always admired her from a distance—the way she commanded attention in every room she entered, the sharp confidence in her stride, the cool authority in her voice. As the CEO of Harkness Industries, she was untouchable, her presence as formidable as the empire she’d built.

The sound of heels clicking against the tiled floor broke your spiral of thoughts.

“[Your Last Name],” Agatha said, her smooth, smoky voice cutting through the hum of the nearly empty office. You jumped slightly, not expecting her presence this late. Looking up, you saw her—impeccably dressed, her charcoal-gray suit tailored to fit her tall, sharp frame. Her silver jewelry gleamed in the pale fluorescent lighting. Her presence dominated the room, her piercing blue eyes narrowed on you.

“Is everything alright?” she asked, though the amusement in her tone betrayed her true intentions. Agatha didn’t ask questions unless she already knew the answers.

“Yes, Ms. Harkness,” you replied stiffly, quickly closing your laptop. “Just catching up on some work.”

She leaned against your desk, clearly not buying it. “You’ve been… off lately,” she said, her voice softening ever so slightly, though her usual smirk stayed in place. “If something’s wrong, you can always come to me, you know.”

You hesitated. There was something unnervingly genuine in her tone, but that wasn’t what threw you off. What unsettled you was the realization that her gaze wasn’t just observing you—it was studying you, drinking in every little tell, every weakness.

“Thanks, but it’s personal,” you muttered, reaching for your bag.

She raised an eyebrow, giving you an indulgent smile. “Personal, huh? Let me guess—relationship trouble?”

You froze, your hands stiffening on the strap of your bag. She tilted her head, and for a moment, her smirk softened into something like sympathy. But even then, her eyes glinted with a hunger you didn’t fully understand.

The question caught you off guard, your heart skipping a beat. “What makes you say that?”

She shrugged, leaning against your desk with an air of casual confidence. “Call it intuition. But if there’s something you want to talk about…” She let the sentence trail off, her piercing blue eyes holding yours for a moment too long.

You shook your head, brushing her off with a polite smile. “Thanks, but I’m fine.”

But Agatha wasn’t one to let things go so easily.

It started innocently enough. After that conversation, Agatha began to invite you out. Sometimes it was coffee before a morning meeting, other times drinks after hours in her office. At first, you felt awkward accepting her invitations. She was your boss, after all. But you were desperate for a distraction from the storm at home—and she always had a way of drawing you in, her words dripping with charisma.

She began offering casual advice or anecdotes from her life. Before you knew it, she wasn’t just a boss—she was a confidante.

You never meant to open up to her about Rio. It happened one particularly draining night when you were both finishing late meetings. Agatha poured you a drink, her glass already half-empty as she leaned back in her leather office chair.

“Darling, what’s eating at you?” she asked casually, swirling the whiskey in her glass. “You look… burdened.”

It was her words—so precise and unnervingly accurate—that broke something in you. “It’s my wife,” you admitted, staring into your glass. “I think she’s cheating on me.”

Agatha didn’t react immediately. She studied you, her expression unreadable. “Cheating?” she repeated, her tone deliberate. “Or do you know it for a fact?”

You hesitated, recounting the texts, the lies, the evasive behavior. Agatha nodded slowly, her lips curving into a faint smirk. “Sounds like you already know the truth,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “You’re just afraid to admit it.”

Her words hit you harder than you expected. And though you tried to shake it off, Agatha had a way of making the impossible seem logical. She fed into your doubts, her every comment precise and calculated. “She doesn’t deserve you. Not if she could betray you like that.”

Weeks passed, and Agatha grew bolder. She started showing up by your desk during breaks, brushing her hand across yours under the guise of sharing paperwork. She leaned a little too close when she whispered in your ear during meetings, and her compliments shifted from professional to deeply personal.

One night, she invited you to her penthouse.

The space was breathtaking: high ceilings, glittering chandeliers, and an unobstructed view of the city skyline. You felt out of place amidst the luxury, but Agatha made you feel welcome. She poured you wine, teasing you gently about your stiff posture.

“Relax, darling,” she said, her voice low. “This isn’t work. Consider it a treat for all your hard efforts.”

You tried to keep your guard up, but the wine and her proximity eroded your resolve. She was magnetic, her every gesture deliberate and sensual. When she leaned in to brush a strand of hair from your face, you didn’t pull back.

“You know,” Agatha whispered, her lips so close to yours that her breath brushed against your skin, while swirling a glass of Merlot in her other hand, “someone who cheats isn’t worth your time.”

The comment was blunt, almost cruel. You stiffened, staring into your own wineglass. “She says she didn’t cheat,” you said quietly, though even you didn’t sound convinced. “She’s been trying to prove herself, but…”

Agatha clicked her tongue, setting down her glass. Her eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your stomach twist. “But she broke your trust,” she said firmly. “That’s not something you can just fix. Trust isn’t some toy you can glue back together once it’s shattered.”

Her words stung because they echoed the feelings you’d been trying to ignore. And yet, there was a strange comfort in her conviction—in the way she made everything sound so clear-cut when your own thoughts were muddied.

Weeks turned into months, and Agatha grew bolder. She started calling you “darling” in private. Her hand lingered on your lower back when she guided you into her office. She’d brush your hair out of your face under the pretense of being “helpful,” though the look in her eyes told a different story.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t notice. She was beautiful—undeniably so—with an effortless allure that seemed to cloak her every movement. And more than that, she understood you. Agatha didn’t sugarcoat things the way Rio did; she told you what you needed to hear, even if it wasn’t pretty.

The first time it happened, you blamed the wine.

You’d stayed late again in her penthouse. She’d convinced you to let her cook dinner—a surprisingly simple but delicious pasta dish that you ate together at her marble-topped kitchen island. The wine flowed freely, and by the time you were sitting beside her on the couch, your head was spinning.

“You deserve better, you know,” Agatha murmured, her voice low and intimate.

You turned to her, your heart pounding as you realized how close she’d leaned in. “Agatha—”

She cut you off with a kiss, her lips soft but insistent against yours. You froze, your mind racing with a thousand reasons why this was wrong. But when she cupped your face, her thumb brushing against your jaw, reason melted away.

The world seemed to pause in that moment, her lips soft but firm against yours, her hand cradling the back of your neck with possessive ease.

Her kiss deepened, her hand sliding into your hair as she guided you closer. It was overwhelming—the heat of her body against yours, the hunger in her touch, the way she seemed to pour all her intensity into that single act.

When you pulled back, breathless and dazed, she studied you with a small, satisfied smile. “Tell me to stop,” she whispered, her fingers still tangled in your hair.

You didn’t.

“You deserve to be worshipped,” she murmured, her voice husky. Guilt churned in your chest, but as she pulled you closer, kissing you again, it melted into a warmth you hadn’t felt in months.

The affair began in earnest after that night. Agatha was relentless, her touch searing and possessive every time you were alone together. She made you feel things you hadn’t felt in years—desire, adoration, worship.

You knew it was wrong. Every time you returned to Rio, guilt clawed at you, threatening to choke you. But you couldn’t stop. Agatha was a drug, and you were hopelessly addicted.

Her hands were everywhere, tracing the curves of your body as if memorizing every inch of you. Agatha consumed you in ways you hadn’t thought possible, her touch igniting a fire that left you breathless and desperate for more. Her hands were everywhere—pinning you against the cool walls of her penthouse with an intensity that bordered on possessive. Her lips left trails of fire on your skin, her teeth grazing your collarbone as she pulled moans from your throat. She made you feel wanted, consumed, and for the first time in months, alive.

She whispered things in your ear that made your heart race and your cheeks burn, things you’d never heard from Rio.

“You’re mine,” she murmured one night, her voice rough with need as she pinned you against the wall of her penthouse. “No one else gets to touch you like this. No one else deserves you.”

For weeks, you lived a double life.

But the guilt never went away.

“Agatha, I can’t keep doing this,” you said one night, pulling away from her lips with more effort than you thought you could muster. “I feel like I’m drowning in this lie.”

She tilted her head, her fingers brushing against your cheek. “Then come up for air,” she murmured, her voice dripping with reassurance. “You know what you need to do, darling.”

When you still hesitated, her tone sharpened ever so slightly. “She doesn’t love you—not really. If she did, she wouldn’t hurt you like this. She wouldn’t make you feel this… empty.”

Her words were surgical, cutting away your last shreds of resistance. Before you could stop yourself, you found solace in her arms again.

When you tried to end it a second time, Agatha didn’t take it lightly.

“You think you can just walk away?” she said, her voice eerily calm as she cornered you in her office after hours. “After everything?”

Her eyes burned into yours, her intensity both terrifying and magnetic. “I know you feel guilty, but what you have with me? It’s real. It’s worth the risk.”

She leaned in, her lips grazing your ear. “And you want it, don’t you?”

Your heart pounded as her words sank in. She was right. No matter how much you wanted to deny it, you couldn’t stay away.

Eventually, she began to push harder.

“You need to leave her,” Agatha said one night, lying beside you in bed. Her fingertips ghosted along your arm, her lips brushing against your shoulder as she spoke. “She doesn’t deserve you, and we both know it.”

“I don’t know if I can,” you admitted, your voice trembling.

She cupped your face, forcing you to meet her gaze. “Yes, you can. I’ll be here, darling. You don’t need her.”

Her words echoed in your head long after you left her apartment. The divorce papers sat on the kitchen table for weeks before you finally signed them. Rio cried when she found out.

“You’re making a mistake,” she pleaded, clutching your hands. “I didn’t cheat. I swear to you.”

But Agatha’s voice drowned hers out: “She’s lying. She’ll only hurt you again.”

After the divorce, your relationship with Agatha became official. The media marveled at her whirlwind romance with a “mystery employee,” and you found yourself thrust into the public eye —lavish dinners, expensive gifts, and a wedding straight out of a magazine spread. And yet, something felt… off.

Rio didn’t disappear. She called, sent emails, even showed up at your doorstep one day, begging you to listen.

“She’s manipulating you,” Rio said, her voice trembling with desperation. “She planned this. She’s dangerous, and you can’t see it because she’s in your head.”

You slammed the door in her face, brushing away the small seed of doubt her words planted. Agatha loved you—didn’t she? She couldn’t have orchestrated everything.

It was a rainy night when you found the folder. Agatha had left for a business meeting, and in a moment of idle curiosity, you opened the drawer of her desk. Photos of you—some from months ago, others dating back to years before you’d even started working for her. Copies of emails supposedly from Rio, doctored to look incriminating.

Your stomach dropped as realization dawned.

She’d planned this. All of it. Agatha had orchestrated everything, from planting those damning messages to pulling you closer into her orbit.

“You’ve been busy,” Agatha’s voice startled you. She stood in the doorway of her home office, her eyes unreadable.

“How could you?” you demanded, clutching the folder. “You lied. You manipulated me. You destroyed my life—my marriage—all because you’re obsessed with me?”

Her expression didn’t falter. If anything, she looked amused. “I didn’t destroy your life,” she said calmly, stepping closer. “I saved you.”

“You ruined everything,” you spat, backing away.

She closed the distance between you in an instant, her hand grabbing your wrist in a vice grip. “I gave you everything,” she hissed, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Everything you have is because of me.”

Panic surged through you. “Agatha, you’re scaring me—”

She softened instantly, her hand loosening but not releasing you. “Oh, sweetheart,” she cooed, her voice dripping with mock tenderness. “You don’t need to be scared. I’d never hurt you.”

Her smile turned sharp. “But if you ever try to leave me, I can’t promise things won’t get… messy.”

Agatha’s grip on your wrist tightened, her nails digging into your skin just enough to make you wince. Her lips curled into a predatory smile, her eyes dark with a hunger that sent a shiver down your spine. “You think you can just walk away from me?” she purred, her voice low and dangerous. “After everything I’ve done for you? After everything I’ve given you?”

You tried to pull away, but she was stronger than she looked. Her other hand snaked around your waist, pulling you flush against her body. You could feel the heat of her through the thin fabric of her blouse, the hard press of her breasts against yours. “Agatha, let me go,” you pleaded, your voice trembling.

She laughed, a low, throaty sound that made your stomach twist. “Oh, darling, you don’t really want me to let you go, do you?” she whispered, her lips brushing against your ear. “You’ve always been mine. You just needed a little… persuasion.”

Her hand slid down your back, cupping your ass and squeezing hard. You gasped, your body betraying you as a jolt of heat shot through you. “Stop,” you whispered, but your voice lacked conviction.

Agatha’s lips found yours, her kiss fierce and demanding. She didn’t ask for permission; she took what she wanted, her tongue forcing its way into your mouth. You moaned despite yourself, your body responding to her touch even as your mind screamed at you to push her away.

She broke the kiss, her breath hot against your lips. “You’re mine,” she growled, her hands moving to the buttons of your blouse. “Every inch of you belongs to me.”

You tried to protest, but she silenced you with another kiss, her fingers deftly undoing the buttons and pushing the fabric off your shoulders. Her hands roamed over your bare skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake. “You’re so beautiful,” she murmured, her lips trailing down your neck. “I’ve wanted you for so long.”

Her hands found your breasts, her thumbs brushing over your nipples, making them harden instantly. You gasped, your body arching into her touch. “Agatha,” you moaned, your resolve crumbling.

She smirked, her hands moving to the waistband of your skirt. “That’s it, darling,” she purred, pushing the fabric down your legs. “Let me take care of you.”

You stepped out of your skirt, your body trembling with anticipation. Agatha’s eyes raked over you, her gaze hungry and possessive. “Perfect,” she whispered, her hands sliding down your thighs. “You’re perfect.”

She dropped to her knees, her hands spreading your legs apart. You gasped as her tongue flicked against your clit, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure through you. “Agatha,” you moaned, your hands tangling in her hair.

She didn’t respond, her tongue working its magic as she devoured you. You could feel the heat building inside you, your body responding to her every touch. “Oh god,” you whimpered, your hips bucking against her mouth.

Agatha’s hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as she continued to pleasure you. You could feel yourself getting closer, the tension coiling tighter and tighter. “Come for me, darling,” she murmured, her voice muffled against your skin.

You cried out as the orgasm hit you, your body convulsing with pleasure. Agatha didn’t stop, her tongue lapping at you until you were trembling and weak. She stood up, a satisfied smirk on her lips. “That’s my girl,” she purred, pulling you into a kiss.

You could taste yourself on her lips, the taste of your own arousal on Agatha's lips sent a thrill through you, even as a small part of you recoiled at the intensity of the situation. But Agatha didn't give you time to overthink it. Her hands were on your body again, caressing and claiming every inch of skin as she backed you towards the bed.

You fell onto the plush comforter, Agatha's weight pinning you down a moment later. She straddled your hips, her eyes dark with lust as she looked down at you. "You're mine," she repeated, her voice rough with desire. "Say it."

Your heart pounded in your chest, fear and excitement warring within you. But as Agatha ground her hips against yours, you felt yourself giving in. "I'm yours," you breathed, your voice barely audible.

Agatha smiled, a wicked glint in her eye.

"Louder," she demanded, her hand wrapping around your throat. Not enough to cut off your air, but enough to make you feel owned, possessed.

"I'm yours," you repeated, louder this time.

"I'm yours, Agatha."

Her grip tightened for a brief moment before she released you, her hand trailing down your body to your breasts. She cupped them roughly, her thumbs brushing over your nipples. "Good girl," she purred, leaning down to take one into her mouth.

You arched into her touch, moaning as her tongue swirled around the sensitive bud. Her other hand moved between your legs, fingers teasing your still-sensitive clit. "You're so wet for me," she murmured against your skin. "So responsive."

She continued her ministrations, alternating between your breasts and your core. Your body was on fire, every touch sending sparks of pleasure through you. You were panting, writhing beneath her, desperate for more.

"Please," you whimpered, not even sure what you were begging for. Agatha seemed to understand, though. She withdrew her hand, leaving you bereft for a moment before she shifted her hips.

You felt the head of her strap on press against your entrance, and you gasped.

Agatha was large, larger than anyone you'd been with before. She paused, giving you a moment to adjust. "Breathe," she instructed, her voice calm and soothing despite the hunger in her eyes.

You did as she said, taking a deep breath as she slowly pushed inside you. The stretch was intense, bordering on painful, but it wasn't long before your body relaxed, accommodating her size. She filled you completely, her hips pressed flush against yours.

"Fuck," Agatha groaned, her head falling forward. "You feel incredible."

She gave you a moment to adjust before she began to move. Slowly at first, her hips rolling against yours in a steady rhythm. But as your moans filled the room, she grew bolder, her thrusts becoming harder, faster.

Your hands clawed at her back, your nails digging into her skin as she pounded into you. The pleasure was overwhelming, every stroke of her cock sending shockwaves through your body. You could feel another orgasm building, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in your core.

"Come for me," Agatha growled, her hips snapping against yours. "Come on my cock like the good little slut you are."

Her filthy words pushed you over the edge. You came with a scream, your body convulsing beneath hers. Agatha followed shortly after, watching you come undone was enough for her to find her own release.

She collapsed on top of you, both of you panting and sweat-slicked. For a moment, you lay there in silence, the only sound your ragged breaths filling the room.

But as the haze of pleasure began to dissipate, reality started to set in. Agatha had manipulated you, planned everything from the beginning. She had destroyed your marriage, ruined your life—all for her own twisted desires.

A lump formed in your throat, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Agatha must have sensed the change in you, because she pulled back, her gaze searching your face.

"Talk to me," she urged, her voice soft but insistent. "What's wrong?"

You tried to speak, but the words caught in your throat. You pushed at her chest, trying to make her release you. "Let me go," you whispered, your voice breaking.

Agatha's expression hardened. She didn't move, her body still pinning you to the bed. "No," she said simply, her tone leaving no room for argument. "You're mine now. I won't let you go."

Panic surged through you. You struggled against her, your heart pounding in your chest. "Please," you begged, your voice rising in pitch. "I can't do this. I can't be with you."

Agatha's grip tightened on your wrists, her face inches from yours. "You don't have a choice," she hissed, her eyes flashing with anger. "You're mine, and I always get what I want."

You felt the tears spill over, running down your cheeks and into your hair. You were trapped—trapped by Agatha's obsession, trapped by your own weakness. You had let yourself fall for her manipulations, for the thrill of being wanted so desperately.

Now, there was no escape.

Weeks turned into months, and you fell deeper into Agatha's grasp.

She isolated you from everyone—your friends, your family. If anyone tried to contact you, she intercepted their calls, their messages. She told them you were busy, that you needed space to focus on your new life with her.

And you let her.

Because what choice did you have? Agatha had all the power. She controlled every aspect of your life—where you went, what you did, who you saw. And if you tried to resist, she punished you.

At first, the punishments were subtle—a sharp look, a harsh word. But as time passed, they grew more severe. She would leave you locked in a room for hours, ignoring your pleas and sobs. She would confiscate your phone, your laptop—anything that could connect you to the outside world.

Once, when you tried to sneak out to meet Rio, Agatha found out. She dragged you back home by your hair, slamming you against the wall hard enough to leave bruises.

"You belong to me," she snarled, her face inches from yours. "I won't let you leave me."

That was the day you knew there was no escape. Not really. You were trapped in this gilded cage, a prisoner to Agatha's twisted desires.

And still, part of you craved her touch, her attention. Even as she hurt you, she made you feel alive. She made you believe that everything she did was out of love—that she needed you as much as you needed her.

It was a sick, twisted cycle—one that left you feeling lost, broken, and hopelessly addicted to the woman who had shattered your life.

You knew then that you were trapped. Rio had tried to warn you, but it was too late. Agatha had you in her web, and there was no escaping now.

The city lights glittered below as you stared out the window of her penthouse, feeling more like a prisoner than a partner. Somewhere deep down, you resolved to find a way out. But one look at Agatha’s cold, calculating smile told you that escape would come at a cost you weren’t sure you could pay.

_-_-_

Please don't forger to vote, reblog, and comment.

Happy New Year my Twisted Darlings!

#dark fanfiction #agatha all along #agathario #rio vidal #agatha harkness #agatha harkness fanfic #kathryn hahn #marvel #aubrey plaza #dark!agatha harkness #yandere #agatha coven of chaos #agatha harkness x reader #agatha x reader #rio vidal x reader

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zozotheme · 2 years ago

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#business #consultant #lawyer wordpress theme #law firm theme #wordpress themes #web design #web development

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divinector · 2 years ago

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Lawyers and Law Firm HTML Template

#law firm #lawyers #bootstrap templates #bootstrap themes #lawyers html template #webdesign #website template

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jesse-pinko · 3 months ago

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It’s literally not my fault that the themes of Breaking Bad become that much stronger if you read Walter as a closeted gay man… like where to even start okay it’s 2008 and this guy is so, so insecure in his masculinity and so, so resentful of his picket fence family life. He’s done what he was “supposed” to do by societal standards and he still doesn’t feel like enough of a man compared to his brodude brother-in-law specifically. He can’t escape the feeling that something is missing, that it’s all a charade, and he finds it hard to believe the rest of the people in his life really are content with this lifestyle. Nobody seems to understand, and he hates them all for not seeing how unhappy he is. He gets his cancer diagnosis and is suddenly acutely aware that he feels burdened and unfulfilled by the life he’s built for himself, and that time is running out to change things.

It’s when he sees Jesse Pinkman fall half naked out of a window that everything changes. He’s pretty, and young, and floundering without guidance or a support system. He desperately craves human connection and lacks the self-esteem to take his life in any particular direction without someone instructing him. He’s grieving his aunt, the only person he had looking out for him, who died of cancer. He already views Walter as an authority figure. He’s alone.

And with Jesse around, Walter doesn’t have to come to terms with anything about himself that might challenge his masculinity, because it isn’t an equal relationship. Because he’s still “the man” in this dynamic, the one with the power, the one calling the shots, the dominant one, the firm hand. Moreso than in his relationship with Skyler, who refuses to be bullied into the role he would assign her, that of the submissive, subservient little wife who looks to him for guidance and permission. As a criminal, Walt can express care for another man in the only way that traditional masculinity would deem acceptable; through violence. His love language is violence. Violence toward Jesse and violence on Jesse’s behalf. He runs over two men with a car for Jesse. He kills Jane and Mike, a romantic and paternal threat respectively, because they were going to take Jesse away from him. He tries on occasion to verbalize their relationship into something more traditionally familial, as if saying it might make it true, but it never quite fits the mold exactly. He reasserts, over and over again in what he later admits is a lie, that he is doing this for his family, that everything he does is an extension of his masculine role rather than deviant from it. He would kill and die for Jesse, he does kill and die for Jesse. In fact, in a story of self-actualization that still has Walt cling to his delusions of grandeur up until the very end (almost as though becoming Heisenberg wasn’t actually self-actualization so much as an escapist fantasy) his arc concludes with him actually self-actualizing by committing one last act of violence on Jesse’s behalf. In Ozymandias, he tells Jesse about Jane as a way of playing into Jesse’s worst fear that Walter never cared about him, that everything they did to and for each other meant nothing. Walter’s last act on Earth is a refutation of that; it’s an admission of care. His last act of self-actualization was a confession of love for another man.

#idk i feel like every time i talk ab the queer elements of brba i always get such strong pushback #like ppl feel uncomfortable applying a queer lens to this sacred text on masculinity #even though that theme only becomes stronger and more precise through a queer lens imo #all this to say #if Walter had come out he would make being a top his entire personality #walter white #jesse pinkman #waltjesse #breaking bad #brba #queer reading

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hannie-dul-set · 1 month ago

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fire and brimstone (and you’re a moth made of gasoline) — PREVIEW.

WORD COUNT. preview: 2.8k | this will be a chaptered fic. TAGLIST. open. send me an ask/dm/reply.

NOTE. this is the side effect of having a clinically insane brain that has to make a fic out of everything, including the law readings that i am subjected to every day. i have also been re-reading weak hero and i’ve projected my favorite feral dog (keum seongje/wolf keum) to the sweetest man alive (na jaemin). i’ve also based their org structure to the Union’s, just for full disclosure. meaning, a whole lot of dream 00 line (criminal) shenanigans are underway.

this intro note has become a mouthful. anyway, hope you enjoy!

“You have a new case,” he informs you over the phone. “It’s from Nalkkeutta.”

Or so you thought.

“Hah,” a weak wheeze squirms out of your throat. “Sure. Okay. Got it.”

“Yes, sir, I’m on my way. Are the files ready? Can you send them to me?”

And your life. You haven’t been lucky enough to be spared from that damned gang’s mess. In fact, you’re currently entangled with one of their messes right now.

“Hey, attorney. How may we help you?”

It’s a name you haven’t heard of in a while. It’s name that stalked the corridors of the place you’d bid good riddance to eight years ago with a spit on the concrete ground.

A nod from Jung Jaehyun. He turns his heels and leads you further into the station.

Your eyes meet. Your head snaps down to avoid his gaze.

“Good day, Na Jaemin-ssi,” you manage to choke out. “I will be your lawyer for the case against Yoon Naksung and company.”

There’s a ring in your ears.

It’s the sound of your heart trying to escape from your chest.

“You’re an alleged offender, Na Jaemin-ssi. You’d have to be detained until the trial.”

“The fuck? Hell, if I know.”

“That bucket wearing dumbass looked me in the eye,” he starts, smiling. “So I punched him right in the socket. Then his friends decided that they wanted a beating too.”

“So, it wasn’t one-sided,” you try to confirm, try to get a good enough testimony to help his and your sorry ass in court. “Can you testify their participation during the trial?”

Wrong move. Very wrong move.

Meaning, this bastard is at your mercy. And he has the audacity to piss you the fuck off.

“Strike a nerve?”

“I’ll handle it. There’s nothing for you to worry about, but I will need to arrange a meeting with you again before the trial.”

Na Jaemin simply shrugs and waives you off. Your tight lips force themselves into a smile as you nod and stomp your way out.

Fucking bastard, fucking piece of shit, fucking, god damn it—

Even for Nalkkeutta, this has got to be the worst kind of torture anyone could ask for.

fire and brimstone (and you’re a moth made of gasoline). © hannie-dul-set, 2025.

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cimmanonrowl · 8 months ago

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Gods & Monsters

Part One | Chapter Navigation

Pairing: aaron hotchner x criminal daughter!reader

Theme: smut heaven

Contents: age gap, forbidden relationship, unprotected rough sex, creampie, begging, innocence kink, rutting, somnophilia, a little cnc and panicking, dirty talk, pure filth, sir & daddy (only used thrice) kink, dom/sub undertones, innocent!reader, vague to inaccurate crime and law enforcement details

You woke up in the middle of the night. As you always have in the past few weeks. The room was covered in darkness; with only the faint sliver of moonlight filtering through the curtains. And in every gentle blow of the wind, the white fabric on the open veranda door sways in a mellow rhythm.

You pulled the covers up to your chest and rolled to your side, your heart hammering a little faster as you reached your phone on the bedside table and unlocked it.

No reply.

Your last message to Aaron, sent hours ago, still marked as unread.

You stared quietly at the screen, your eyes tracing over the last words you sent. It was just something simple: a question about his day, followed by a smiley face, light and casual. You were bored earlier so you decided to reach out to him. You even sent him a picture of the chocolate cookies you baked... but to no avail.

He’s probably just busy, you caught yourself saying in your head. The thought was firm with no edge or flicker of doubt. Aaron has his own life, a tedious job, and his own things to deal with. You knew that. Maybe he got caught up with work again, or he’s out with his team, or maybe he’s just tired; too exhausted to do anything but fall into the comfort of his bed and sleep.

Or maybe he simply doesn’t feel the need to reply to your unimportant message.

Your mouth felt dry with that thought. And the silence of the night pressed stealthily against your ears.

Milk. That was enough to draw you out of bed, your feet touching the cool wooden floor with a soft thud. The mansion was still— the kind of quiet that would usually lull you back to sleep. Usually, this meant your father and his men were out for a business matter. Sometimes, Father dear was just too hung up on alcohol and drugs that he forgot to come home at a decent time.

Quietly, you pushed open your bedroom door, careful not to let the hinges creak too loudly. The mansion in which you recently just moved into was heavily guarded just like the past ones.

You stepped into the hallway. Even though it’s only been a couple of months, every painting and corner of the dimly lit hallway was familiar to your senses. You expect to be the only one awake in your household, aside from the night guards. The kitchen would be empty as always.

But halfway there, a sound caught your ear— a murmur, low and indistinct, drifting from your father’s office.

You halted in your tracks, your ears perking at the noise. The door to your father’s office was slightly ajar, a thin sliver of light cutting through the darkness of the hallway. The murmur becomes clearer as you inched closer— three, maybe four voices, deep and serious, punctuated by the occasional clink of glasses.

“We fucking need it done by tomorrow,” one voice complained, rough around all the edges. “The delays are making them antsy.”

“Do you fucking think I don’t know that? Tell those motherfuckers to wait.”

You froze.

The other voices, they’re strangers to you. But you recognize that voice immediately. Your father’s unmistakable deep and commanding one. Yet you were used to this, used to crossing paths with different vile men your father worked with.

“What about the feds?” another voice asked. “They’ve been sniffing around more than usual.”

There was a low and dangerous chuckle that sent a shiver down your spine. “Let them. They won’t find anything.”

“The fuck you mean let them? Are you seriously still convinced that you don’t have a mole in this hellhole?”

Then there was a pause, the kind that felt like everyone was holding their breath. They know about the mole. Of course, they do. They’ve never had delays in their operations such as this before. Only an idiot would count it as a mere coincidence.

You leaned in, your ear almost touching the door, careful not to let it move even a fraction.

“All of your operations were interrupted by the feds.”

You heard the scrape of a chair against the floor, and then the clink of a glass being set down. “I don’t think it’s my men you should be poking your nose about. What about your men?”

“Are you fucking saying that my me–”

“What about the witness?” the first voice intercepted, quieter now, as if the words themselves are too dangerous to speak aloud.

“Taken care of,” your father replied with a sharp sigh, his tone so cold it chills your blood. “Permanently.”

There was a murmur of approval from the others, and you can vividly picture them nodding in agreement. Maybe even smiling. You pressed closer, trying to make sense of it all, but your thoughts were a tangled mess of fear and confusion.

“How much are we expecting on this one again?” another man asked, his voice gruff and heavy with tobacco smoke.

“Enough to keep everyone happy,” your father replied. “This is our last big score for this month. After that, we lie low for the meantime.”

There was another pause, and you heard the rustle of papers, the sound of something being slid across the table. “It’s all here,” your father muttered. “Everything we need. We move three nights from now.”

“Three nights?” the second voice echoed, surprised. “Why not tomorrow?”

“Yes,” there was no mistaking the steel in your father’s voice. “Because I said so.”

Every muscle in your body tensed as the meeting continued. They speak in half sentences, in code words, as if they know someone might be listening.

And then, as suddenly as it began, there was a sudden scraping of chairs, a loud cough, followed by the sound of feet moving. They were wrapping up, and you realized with a jolt that you need to move.

The stairs were just a few steps away. You could bolt downstairs and go straight to the kitchen as you intended. But instead, you slipped back into your room, closing the door silently behind you, and wished that the silence of the night would lull you back to another restless sleep.

When morning finally came, warm light filtered through the thin curtains and into your room. Bones popped beneath the covers as you stretched, your mind foggy with sleep. Yet you forced yourself to sit up, the blankets sliding off your shoulders.

For a moment, you contemplated reaching your phone and sending a message to Aaron. You couldn’t wait to tell him about everything you heard last night. But with the faint sound of footsteps in the hallway outside your room, you thought your information could wait until after breakfast.

You pad softly to your closet, slipping into a pair of fluffy pink slippers before making your way out of the room. You were still wearing your nightdress, a soft, pale blue cotton gown that fell just below your knees. It looked delicate, with a lace trim at the neckline, something you have had for ages. The fabric clung lightly to your skin with every move, the morning air cool against your bare arms.

When you passed by your father’s office, your thoughts immediately drifted back to the conversation you overheard last night. It felt distant now, almost like a dream, but there was this familiar tension in your chest that you knew all those things had happened.

“Morning, sweetheart,” your father greeted you, his voice deep and steady as you stepped into the dining area. “Come, have some breakfast.”

He gestured to the empty chair beside him. Father dear and Harwin were already seated at the table. The dining room was bright with morning light, the smell of freshly brewed coffee mixing with the scent of eggs and toast. Your father sat at the head of the table as always, while Harwin sat across from him, his posture straight, his eyes immediately flicking up to you as you entered.

“Good morning,” you replied softly, forcing a smile as you approached the table.

You were aware of how you must look— the nightdress, the slightly tousled hair, the way the morning light catches on your skin. You seem almost ethereal, innocent. But there was nothing innocent about the way Harwin’s eyes followed you as you move. It was not leering, no. Not inappropriate either, but it was there— an intense, piercing look that made you acutely aware of every step you take.

You slipped into the chair next to your father, feeling Harwin’s gaze settled on you. His expression was carefully neutral, but you could sense the way he was assessing you, as if he was trying to see right through you.

“Good morning, Miss,” he greeted, his voice polite and almost formal. He offered you a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I hope you slept well.”

You nodded, and your hand trembled lightly as you reached for the glass of orange juice in front of you. “I did. Thank you, Harwin,” your voice was quiet as you replied, as if speaking any louder would shatter the fragile calm of the morning.

But even as you say it, you know it was not entirely true. The remnants of last night’s tension clung to you, making the hair at the back of your neck rise, your breathing almost heavy.

Your father cut into his toast in rough movements. “Harwin will be spending more time around the house,” he said casually, his tone leaving little room for you to react. “I have some business that’ll keep me away, and I want to make sure you’re looked after.”

Business.

Your stomach tightened at his words. You glanced at Harwin, who was still watching you with keen eyes. You know this wasn’t just about keeping an eye on the house— this is about you.

And the realization sent a shiver down your spine.

Harwin nodded in agreement with your father’s words, his gaze still fixed on you. “Just a precaution,” his tone was even, as if this was all perfectly normal, perfectly reasonable. “I’m here to make sure you’re safe.”

Safe. The word echoed in your mind. You know what it really means— under surveillance, monitored, controlled. It’s not protection. This is not about your safety; your father wants to keep you on a leash, and you can already feel it tightening around you.

The corner of your lips twitched as you gave him a smile. “Thanks, Harwin. I appreciate it,” you said instead, dropping your gaze to the plate in front of you.

Your father continued eating, his attention seemingly on his breakfast, but you knew better. He’s always watching, always aware, and now, with Harwin here, you know you are under a different kind of watch.

But, at least, Harwin was polite enough to keep his distance. Though you could always feel his gaze following you, measuring every step you take, every breath. For the entire day, your father’s orders became clear— Harwin was here more than to protect you. He was here to ensure you don’t stray, that someone will watch every move you make.

“Harwin,” you called out softly before glancing over your shoulder. “Do you think we can go to the mall later?”

He seemed unfazed by the request, silently watching you lay on a lounger by the poolside with an open book perched on your lap. “No, Miss. If you need anything, I can have some of your housemaids to shop for you.”

“But I want fresh air?”

“We’re outside at the moment, Miss.”

“Yes, in our garden.”

He frowned a little. “The air is fresh as far as I can tell, Miss.”

And with that, you heaved a deep sigh.

As the sun began to set, you found yourself in your room, your phone clutched in your hand. The events of the past hours have left you feeling trapped and cornered like a mouse. The walls of the house seemed to crumble in on you– it was suffocating.

You opened your messaging app, your fingers hovering over Aaron’s name. It’s been a day since he last responded, the silence from his end gnawing at you, but you couldn’t wait any longer. You need to see him. Besides, you have the information he surely needs. He would have no choice but to respond to your text this time.

Can we meet? you typed slowly, your heart pounding in your chest. You add the details quickly— I have the information. The usual spot?

You hesitated for a moment, your thumb hovering over the send button. But then you pressed it, the message shooting off into the void, your hope clinging to it like a lifeline.

The minutes ticked by in silence. Then your phone buzzed in your hand, with Aaron’s name lighting up the screen.

On my way, was all he said. And for some reason, it was enough. It has always been. So you sighed in relief and smiled to yourself.

Right then and there, you knew what you had to do next. Escaping Harwin’s notice won’t be easy, not with him and the other guards roaming the mansion, but you were determined. You have done it before, though never with this much at stake.

Taking a deep breath, you slipped on a pair of jeans and a hoodie, something that will help you blend in. You grabbed a small bag, stuffed it with a few essentials, then waited for the right moment to finally move.

The silence of your house made every step and the creaking of hinges amplified. From the window, you see one of the guards patrolling the perimeter, his flashlight cutting through the growing dusk. You know there was another by the front gate, and probably more stationed at various points around the property. Getting past them will be tricky, but you have mapped out a plan in your mind.

Harwin was downstairs. The front gate was obviously not an option, not with him and the guards so close. Instead, you decide on your usual route— through the back, where the bushes and trees provide more cover and the lamp posts are seldomly lit.

You waited until a house helper passed by outside your room, her back turned. You moved quickly and quietly down the hallway as you slipped out, sticking close to the walls to avoid any creaking floorboards. The house, large as it is, felt stifling.

With quick strides, you reached the back staircase, your heart pounding in your ears as you descended. The kitchen was just down the hall, and beyond that, the back door that leads to the garden. But you were not alone.

From where you were standing, you heard footsteps— another house helper, moving through the kitchen. You held your breath, peering around the corner just enough to see her pass by, her attention focused on checking the locks. She didn’t see you, didn’t know you were there, but you almost choked on your saliva as you bit your tongue.

As quickly as she moved on, you seized your chance. You slipped into the kitchen, the cool tile under your feet grounding you as you cross to the back door. Your hands shook in fear and panic as you unlocked it, praying it didn’t make too much noise.

And it didn’t.

The garden is shrouded in twilight as you step outside, the cool evening air hitting your face. And for a moment, you felt a rush of freedom. You can’t remember how many times you’ve done this before. But it never, ever felt easy. You doubt it will ever be.

You slipped through the gate, closed it carefully behind you, and took off running down the back alley. You didn’t stop running until you were several blocks away; your lungs burning, your legs aching. Only then do you allow yourself to slow down, and breathe.

It was almost a two-hour commute to the motel where you usually meet up with Aaron. The neon sign flickered in the dusk with a dull glow over the empty parking lot. You made your way to the room you know so well, pulling out the spare key Aaron gave you exactly a year ago.

Inside, the room was dimly lit, the thick curtains drawn shut. It was a modest place; a little different from the lavishness of your spacious room but you’ve loved this as much. With a soft thud, you dropped your bag on the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, your breath still coming in quick, shallow bursts. The silence here is different from the silence at home— this one feels familiar, and light.

You checked your phone quickly, hoping to see another message from Aaron, but there was nothing. A small pang of worry settled in your chest, but you pushed it aside. Aaron never broke his promise. He said he was coming, and you trust him. All you have to do is wait.

Your eyes started to droop as you lay down on the soft mattress, the adrenaline of your escape wearing off. You felt drained. Your legs aching. You curled up on your side, your phone clutched in your hand, waiting for the sound of his knock on the door.

But the minutes dragged by and your eyes fluttered shut, and before you knew it, after a long while, you fell into a deep slumber.

“Angel… fuck…” someone’s hot breath fanning over your ear roused you from the depth of your sleep. “You feel so good…”

You stirred and attempted to stretch your arms, even move your legs when all of a sudden, you felt it. The cold air licked the bare surface of your naked body. A low whine rumbled through your chest as you slowly, groggily so, blinked your eyes in confusion. Your vision was unfocused for a moment, sending you into a flight of panic as you grew aware of what was happening.

“Who-” the question was left hanging in the air as soon as Aaron’s thumb found your aching clit.

His hard cock was pressed against your desperate cunt, sliding through your wet folds at a rousing pace. A quiet gasp escaped your lips as he continued rutting his girthy cock against your swollen clit. You have no idea how he managed to undress you without waking you up. Although it didn’t surprise you, you’re still curious– about how expert and knowledgeable Aaron was with every sexual act. And right now, a thin sheet of sweat was slowly covering your body.

“Aaron– sir–” you whimpered once more, unknowingly bucking your hips to meet his desperate thrusts. “What… what are you doing?”

He let out a deep groan. “You look so sweet sleeping, angel… couldn’t… help myself…”

“Feels so good…” you mewled in return, feeling your dripping cunt clenching in pure desperation for something to fill it up.

The sensation was new and overwhelming. One of Aaron’s big and calloused hands was kneading your breast, pinching your sensitive and taut nipple every now and then. While his mouth was just as busy— his tongue more so; sucking and nibbling, and biting your nipple as his cock slid through the folds of your dripping pussy.

A growl rumbled through his chest.

“Can... can I slide in the tip…” he whispered in a gruff and breathy voice. It sounded vulnerable and demanding, and desperate at the same time. “Just the tip, angel. Hm? Just the tip, I promise...”

You nodded frantically, your hands gripping both of his strong arms propped at either side of your smaller frame. “Just the tip…”

“Fucking hell…” you heard him murmur as he lined the head of his big cock against the entrance of your fluttering cunt. “This is so wrong, angel, but fuck… I never wanted to ruin anyone so badly until you.”

“S-sir…”

His teeth sank lightly at the curve of your collarbone. “I’m going to fucking ruin you, you hear me? I want my cum dripping out of your tight cunt.”

You shivered at the vulgarity of his words. Maybe it was forbidden. Maybe this was wrong. Maybe this will not end up well. But maybe this is the reason why you can’t seem to get enough of it, of his warmth, and his cock ramming in and out of you.

“Aa- Sir!” you screamed loudly, dragging your nails along his arms, your toes curling in pure, white-hot pleasure.

Aaron peppered your cheeks, your lips, and your forehead with light kisses, murmuring his quiet apologies as he forced his big cock inside of you. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry, angel… I’m sorry…”

His promise now long forgotten as you felt the intoxicating burn of his cock stretching your tight cunt. You should’ve known better than to believe his promise.

“You look so good like this, gorgeous…” he whispered in your ear, his big hands roaming your body as if memorizing every corner of it. “Is this what you wanted, huh? Is this why you kept texting me? Can’t get enough of my big cock, little girl?”

You nodded abstractedly. “M-missed you… I missed this…”

Aaron’s lips tugged to a menacing smirk.

“Is my innocent angel turning into a dirty whore?” he taunted, halting his movement. You could feel his hard cock throbbing inside you, rubbing your walls just right. And when you didn’t answer his question, you felt a sharp slap at the side of your thigh. “Answer me, baby. Are you my whore now?”

“Yes, sir… yes… only for you…” unshed tears stung the corner of your eyes.

“Tell me how bad you want it, angel...” he sounded mocking, his voice light with arousal. “Beg for my cock— no, no, no. Don’t you fucking dare look away.”

You shook your head weakly. “D-daddy…”

A high-pitched whine escaped your lips as you felt him slowly dragging his cock out of you. Tears rolled down your cheeks in humiliation. Your legs clung to the back of his thighs in a desperate attempt, locking him in place. Aaron even had the nerve to chuckle as he saw your tears streaming down your pretty face.

“P-please… please… sir…” you said breathlessly. “I want your big cock, sir. Please… please fill me up with your cum…”

Aaron’s cock pulsated against your walls as he heard your words, your voice as sweet and gentle as he first heard it. He clenched his jaw and whispered tauntingly. “Yeah? Is that all you can say, angel?”

“I need it, please… Aaron… Sir… please… I’m a good girl…”

“Are you?” he perked one of his thick eyebrows before ramming his cock inside you once again, hitting a spot so deep you rolled your eyes.

“I- I am…” you nodded frantically, taking a fistful of the sheet in your hands. “I waited for you, sir. Only you. Your big cock… only you, Aaron…”

“Did you touch yourself while I’m away?”

You tried closing your thighs a little as you felt his thumb pressing light circles on your swollen clit. “I- I did, sir. Yes- I thought about your cock… I want your cock so bad…”

“And what did you think about, little girl?” he grunted, pounding his cock slowly and shallowly, his thumb still rubbing your sensitive nub.

Your legs shook as you felt your incoming orgasm. “How good you fuck me. Your cum inside m-me… I always dream of it, sir… before I go to bed… I always want to hear your voice.”

Aaron’s thick eyebrows tugged together as his focus narrowed down on giving you pleasure. His cock continued assaulting your warm cunt, hissing and grunting every time you clench deliciously around his cock. The sound of your loud moan and his heavy breaths intertwined together, your eyes rolling back with the intense pleasure of your upcoming orgasm.

“Please, please… sir, please… make me cum…” you whispered hoarsely, your voice full of desperation. “So close. ‘M so close.”

“Yeah, little girl? Cum for me, then…” his thrust became even more vigorous, firmer. “Show me how good girl you are, baby. Go on, angel.”

“Aaron!” his name came out a scream. “I’m coming! I’m com–”

Your vision blurred out as intensely your orgasm ripped through every fiber of your being. Your legs trembled and clamped shut, making Aaron growl in the tightness of your cunt. It took him all the self-control not to cum then and there; seeing the pleasure on your face, the tears on your cheeks, your beautiful lips hanging in a silent scream.

Fuck.

He’d go to hell for corrupting the innocent girl you once were.

“Sir…” you whispered weakly, your voice spent and quiet.

But Aaron paid you no mind. He hasn’t come yet. And he had no plan on letting you go after just one orgasm. He wants to ruin you. To take over your being. He wants you to realize that he has all the control. He owns you, from the very first day he laid eyes on you, to the very first night you spent together. When you desperately opened your legs for him, you were his. He owned you since then and he can do everything he pleases.

Effortlessly, he pulled you up and switched your positions. He was now lying on his back, his piercing eyes focused on you as you scrambled to find your position on his lap, your legs still shaking from the remnants of your orgasm.

“I haven’t cum yet, little girl.”

You nodded quickly, understanding just well what he meant by that, your chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. “Yes, sir…”

“Make me proud, angel. Show me how good of a whore you are.”

Aaron let out a loud hiss as you lined the head of his leaking cock on your wet entrance, fluttering in anticipation as it welcome the familiar stretch. You let out a satisfied sigh, feeling your inner thigh wet with arousal and your release, and all Aaron could do was shiver as he felt the wetness the moment you fully sank down his cock.

With your palms resting on the soft surface of his stomach, you forced your legs to bounce up and down his hairy cock. Every once and a while, you’d clench around his girth unconsciously, which only made Aaron shut his eyes and pound into you harshly.

You moaned loudly, meeting the way his hips desperately chases yours. “Ah! Ah, s-sir!”

“You feel so good… so w-warm..” he mumbled dazedly, wetting his lips with his eyes closed. “This cunt’s heaven, baby. Fuck. You’ll send me to hell— fucking hell! Yes, clench that pussy tighter, angel! Fuck, I’m coming!”

You bounced even more desperately, fueled by his moaning, and his heavy breathing. The hoarness of his voice, the way the veins in his strong arms popped out, and how his big hands gripped your hips so tightly it left red, angry marks.

He fucked into you like you’re nothing but a fucktoy. Like you’re something he can discard— like you’re something he will discard the moment he reaches his high. And you’d be lying to say you don’t find that idea hot.

You clenched your cunt tighter, holding his hands that were wrapped around your hips.

“A-Aaron! S-sir! Ah!” his cock found the spot only he can reach. “I’m coming again, sir! D-daddy! Ah! Aaron, please, more! Fuck me harder, daddy!”

Aaron didn’t say anything but a loud growl rumbled through his chest. His chest heaving in sharp, restrained breaths.

“God, angel…” he rasped quietly.

A strangled sound of what seemed like your name escaped his lips. You let him take over, let him ruin you the way he wanted, his hand firm on your hips as he fucked into you. And the moment you felt his hips stutter, warm ropes finally spilled inside you; his big cock throbbing as he emptied himself deep into your willing cunt.

You heaved a sigh of satisfaction, tossing your head back with your eyes closed, feeling perfectly sated and elated at the moment.

If this is heaven, you will never, ever come down.

Even if it means you would beg God to forgive you.

As always, replies, likes, reblogs- everything is highly appreciated! I'm only planning on writing 5 chapters for this series. And please be aware that I'm not promising any happy ending. This will end up in angst unless something changes my mind. Also, listen to Lana's Gods & Monsters and feel the vibe of this series! Have a good day and drink your water! <3

Tag list: @downbad4reid, @readergf, @urbrazysimp, @roseydoesypoesy, @pastelpinkflowerlife, @justyourusualash, @hotchsmutrecs, @msfreedom, @birdysaturne, @gghostwriter, @mrs-ssa-hotch, @fore45fore, @actualdeemon, @diksy1112, @jethro-mcgee-tony, @hotchnerbau, @iniyalovesall, @222hwilsss, @balariie, @oliviabbb, @ncis0mrs0gibbs, @jasonswhitetuftofhair, @m4pl, @yiiiikesmish, @luv-unknwn, @thatonepersononline, @ilikwgirls, @ssamorganhotchner, @antonia29, @fandomtookoverlife, @hotchnerwife, @wandererseye, @marisamarisa @l0kilaufeys0n7, @promptly-mercy

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner smut #criminal minds smut #aaron hotch fanfiction #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x female!reader #aaron hotchner fic #ssa aaron hotchner

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carriesthewind · 7 months ago

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"Reviewers told the report’s authors that AI summaries often missed emphasis, nuance and context; included incorrect information or missed relevant information; and sometimes focused on auxiliary points or introduced irrelevant information. Three of the five reviewers said they guessed that they were reviewing AI content.

The reviewers’ overall feedback was that they felt AI summaries may be counterproductive and create further work because of the need to fact-check and refer to original submissions which communicated the message better and more concisely."

Fascinating (the full report is linked in the article). I've seen this kind of summarization being touted as a potential use of LLMs that's given a lot more credibility than more generative prompts. But a major theme of the assessors was that the LLM summaries missed nuance and context that made them effectively useless as summaries. (ex: “The summary does not highlight [FIRM]’s central point…”)

The report emphasizes that better prompting can produce better results, and that new models are likely to improve the capabilities, but I must admit serious skepticism. To put it bluntly, I've seen enough law students try to summarize court rulings to say with confidence that in order to reliably summarize something, you must understand it. A clever reader who is good at pattern recognition can often put together a good-enough summary without really understanding the case, just by skimming the case and grabbing and repeating the bits that look important. And this will work...a lot of the time. Until it really, really doesn't. And those cases where the skim-and-grab method won't work aren't obvious from the outside. And I just don't see a path forward right now for the LLMs to do anything other than skim-and-grab.

Moreover, something that isn't even mentioned in the test is the absence of possibility of follow up. If a human has summarized a document for me and I don't understand something, I can go to the human and say, "hey, what's up with this?" It may be faster and easier than reading the original doc myself, or they can point me to the place in the doc that lead them to a conclusion, or I can even expand my understanding by seeing an interpretation that isn't intuitive to me. I can't do that with an LLM. And again, I can't really see a path forward no matter how advanced the programing is, because the LLM can't actually think.

#ai bs #though to be fair I don't think this is bs #just misguided #and I think there are other use-cases for LLMs #but #I'm really not sold on this one #if anything I think the report oversold the LLM #compared to the comments by the assessors

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maiamore · 4 months ago

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MILLER ASSOCIATES

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female!Reader - No Outbreak

Rating: 18+ | W/C: 5k-ish

Summary: A one-night-stand with your boss at the firm you work in turns out not to be such a good idea. Tags: lawyer a/u, alcohol, colleagues to lovers type, breeding themes, able bodied reader, joel being a southern sweetheart, creampie, p-in-v, unprotected sex, mentions of anal, mutual pining, dual pov, dry humping

A/N: very much suits inspired, had to get this out of my head PREQUEL | MASTERLIST

A rhythmic, low bass filled your senses, thrumming against your ears. All the chatter & laughter from the crowd blending into each other, forming one singular noise.

The stickiness from the floor dragged across the ball of your strappy heels. Causing you to wince in displeasure. Thankfully, you’d had enough to drink so it’d dulled the pain of wearing heels all night—you supposed going to town on those cocktail shots wasn’t all that bad now.

The growing chants of the countdown filled the air, the giddy excitement was almost contagious.

Pushing past the wave of swaying bodies, you’d locked on to the figure ahead of you, the only sure thing in the nauseating strobe of lights that grounded you. Briefly, that figure disappeared within the crowds. A slight panic surged through you.

You’d taken a couple steps forward, scanning the crowd. Just when you were on the verge of giving up, a warm hand guides you out with a swift tug by the back of your waist, pulling you against a leather clad wall—or well, chest.

You blinked a few times. Joel, who was quietly ahead of you, gave you a look. Letting you step back a little. “Keep up.” He said. Or, you thought he said by the ways his lips moved. His hands assuredly tightened around your waist this time. He wasn’t going to lose you through the crowd again.

“Okay.” Your voice competed with the chaos around you—countdown timer flashing on all the screens situated in every corner of the room. The reality was bleary at best, you’d definitely drunk enough to scramble the rational side of your brain.

He wasn’t looking at you anymore. You’d followed his gaze to the bar's back door.

As soon as you’d stepped out of the bar, the chilly air outside hit you like a force. Sobering you up, barely.

This was happening.

Joel’s hands flattened against the back of your waist. Thumb soothing you from the decision you both made in the heat of the moment earlier. You could feel just how needy he was just by how touchy he was.

This was happening.

“Wait.” Your panicked voice interrupted his movements when he dipped his head to your level. “...Let’s..let’s just establish the situation before we actually do this.” You managed. Earning a confused look from him.

“I came on to you. And..I kissed you first.”

Deep brown eyes settled to look into yours. A slight scoff leaving his stupid pretty pouty lips.

“This ain’t Law & Order, darlin’.”

Even with nothing but the residual glow blue neon signage illuminating above you both beneath the moonless skies, you could see it in his eyes that he’d been waiting. Way past his limits. His usually assured voice came out barely restrained.

Joel could tell by your less than amused expression that you weren’t fuckin’ around. You needed an acknowledgement from him.

“Yeah.” Backtracking, humour lost in his words now. A much more complicated sentiment taking its place.

“Alright. Sounds good t’me.”

You’d exchanged a look of mutual understanding. As sure as you could’ve been with your current combined blood alcohol levels. The same hand on your waist gently turning your body around.

That was how you found yourself getting fucked against the walls by your boss.

6 Months Later

After that anomaly in your offices’ New Year get together nearly half a year ago, you both swore you’d never bring it up again. It was just too complicated to unpack you said—at least that’s what you told yourself.

He’d been more than happy to oblige. Which stung somehow. Maybe you were just too afraid to deal with the implications of what allowed you both to indulge in something that was hugely just the tip of the iceberg. Or maybe he just didn’t want to create a workplace imbalance. Maybe. The thought had always gnawed at you, the idea that he might’ve regretted whatever happened even though he showed no indication of it.

Tension ran high in the law offices of Miller Associates. There’d been some sort of situation. You figured. You weren’t all that concerned, yet.

“You didn’t hear?” An obnoxious noise crept up from behind you. Interrupting your concentration. “What?” A sharp gasp filled your lips when your chair had swiveled, your colleague, Serena, leaning down towards you. “The case you’re working on! With Mr Miller.” Her voice a mere whisper. “Someone fucked up. Big time. The settlement was voided.”

A chill ran down your spine. “What? When?” You said a little too quickly. Grabbing your phone in a haste. A single notification glowing on your phone.

Fuck.

“Dunno. I just heard Mr Miller was at Wheeler’s trying to work out a deal. Someone leaked information—”

You were on your feet even before she could finish her sentence. This was officially your problem now. You’d been on the case with Joel for weeks.

What was supposed to be a straightforward division of assets—a separation of a couple's joint built company—quickly unraveled. Someone had leaked sensitive information to the opposing counsel's client, costing the firm its leverage in negotiating the settlement.

“Get Leighton out. Make shit up. Do whatever the hell & buy us some fuckin’ time.”

Joel’s voice carried through the halls. A silent look shot towards you to drop whatever pointless errand the other associates tasked you with. Warily, you trailed after him. It was a rare sight to witness Joel frayed.

His normally slicked back curly hair was visibly in disarray.

So he looked perfect even when he was about to lose his shit. Great.

You’d noticed the lack of his tailored jacket or vest. Navy sleeves rolled up snug around his forearms.

This wasn’t like him at all.

He dragged his hand down his scruffed jaw as he remained on the phone. Not even looking back to see if you were following. He just knew.

“Need you on this.” He’d gestured to the stack of documents that lay on the edge of his wide dark oak wood desks. Bringing the phone up to rest against the edge of his shoulder.

You took a few steps ahead to pick up the stack of papers. The initial settlement documents for the Leighton versus Anders proceedings.

“So you want me to look through it again, find the discrepancies. Get references—“

When he’d finally put the phone down to look at you, you were already focused. Your gaze hadn’t lifted while you flipped through the papers.

“No need for the subtitles, darlin’. Do what you have t’do. Get me somethin’ by 11.”

That frustratingly smooth southern drawl in his tone made it sting even more when he’d rendered you an idiot that easily just for asking.

Nodding, you glanced over to your watch with a tilt of your wrist. 4pm. So two hours till the end of work and another four hours tomorrow. Seemed pretty doable.

“Okay. I’ll get back to you by the morning.”

“No. 11pm, tonight.”

“What?” A breath of disbelief that blended into your exclamation left your lips. He hadn’t responded. Merely raising a brow at your confusion.

“I can’t. I have plans—“

“So cancel.”

He’d said it so matter of factly like it was the most natural next step, you’d brought your hand down. The papers crumpling slightly in your grip. It didn’t help that some part of you admired how easily he got people to do as he wished. Well. You’d have known that first hand. Evidently.

You couldn’t trust yourself to speak then. It would probably start with something like listen here you fucking inconsiderate shit.

Mumbling a begrudging got it, you got started as soon as you head back to your cubicle.

JOEL

Joel Miller was a man who’d thrived on setting specified routines for himself, following rules set in place in his life. He had to. It was what kept him sane despite everything that came his way.

Wake up, 0700. Shower, 0715. Breakfast with his daughter, 0800. Office by 0900.

He was off rhythm today. It was only the start of his bad mood. He couldn’t kiss his little girl goodbye before she headed off to school, skipped breakfast and had to drive over to the other end of Manhattan to deal with a literal growing trash fire.

The deal was called off by 0800. He’d lost one hundred and twenty five thousand dollars by 0830.

He couldn’t lose his shit just yet. It was his last name, his fathers legacy, staring back at him in bolded letters of the building.

He was aware that his intense presence had everyone on high alert, though some part of him was grateful he supposed that when it came down to it, his employees were on the ball.

And then…there was you.

Fluttering around helping everyone. Back and forth, through offices of his associates, to the secretaries. Arms always full with stacks of papers you delivered even when you didn’t have to.

Six months ago, you’d officially wrecked the part of his life he’d carefully built walls around. If he was being honest, you already had two years ago when you’d joined the firm as a paralegal.

“So you want me to look through it again, find the discrepancies. Get references—“

Good girl.

He thought. He’d known the sort of person you were. Always compartmentalising. He wasn’t sure if you’d thought about him the way he’d thought about you still. Fixated on the little furrow on your brows as you concentrated on the documents. Lips slightly pursed. It wasn’t that long ago he’d had the privilege of feeling the heady sweetness and the softness of your lips.

“I can’t. I have plans—“

Yeah. I know you had, sweetheart.

He’d heard it all when the other ladies, in the break room, had been squealing at the fact that Marcus from Mergers & Acquisitions had asked you out at the cafeteria.

Fuck. Did you need a probable cause to fire jerkoff, always wearing suspenders, Marcus? He probably could. Shouldn’t though.

Admittedly, he had some sort of satisfaction that he actually had a reason to keep you around his orbit.

PRESENT

It wasn’t like you wanted to go on that date with Marcus. He was a little too egotistical for your tastes, always flaunting his Dior clothes and that obviously second-hand Patek Philippe watch like it was his entire personality. But you were at your wit's end. You needed to stop moping and pining over the one amazing sexual encounter you had all year.

You sighed, leaning back in your chair and stretching your arms above your head. The lights flickered overhead, casting harsh shadows across your face. The glow lulled you—finally allowing yourself some reprieve with a brief shut-eye.

“So..so pretty.” His voice came out in rough whispers against the back of your earlobes. It sent chills down your spine.

He’d hoisted you back up against him with a grunt. You could feel his thick cock filling you up even deeper. A rough hand coming up to cradle around your forehead so it wouldn’t have to touch the walls. Even when you had been so out of it, his attentiveness heightened every nerve ending of your body.

His other hand slid downwards to give your clit much needed attention with a swipe of his thumb. “Been so good f’me—…ah..fuck. Shit.” A sharp hiss leaving his lips when you’d clenched around his cock subconsciously in overstimulation.

You couldn’t trust yourself to speak. Feeling his fingers tip you over the edge. Whining against the arm that held you firm. “Can’t—…t’much..”

“I know baby, you can give me another one, can’t you?” You could feel the purrr in his words. Gently pressing over the bulge on your stomach where he could feel how deep he was fucking into your soft pussy. Praises littered into your skin that felt like kisses. You nodded with renewed desire to give this man anything he'd asked for.

You’d lifted your head up from where it’d rested against your palm. Snapping out of your daydreams at the familiar voice calling your name.

You blinked a few times, registering the office’s law library’s attendant. “Are you okay, honey? I have to leave now.”

You offered a polite smile. “I’m good, see you tomorrow Mrs Balmaceda.”

You’d looked back down at the piles of books across the desk. The coldness of the library—evident by the building's foggy condensation outside the windows. Your exhaustion was finally catching up to you in the worst ways possible. Briefly glancing around at the amber overhead lights, illuminating the books tucked in large floor to ceiling bookshelves.

You’d inwardly sighed at the lack of references you had yet to find—grabbing the paper, scribbled with names of references that Joel had neatly written on it. You pushed past the attached ladders.

This was going to be a long night.

—

“This book..isn’t even supposed to be here.” You grumbled at the lack of care of the people who’d haphazardly shoved books into the shelves in places it didn’t belong. A stack grew in your arms, piling up the wrongly filed books. Taking it upon yourself to reshelve it.

“Are you supposed to be the librarian now?”

You’d nearly jumped out of your skin at the sudden voice from behind you. Books nearly slipping out of your hands, you’d acted quickly enough to stop them. Twisting your body to see the intruder.

JOEL

“Make sure she eats dinner and packs her books fore’ bed. Thanks Tommy…’ppreciate it.”

He’d ended the call, leaning back in his chair with a fist over his eyes. Not a single thing had gone the way he needed it to. He pushed the stacks of paperwork on his desk, blue ink that curved with the initials of your name on a document stared back at him. Confirmation that you were quite literally the only one other than him to have read the settlement papers.

He covers it with a stack of files. As though he didn’t quite want to face the truth behind it.

—

“Anything to show me yet?”

Barely able to register the object coming towards you, you awkwardly managed to catch the can of black coffee hurled towards you. Even with his odd way of showing it, you felt it. The care.

You’d trailed behind him. Eyeing the slump in his shoulders now. “Yeah. Couple of things in the settlement we can take advantage of because of the disparity,” you explained.

The sound of the can flicking open caught your attention. Watching as Joel took a swig. You swallowed. Holding the unopened can tightly in your palms.

Instinctively, your tongue darted out to wet your lower lip as your eyes lingered on the subtle movement of his adam's apple, rising and falling with each swallow. Your gaze trailed downward, drawn to his collarbone, partially revealed by the undone top buttons of his shirt.

You would’ve told him that you didn’t like black coffee. But you’d pretty much lost the window to say anything by now. That didn’t matter. You needed something for how dry your throat felt.

You’d open your can of coffee. Taking sips of the bitter liquid to quench the metaphorical desire building in you.

“Looks good enough. Two or three more references would do.”

He’d noticed the brief look of disgust on your face as you took another sip. Raising his brow slightly at your conformity. “Not much of a coffee person, are you?”

“Not really, no.” You admit. Sitting down across him by the chairs. He’d been flipping through the stacks of papers with you. Hastening the process a little more.

A quiet silence filled the air between you both. You’d have been okay not to acknowledge it. But Joel didn’t want to let it.

“What did you do?” He offered after a couple minutes of silence. You furrowed your brows at his words. “...Over the weekend, I mean.”

Since when did he care for small talk?

“Nothing much. I’ve been studying for the LSAT’s again.” He’d hummed in acknowledgment to your words. Observing you and your little quirks.

He’d noticed. You had a preference for the blue sticky tabs in any paperwork you did for him. When you’d been really concentrated, you opted not to speak.

“Again?” He questions.

“Again.” You repeated. The word leaves a bitter note on your tongue. “I’m not…I don’t test well.”

That earned a frown from him. He’d figured you got a little twitchy at times, but you had heart.

“What about you?” You’d tried to fill in the awkward silence after that. Trying to change the subject now. “What’d you do?”

It was as though your question caught him off guard. As though you’d interrupted his line of questioning that seemed to build up to something. “A play—…my daughter had a play, in her high school.”

You’d actually lifted your head up at his words. You were paying attention now. Something about your silence prompted him to continue. A daughter. You didn’t know he had a daughter.

“I was thinkin’ these kids were going to do some..Shakespeare thing. And then—...Sarah walked on stage as some blonde girl. From that movie.”

“That movie?” You repeated. Brows knit together.

He lets out a sigh. “The movie.” He repeats. His expression mirroring yours, hand gesturing vaguely as though to mortalise the words in his head. “Girl gets hit by a bus at the end…” He manages, in deeper thought. His thumb swipes the bottom of his lips in concentration.

You weren’t sure if you were paying attention after ‘girl gets his by bus.’ He may as well have had a sign on his forehead to say, “kiss me please” with the way he’d been bringing attention to it.

“I wanna say…it was somethin’ bout’ some girl named Caddy. Kayde?”

You were confused at first. Eyes widening.

“Mean Girls?”

A sigh of relief left his lips. As though it would’ve bugged him all night for not being able to remember. “That’s the one.” He says finally.

An amused scoff left your lips, the combined laughter of yours and his filled the silence in the room. Ignoring the fact that high schools nowadays didn’t quite care about literary classics, you were more focused on the fact that Joel seemed chillingly human. It was breaking through the carefully built mental barriers you had in place. Your ability to shove any lingering feelings—with the excuse he was just your boss didn’t quite matter anymore.

You didn’t realize how much you’d been staring at his every movement—how he just looked softer.

—

A considerable amount of time had passed, the both of you working together in sync to get the last of what you needed. You’d been eyeing Joel, his weariness evident in the constant furrow of his brows—or in the way a few curls had fallen effortlessly against his forehead.

You shouldn’t be thinking about him like this anymore. What was it about a man looking so damn attractive when their life seemed to be falling apart?

“How did things go with Leighton?” He inquires. Rudely interrupting your thoughts.

You’d stopped for a moment. Why was he asking this now?

You swallowed thickly. Feeling your nerves fray. Your current demeanor wasn’t lost on Joel. He’d been looking at you carefully. Despite your best efforts, Joel studied you enough to understand your behavior in his entire time knowing you.

He'd spent all day untangling the mess, he was asking this out of courtesy at this point.

“Good…there weren't any issues.”

“I’m askin’ you, since you were the last person to see her.”

“..I—“

When he’d repeated your name firmly, you tensed. It was far too late to keep up with hiding the fact now. He just wanted to hear it from you directly.

That you were the reason why the initial settlement was thrown out the window after you told Leighton about Ander’s infidelity yesterday. It was purposefully withheld from her during the proceedings.

But then…you’d seen Anna and how tired she looked. One look at her and you knew that she deserved all the facts.

“Tell me you didn’t, sweetheart.” The way he said it churned your guts. Of course he’d already been aware–some part of him wanted to believe otherwise.

You’d pressed your lips into a thin line. Not daring to look up. You could feel the way he’d been looking at you. How disappointed he would’ve been.

When you had looked up, however, disappointment wasn’t what you found. In the times you’d known Joel, you’d observed him and his little quirks.

You’d noticed. When he’d tried to practice patience in withholding his anger. His jaw ticked.

“I thought I was doing the right thing.”

The sigh he let out had you looking at the ground. It was a feeling not unlike the sinking weight of having utterly disappointed your parents. “You went behind my back.” His tone devoid of any kindness.

“I did the right thing.” You repeated. Firmer now.

“You’re fuckin’ deluded if you think you did the right thing, darlin’.”

That stung. Far more than you’d expected. Joel’s anger had been simmering over the edge. Minutes from saying something he shouldn’t have. It wasn’t just betrayal he’d felt, it was his naïveté in trusting you completely.

You knew you’d made a mistake. You knew. You should’ve apologized and moved on because he was right. But the words spilling out from you was anything but. The venom laced in his tone was not something you liked in the slightest. It’d rubbed you raw, a blooming pain that bled through the wake of your recklessness.

You’d gotten up abruptly. Grabbing the list of documents you’d needed from the archive room. The hastened clacks of your heels against the carpeted floors was soon joined by the low thud of Joel’s oxfords.

“You know.” He began, his voice trailing closer behind you.

“Through all this bullshit I still expected some level of humility from you at the very least.”

His footsteps grew closer. It was clear that he had no plans to let you get away with everything. Not without an acknowledgement to what you’d done.

You’d attempted to shut the door behind you, but Joel’s hands came up to wedge through the archive rooms doors to let himself in.

Your pace quickened, stepping into the room tucked in the corner of the library. Situating yourself between the metal racks. Stacked with dusty boxes of old case files. Barely lit by fluorescent lighting that hadn’t been changed in years.

He’d repeated your name. A little louder now.

“The hell do you want me to say?” You snapped back finally.

“Something that isn’t an excuse.”

You felt your own anger take the place of the supposed humility you were supposed to feel. You hated this side of him, pushing, cornering, intimidating people into submitting. You rifled through the boxes. Feeling his quiet presence overwhelm you, demanding an answer from you. Words bubbling up like word vomit, you couldn’t stop them from spilling.

“It’s not an excuse.”

“Are you that much of a sociopath that you’re sacrificing ethics and morals over getting a fucking payout for the firm?” You breathed out. Whipping your head around to look at him. “Is that what you wanna hear?”

“This isn’t about ethics or morals!” He’d raised his voice. Louder than he’d intended. No, he was more hurt that you didn’t trust him enough to handle it. Didn’t trust him enough to let him know before going behind his back. He would’ve done anything you’d asked. But you hadn’t.

“I should’ve known better than to trust a damn paralegal with helping me.” He’d felt regret even as he spoke, but he couldn’t help it. “I was fucking naive to think you were more. That you had something—“

“I was a goddamn fool to think that some kid who couldn’t even pass the LSATs could be trusted.”

Your heart twisted at his words.

“Did that make you feel better, Joel?” Your tone was laced with an equal amount of bitterness. “Come on. Tell me what else you fucking feel.” Challenging him. He had a feeling this wasn’t all you’d held back on.

The air went still. He’d known he’d gone too far when he’d said it. But you weren’t upset at the fact that you’d both been exchanging words that were intended to hurt each other, but because all you’d managed to say were shit neither of you meant.

All you could think about was how you’d felt. About him. About all the feelings you’d forced yourself to swallow down.

“I don't need to hear it. I don’t need to hear how much you’ve regretted it.”

“You know damn well that isn’t what I’m talkin’ bout’.”

Did you regret it? Did you regret sleeping with me the same way you regret trusting me with the case?

The unsaid words that couldn’t leave your lips hadn’t gone past him. Despite it all—the residual anger was still there—Being clouded by his wants that bubbled up whenever he was around you. The want that was being amplified now that all he could hear was your breathing and his.

Your eyes traced his features carefully. Not being able to swallow down the anger and humiliation that churned in you. Threatening to consume you whole. You knew he blamed himself for how you seemed to be falling apart. It was all in the subtle furrow of his brows, the faint twitch beneath his eyes, and the way his deep brown eyes locked with yours.

He’d stepped forward the same time you had.

Hands coming down to maneuver you against the shelves. His hand gripping around your waist, dipping his head lower to finally kiss you. It wasn’t slow, or careful. He kissed you like he’d been wanting to for months. You met his kisses with the same intensity—stumbling backwards to catch your footing. Both hands cupped around the base of his neck. You tilted your head to match his movements, the weight of his palm cradling your jaw securely.

Not giving you a chance to catch your breath. You sighed into his lips slowly & he’d drunk it all in—your lips slotting perfectly against his. He’d stepped backwards, panting, like you were. Looking for a sign that you didn’t want this. You’d clumsily yanked his tie off, answering that question for him.

It was quiet at first. All but the rustling of him throwing his jacket off and you attempting to unbutton your blouse in unison—You didn’t like the silence. The last time you’d fucked he was vocal, with praises singing into your skin.

So when he’d finally grabbed you, legs slotting between your thighs, your gasp broke the practiced silence.

He was a man on a mission. He needed to make you come, needed to drink in the sweet saccharine noises you made. The very thing he missed in those six months that haunted him whenever he’d heard you speak.

He tugged you tighter, rocking you against his thigh. Encouraging you to rut against him. You’d whined in his grasp. Your hips tilting to grind against the fabric of his slacks. Tipping your head back, the ache grew. The friction wasn’t enough. This wasn’t enough. You wanted to feel him.

His bigger hands casing your jaw—tutting at your struggle. “…Sh—…shh shh. I know. I know.”

You gripped around his forearms. Tip toeing, you tried to angle yourself just right so your pussy could feel the friction of his thigh properly. Your hips stuttered, feeling him notch your needy pussy right against him with his guidance. He’d tilted your jaw up so you'd maintain eye contact with him. Your lips parted wider, feeling the steady pleasure build in you, your clit stimulated in all the right ways.

“Needy baby, workin’ so damn hard—“ He’d leaned in, tracing the curves of his nose down your jawline. “C’mon sweetheart, need you to come f’me, need you to feel good.” Muttering against your neck. It’d sent shivers down your spine, drinking in the praises that had followed after what he’d said.

“Look at you, pretty…pretty..pretty, pretty.” His wanton sighs against your neck.

His other hand sliding upwards, kneading your tits over your clothes. You’d whined a little when he’d lifted up your blouse. Tugging your lacy bra downwards to free your tits. Head lowering so he could suckle on one. Low vibrations of the rumble in his own grunt of pleasure in seeing you feel good reverberated against you. Steadily massaging the softness while his other hand thumbed over your nipples.

How was it possible that this man knew you more than you’d known yourself?

You’d felt the build up hitting you faster than you’d realized. Your thighs had given in—quivering in the wake of your release. “Atta girl.” He’d leaned in and gave you an appreciative kiss, smiling against your lips. His palms circled around your hips to turn you over before you’d known what had hit you.

Your head rested against the cool metal of the shelves, catching your breath from the intensity. His thumb traced over the dampness of your panty hose. Groaning at the sensation of how turned on you were just by grinding pathetically against him.

“This wet already, desperate lil’ thing.” He mumbled. Placing a few kisses against your pulse point.

A hand slid down to knead the globe of your ass. The sight of you earned a hum of admiration from behind you. If only you’d known just how many nights he’d spent, fucking his fist, thinking about the sight of your pretty ass fucked to the hilt that night.

He hooked a finger over your panty hose, clicking his tongue at just how inaccessible it’d been. You felt a cold gust of air followed by a ripping sound. You didn’t have time to reprimand him when the sensation of two fingers tentatively slid up your clit, down to your slick folds—effectively shutting you up. Wiggling your hips backwards, you attempted to urge him deeper.

He tutted once more. Pressing down on your lower back to hold you in place. Reminding you on patience. Not that you even cared at this point. Your eyes widened at the sensation of his thick fingers finally sliding into your aching cunt, scissoring through the tight valleys of your velvety warm pussy. You’d let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

You found yourself whining. Growing frustrated. He’d let you move back against him, your pussy sucking his fingers back in everytime he pulled it out just a little. Your senses hyper focused on chasing the release you felt yourself closing in to once more. A loud clunk caused you to snap your head up, catching the sight of him unbuckling his belt over your shoulders with a half-lidded look.

“Back t’reality sweetheart? Ain’t done with you, far from it.” He gripped around his lanyard to toss his security keycard over his shoulder. Holding you secure and snug on both sides of your waist.

He could come just from the sight alone.

You felt the heat of his cock slide against your folds, gathering the slick that had him slipping back out every time he’d attempted to fuck his tip into your pussy—Earning a gasp from both Joel and yourself when he did manage to notch his cockhead in.

“Fuck me, sweetheart, it’s a slip’n’slide out here.”

You looked over your shoulder. Frowning through your fucked out gaze. He chuckled, a sound that only made you throb all the more. He’d raised a hands up in defense at your glare.

He guided the base of his cock with a firm grip—feeding you his cock. Inch by inch.

You gripped tightly against the shelf. Eyes rolled back at just the sensation of him filling you up after he’d been such a goddamn tease. You’d managed to catch him off guard by grinding backwards, he hissed at the tightness of your pussy, choking him like vice, forcing him to bottom out in you.

A low groan leaves his lips at the sight. Head lolled to the side at how perfect you fit against him. His hips began to rock steadily around you, not even having to move much with how you were eagerly bouncing against him.

He smirks at the sight, leaning back to observe. Allowing you to set the pace. Gently rubbing down both sides of your hips as a soothing gesture.

Joel couldn't handle it any longer. He needed to fuck you like you deserved.

“Still owe you an apology, sweetheart.”

You’d let out a sharp gasp when he’d tugged you harshly up against him. His arm coming up across your chest. Anchoring you in place before he starts to jackhammer into your pussy.

“F-Fuck, Joel!”

He gripped underneath your jaw, tilting your head back–kissing you sloppily, drowning your reverent moans into his mouth. He’d set the pace, fucking you hard until the shelves rattled underneath your combined weight. His sweat mixed into yours in the almost intolerable heat your bodies emitted.

You’d probably come again, you didn’t know, didn’t care. Feeling Joel’s grunts and gasps was enough to send you over the edge.

“Tight pussy’s gonna be the death of me.” He gasped against your neck. Nose rubbing against your cheeks.

“M’gonna come.” He managed, barely. “Please baby, tell me I can come inside you.”

You mewled at his words. The breathy way he’d practically begged you for permission. Grinding against him in finality–you nodded desperately when two fingers rubbed against your clit.

“Yes, f-fuck, yes.”

With renewed fervour, he’d buried his head into the crook of your neck—rutting into you until you felt his hips stutter. Feeling his heavy breathing as he held you snug against him, your smaller hands gripped around his hand that was flattened against your chest. He could feel you pulsing in your own release around him and that was enough to tip him over the edge.

He grunted into your shoulder, pumping you with ropes of his hot come. Filling you deep.

He’d pulled out of your pussy after a few seconds with a slick pop, his thumb swiping against your entrance, two fingers stuffing the come dribbling out back into you. You’d briefly glanced back to see a lazy smile curled up one side of his lips.

He leaned in to kiss your shoulder. Firm hands adjusting your skirt back into place.

“C’mon. I’ll drive you home.”

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