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ellswritings · 12 days ago

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Tricky Situations

Cody Rhodes/Runnels x Reader

TW: Lots of fluff, bad language, no smut but mentions of sexual actions, sexual tension, idiots in love. This is based on a request made my the wonderful and amazing @reebs-luvs-rhodes-and-wrestling, so I hope you all love it <3

Word Count: 12.02K

Tags: @reebs-luvs-rhodes-and-wrestling

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Cody Rhodes and Y/N L/N were the definition of platonic soulmates. They were the perfect mold for anyone to model their friendship after. Their camaraderie was the stuff of legend, both on and off the screen. Fans adored their playful banter during interviews, their synchronized moves in the ring, and the genuine affection that radiated between them. They were the dynamic duo, the unbeatable team, the best friends who had each other's backs no matter what.

Backstage it was no different, they were inseparable. Whether it was grabbing coffee before a show, rehearsing promos, hanging out in the locker room, or watching movies all night in their shared hotel room. Y/N and Cody were always together. It was rare that anyone would ever catch one without the other.

In the beginning, they raised a lot of eyebrows. There was a lot of speculation of them being in a relationship due to how often they were seen together, but those rumors were quickly put to rest. While many fans still “shipped” the together, everyone knew their relationship would remain friendly as it always had been.

In interviews there were always questions about certain moments in Kayfabe or even about photos taken of them outside of the ring that questioned their friendship. But their answers were always the same.

“Ew, he’s like my brother.”

“Absolutely not. She’s my best friend.”

“I’d probably throw up if he tried to kiss me, honestly.”

“She snores when she sleeps, I don’t think I could spend the rest of my life living with that torture.”

The responses were always playful, filled with banter like every conversation they had. They would slap each other or shove each other if they chose to be a little extra sensitive, but it was all in good nature.

Still though, no matter how many times they said things between them were completely platonic, the edits, memes, conspiracy theories, and social media posts never faded.

It didn’t bother them though. The only people who needed to know the true nature of their relationship was them, and they were content with that. They still went about their life as usual. Traveling to venues together, doing interviews, grabbing dinner, walking Pharaoh, even training new students at the Nightmare Factory.

Everything was great. Until Paul Levesque decided he wanted Cody and Y/S/N to do a promo with Rhea Ripley and Dominik Mysterio. Rhea and Y/S/N had a rivalry going on and it was good for the storyline to have Cody and Dom by their sides as support, which would eventually lead to a mixed tag match.

It was always hard to keep a straight face when arguing on screen with Rhea as Y/N and Demi actually had a really strong friendship backstage. So they had to constantly think of negative things to remain in character. It helped having Cody out there as seeing him be “The American Nightmare” rather than Cody Runnels kept her in check.

The promo itself was going well. The audience was completely entranced by the words and shots being taken. Dominik didn’t get much out before being booed which lead perfectly to Cody chiming in sarcastically before Rhea jumped in to defend her man. They played off each other nicely. The difference in their dynamics kept everyone hooked.

Then came the portion where Rhea had to take a cheap shot at Y/S/N. She was ready to take her bump, Cody shifting slightly so he wouldn’t be in the way. But Y/N felt something was wrong as Rhea went to give her a big boot. Y/N went to sell the hell out of it, the bottom of her boot connecting to the side of her face. She throws herself backwards, but instead of meeting the mat below her, she collides with a broad chest that definitely was not supposed to be there.

Y/N groans as she hears Cody cough beneath her. They landed in a heap of tangled limbs. Both of them try to get to their feet as fast as possible, knowing this fall wasn’t scripted, but things only worsened as they moved.

Y/N tries to stand the same time Cody tries to roll over which somehow ends with Y/N straddling Cody, his hands on her waist in the middle of the ring.

Her face flushes as whistles erupt throughout the audience. She glances down at Cody who looks stoic on the outside but she can see the panic behind his ice blue eyes.

“You gonna get up, Y/N/N?” He whispers through tight-lips so only she can hear.

Y/N snaps out of her daze, “Right, sorry.”

Y/N scrambles back up to her feet, doing her best to remain in character as she helps Cody up. Unfortunately the damage was already done. The arena was buzzing with giggling fans, future rumors, and the snapping of cameras.

Michael Cole and Pat McAfee let out the most natural laughs they could, making some sort of joke to try and distract everyone from the scene, and while it was appreciated, it definitely didn’t work. Y/N and Cody went to walk backstage and out of muscle memory, he went to put his hand on her lower back to guide her, but as soon as they heard the whistles from the crowd he retracted his touch. They both share the same anxious look before completely disappearing into the back.

Turns out their coworkers are even more immature than the fans. Everyone they walked past made a comment about it, whether it was subtle or not depended on the person. Y/N rolled her eyes particularly hard when walking by Logan Paul who let out an obnoxious whistle.

“Damn, Cody! You are one lucky S.O.B.” He pats his back before looking Y/N up and down and continuing on his way.

Y/N clenches her fist in anger and she turns to give the Maverick a piece of her mind. Just as she’s about to pounce, Cody places his hands on her waist gently. She turns to him, an incredulous look on her face as she can’t believe he’s stopping her.

He shakes his head, “He’s not worth whatever witty thing you’re about to say,” he tells her with his signature half smile. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes as he’s no doubt feeling the same embarrassment she is. “Don’t waste it on him. C’mon…” he pulls her along with him, “Let’s go get you some fruit from catering.”

Just hearing him speak managed to cool her rising anger. She melted into his touch, allowing him to guide her back to catering. He somehow always knows exactly what to say to fix everything. It only made it better when he grabbed them a plate to share, managing to remember every single one of her favorite fruits. Thankfully, no one else said anything along the way about the incident in the ring. It’s times like this where Y/N is so grateful to have a best friend like Cody.

But things felt a bit off once they sat down. Anytime they made eye contact, both of them would immediately look away, like they had been caught doing something bad. Or their faces would heat up from the prolonged glances. They both chalked it up to being embarrassed by what happened, but something definitely changed in the air that surrounded their friendship.

They just didn’t know what yet.

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From that day on, Cody and Y/N found themselves getting into very similar situations. No matter where they went, the tension between them seemed to grow. Their conversations seemed much more charged than usual, the glances they shared seemed to last a bit longer, touches linger for longer than they should, even something as simple as watching movies together in the hotel room suddenly became a bit more intense than usual.

Y/N groaned irritatedly as the pen she was using to sign autographed pictures of herself ran out of ink. She managed to get ready quicker than usual so she scrambled over to get these signatures done. She had been slacking in doing them recently and she felt terrible. She would be nowhere without her fans so the least she could do is get these autographs done.

However, it becomes a slight challenge as she chucks the dead pen in the garbage can in the corner of the room before walking out. She remembers one of the grips told her that there was a supply closet around the corner if she needed anything so she headed that way.

Well, she tried to.

A small ‘umph’ leaves her as she collides into a solid chest. Her eyes travel upwards, apology locked and loaded for not watching where she was going, until her irises locked with a familiar pair of icy blue ones.

“Hey, Y/N/N…” Cody greets with a smile. “What are you doing? Don’t you have a match?”

Y/N visibly relaxes, glad she doesn’t have to profusely apologize for being a klutz as Cody is already well aware of the fact. She quirks a playful brow, “Yeah, in like an hour,” she laughs. “Damn with the way you said that you’d think I was a slacker or something.”

Cody’s eyes widen, “No– No, that’s not what I meant. I just didn’t know if you needed to go and run over some bumps or–”

Y/N pokes his chest playfully, “Relax. I’m kidding,” she gestures for him to follow after her as she continues down the hallway. “But no, Gionna and I are good. We were at it for like six hours yesterday. I’m just signing autographs right now since I got the time, but my pen died, so I’m just grabbing a new one.”

“Always working, aren’t you?” He nudges her shoulder with his, making her stumble into the wall.

She sends a teasing glare, “Well one of us has to,” she fires sassily before opening the door to the supply closet and walking in, Cody following closely behind.

“Are you implying I don’t work?” He crosses his arms over his chest as he starts helping her go through the plethora of boxes to find one with pens.

“What? No,” she scoffs teasingly. “I would never say such a thing.”

“And this is why you could never play a convincing heel,” he smirks back at her, grabbing a box from a higher shelf. “You can’t lie for shit.”

Y/N’s scoffs loudly, whipping her head around, “For your information–”

She’s suddenly cut off by one of the many boxes filled with heavy items start falling from high above. Cody notices, grabbing Y/N’s shoulders protectively before pulling her into his chest. The two of them collide with the door they left slightly ajar. The door slams shut with a small click as the box hits the floor with a loud thud.

Cody and Y/N stand there breathlessly, Y/N leaning onto Cody’s chest as he keeps his hands firm on her hips. The two of them look down at the spilled contents all over the floor and begin laughing.

“Well… found your pens,” he says cheekily.

Y/N rolls her eyes, but nonetheless bends over to pick one up. “Would’ve been more helpful if I didn’t have to almost die to get them.”

“Luckily for both of us you didn’t,” he says endearingly. He’s always loved how overdramatic she can get. He turns to grab the door handle, “Now let’s get outta here so you can finish signing–”

The door handle won’t budge.

Y/N lifts an eyebrow, “Need a hand, Runnels?”

He jiggles the handle roughly, “It won’t open.”

“What?”

“The door,” Cody pulls a bit harder, “It won’t open.”

Y/N tries to move around his large frame, but with the space being so crammed it’s a tight fit. She manages to wiggle in front of him, looking down at the door handle. She tries to open it herself which makes Cody exhale rather loudly.

“Wow, wish I would’ve thought of that,” he quips sassily.

Y/N looks over her shoulder, sending a glare his way. “I was just trying to see.”

“I said it won’t open, how is you doing the exact same thing I did gonna help?”

“I don’t know!” Y/N exclaims, growing more frustrated with their situation. “I’m just trying to help.”

“Is there a lock on it or something?” He asks, trying to see through the darkness.

Y/N bends down a little bit, not aware of how hard she’s pressing into Cody. Not that they can go anywhere or put much distance between them. So the man simply inhales sharply but says nothing. “It looks like it’s manually locked by a key,” she reveals, running a hand over her face. “Which means we’re stuck until one of the maintenance workers can come open it.”

“You don’t have your phone on you to call someone?” Cody asks her, noticing the growing heat in the small closet. When the door was open it seemed much bigger, enough to fit both of them. But now it feels if either of them were to take a breath that it might make them suffocate.

“No,” Y/N sighs frustratedly. “I left it in the other room.” She turns, narrowing her eyes at him, “Where’s your phone?” She asks in an almost accusatory tone.

Cody shrugs, “In my locker. I was going over my promo in hair and makeup so I put it away, that way I wouldn’t get distracted.”

“Convenient…” she mumbles, glancing around to try and find something to open the door.

“Why are you mad at me?” Cody furrows his eyebrows. “It’s not my fault.”

Y/N huffs, realizing her snippiness shouldn’t be directed at him. She turns around without thinking, her face suddenly impossibly close to his. Her chest presses against his mid-section, his ice blue eyes boring into hers. Her breath hitches when she realizes that their noses are practically touching. She swallows the butterflies that appeared out of nowhere. Her mind feels overly fuzzy. She doesn’t understand what brought on the rush of nerves, but she doesn’t want to know.

“I’m not mad at you,” she finally utters, much quieter than she thought she was going to. “I’m just… trying to find a way out.”

Cody stares at her, feeling her chest rise and fall with each breath. His hand twitches at his side as the impulsive urge to place his hand on her waist fills his mind. He notices how her eyes flicker across his face, never travelling below his neck. It makes him wonder if it’s on purpose or if she naturally just possesses that high level of respect that forces her to maintain eye contact.

“Well, I’m not working against you Y/N/N,” Cody smiles softly at her. “I’m trying to help too, y’know…” he says teasingly.

Y/N rolls her eyes, but she can’t help smiling at him. “I know… ’m sorry for snapping at you,” she mumbles. “Just don’t wanna be stuck in here for longer than we have to.”

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you two heads are better than one?”

“It shouldn’t take two heads to unlock a door,” Y/N fires back sassily.

“Then I guess that makes us special, huh?” He grins goofily and Y/N wishes she could pretend to be annoyed, but she can’t help herself when a soft chuckle escapes her lips.

“Just shut up and help me,” Y/N grumbles, forcing herself to look serious.

Cody throws his hands up in mock defense, “Okay, okay… so angry.”

The two of them glance around the small space, trying to find anything that might serve as some sort of assistance. Unfortunately, everything in the small storage closet doesn’t fit the criteria for their circumstances.

“There’s seriously no safety pins in here?” Y/N asks aloud, squinting her eyes to read some of the labels on the cardboard.

Cody’s brows furrow “What would you do with a safety pin?”

Y/N doesn’t look back at him, answering matter-of-factly, “Pick the lock, obviously.”

“How do you know how to pick a lock?” He stares at his best friend with an expression that definitely surpasses shock.

Y/N pauses, finally looking back at him, his body still behind hers. “Do you really want to know the answer to that question?” She asks.

“Yeah, kinda,” Cody nods with a scoff, his face still scrunched with confusion.

Y/N remains silent for a moment, “Before Good left for AEW, we had a couple of… interesting experiences together.”

“What does that even mean?” Cody interrogates. He shifts slightly, accidentally brushing Y/N’s backside with the movement. If she noticed, she doesn’t say anything, still messing with the door handle in front of her.

Y/N sighs, yanking the handle with a bit more force than necessary. “We were drunk at an after party for one of the PLE’s like five years ago and we got locked out on the roof. Neither of us could call anyone so he asked me if I had a safety pin. I had one on my skirt ‘cause it was too big and long story short, he showed me how to pick a lock.”

“Why have I never heard this story?” He asks with a frown. He knows he shouldn’t be jealous. Y/N’s always been friendly, she’s got a good rapport with pretty much everyone in the locker room. Plus, she worked closely with The Shield during their prime, so it only makes sense that she had a good relationship with Jonathan Good. The logic didn’t help soothe the uncomfortable burning in his chest at the thought of her being close like this with someone else.

She shrugs, “Never came up. Well… until now at least.”

Cody forced his mind to stay on the situation at hand. He reaches around her, trying to grab the door handle, “Here, let me try something.”

Y/N unintentionally stiffens as Cody’s arms wrap around her. She can feel his chin practically resting on her shoulder, his breath fanning her neck lightly. Her pulse quickens as his body heat becomes almost unbearable. It’s not like he hasn’t had his arms around her before, but this feels different. Maybe it’s just her who feels it, but she can’t ignore the surge of pure electricity coursing through her just by his presence. Ever since that day when she took the botched bump, small moments like this have become harder to view as friendly.

Her hands are pressed against the door in front of her to keep her upright as Cody methodically fiddles with the handle. She doesn’t know if he’s aware of how hard he’s pushing her forward, but it’s not of importance.

“You all right?” Cody asks worriedly, much too close to her ear. Chills run down her spine as she tries to come up with a coherent sentence. He felt her tense up the moment he moved closer to her so he wanted to check in. He didn’t realize the reason she’s unable to speak or even think properly is because of him.

“Uh– yeah, yeah I’m good. It’s just getting kinda warm in here,” Y/N replies, her throat bobbing as she swallows harshly.

Cody glances at her arms, “You sure you’re warm? You’ve got goosebumps.”

The way he meant it was completely innocent but the tone in his voice made Y/N inhale sharply, eyes closing as she repeatedly reminds herself that this man is like a brother to her. Though it seems the more she says it the less convinced she actually is.

“Nope,” she says stiffly. “Definitely hot. Super warm.”

Cody uses one of his hands, curling his arm to place it on her cheek in a delicate manner. It’s something he had done millions of times when she was feeling ill as a way to check her temperature. Feeling his hand on her skin simply makes her burn up even more. Her heart rate is beating so loud she’s more than ninety percent sure he could hear it. Yet his face remains unaffected, the emotion of concern being the only thing he’s letting show. Y/N finds herself leaning into him, their bodies pushed even closer together. His lips are still impossibly close to her neck due to their awkward stance. One slight shift in footing and he’d kissing the sensitive area.

“You do feel a little warm,” Cody voices, his bright blue eyes scanning over her. He notices the irregular way her chest rises and falls with every breath. Her eyes seem unnaturally hooded and her lips are parted slightly. He wonders what could possibly be going on with her to warrant this shift in behavior. She was her normal self just mere moments ago. “Have you been feeling sick?”

Sick isn’t the word to currently describe how she’s feeling.

“No,” Y/N tells him, trying to muster up her most unbothered smile, but judging by the skeptical look on Cody’s face, she didn’t do a very good job. “I’m feeling okay. Maybe I’m just getting claustrophobic or something.”

That’s when his focus is completely taken away from the door. The hand that was on her cheek drifts down to her neck to see if her raised temperature is even everywhere while his other hand grips onto her hip. Y/N exhales, her eyes fully closing as the sensations become much too overwhelming. She doesn’t understand why she’s feeling this way. Cody pauses for a second too long, silently hoping Y/N doesn’t notice. He feels the way her body relaxes into him. He fights the urge to squeeze the fat of her hip, reminding himself that this is Y/N. His best friend Y/N. But the tantalizing smell of coconut, eucalyptus, and oak fogs his mind for a brief moment. But that brief moment is all it takes. He finds himself leaning forward, his lips just barely hovering above the sweet spot behind her ear. He swears he can hear a small whimper leave her, but ultimately chalks it up to his imagination.

Just as it seems they’re about to forgo any personal boundaries, the two of them are launched forward and tumble to the floor with a loud thud. The two of them groan in different pitches as they realize someone had finally opened the door from the outside. “I told you I heard someone in there,” the familiar voice of Kevin Steen catches their attention.

Y/N forces herself to hide her flustered state by avoiding any and all eye contact with Cody. However, it’s very difficult as the man can’t seem to stop staring at her, despite the fact they had just been caught in a closet together, a bit too close for a reasonable explanation.

“I never said you were wrong,” Randy Orton shrugs. “Just said I didn’t hear anything and would laugh if we opened it and it was empty.”

“Well, it wasn’t,” Kevin says triumphantly. “And we just saved their lives,” he glances at the two best friends who are now slowly getting up from the floor. “You’re welcome by the way.”

“Yeah, thanks…” Y/N says gratefully, still trying to avoid staring at Cody so it comes off a bit more awkward than she intended.

“What were you guys even doing in there anyway?” Randy questions, arms folded over his chest somehow making him appear even bigger than he already is.

That’s when it happens. Y/N and Cody look at each other, both of their mouths open slightly as they try to find something to say. They didn’t do anything wrong, yet it felt like they were being caught doing something inappropriate by one of their parents. It didn’t make sense. Why did it feel like a lie if they were to say their original plan was to look for pens and they ended up getting locked in there? That truly was what happened, but by the way she can still feel a buzz on her cheek where his hand used to be, it felt dishonest to minimize the impact that tiny closet had.

“She was signing autographs and her pen died,” Cody finally answered for the both of them. But even though he was answering Randy, his eyes continuously flickered over to the woman next to him. “So we tried to find one and ended up getting locked in.”

Y/N was grateful he was able to say that and appear as though he believed it. She isn’t sure she could’ve gotten through it without looking absolutely guilty of something she didn’t even do.

“And neither of you bothered to call for help?” Kevin asks with a small chuckle. “You guys do know cellphones are a thing now, right?”

“Neither of us had ours,” Y/N speaks up, the steadiness in her voice surprising her. “I left mine in the signing room and Cody’s is in his locker.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Randy shakes his head before patting Y/N’s back with a fond grin. “You two always seem to be the ones getting stuck in situations like this.”

“Believe me, we’re not purposefully going out of our way to get stuck in closets,” Y/N replies with a lighthearted laugh, the tension from Cody’s touch slowly easing out of her shoulders. “I guess it’s just a best friend curse or something,” she glances over at Cody.

“I don’t know about that,” Kevin teases, bumping Cody’s shoulder as the five of them begin heading down the hallway to finish prepping for their long night. “Randy and I have never been caught in a closet like that. You two looked pretty snug.”

“Shut up,” Y/N scoffs with an eye roll. “Where else could we have gone? Up on the shelves? Wasn’t exactly a lot of room in there.”

Cody remains silent as the three people next to him continue to joke around. He doesn’t know why he can’t bring himself to chime in, but every time he looks at Y/N he can feel his hands become clammy and a feverous chill pass through him. The way she’s smiling as Randy keeps his arm securely around her shoulders, and the way she playfully pushes Kevin away as he continues to berate them for the questionable circumstances she cand Cody continue to end up in. It makes him furrow his brows as he tries to figure out where these sudden changes in his feelings are coming from. All he can decipher is that he may have enjoyed being pressed up against her a bit too much when they were stuck in that closet.

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Things had seemed to calm down slightly over the next week or so. While memes and rumors still circulated about the nature of Cody and Y/N’s friendship, they hadn’t done anything more to incriminate themselves. The supply closet incident thankfully stayed between them, Randy, and Kevin, so there was no more ammunition for people to continue using.

… Until now.

One early morning in Cody’s hometown of Atlanta Georgia, he had invited Y/N to stay with him for the week so he could show her around. SmackDown was going to be there that Friday so he figured they could spend a few days before just hanging out before the show. It wasn’t the first time she had stayed with him, but it had definitely been a while. He had gotten her up early Thursday morning and forced her to go to the gym at the Nightmare Factory. She protested, wanting to sleep in, but he wouldn’t allow it. Said she’d feel better if they got their workout out of the way first so they could have the rest of the day to themselves.

She hated it, but she knew he was right. She’d despise herself more if they waited until later. So she begrudgingly forced herself out of the comfortable bed in his spare bedroom and went with him to the gym.

Y/N enjoyed working out at the private gym at Cody’s training facility. It once belonged to his dad, but it was passed down to him after Dusty passed. That was a hard time for everyone, especially considering the amount of time Y/N spent with the Runnels family.

Things had been going well. It was a chest and shoulders day, so they went through their usual workouts, doing their separate weights and stretches until they met up to spot each other at the bench press. Cody went first, smirking as he slid more plates on the bar. Y/N rolled her eyes at his cockiness but nonetheless kept herself ready just in case his muscles weren’t strong enough for his ego.

Then it was her turn. She got into position, adding more weight than she normally does. It’s that time of the year where she bulks before doing a huge cut so she’s pushing herself to lift more than usual. Cody raises an eyebrow but says nothing, knowing better than to question the strength of his best friend.

But he quickly realizes that maybe he should have. Y/N is fine for the first three reps, until he notices the smallest quiver in her arms as she goes to press up for the fourth time. He watches as her back begins to lift off the bench and he moves to help her rack the bar before she hurts herself.

Unfortunately, right as he goes to grab the bar, she pushes up at the exact same time which makes him lose his balance.

“Shit,” Cody yelps as he uses his unnatural reflexes to toss the bar to the floor before it could crush Y/N. Unfortunately it wasn’t fast enough to stop his frame from toppling forward with the momentum and crashing on top of her on the bench.

Y/N lets out a loud grunt as she’s crushed by her best friend. It takes her a moment to realize the precarious position they now find themselves in. She freezes as her eyes settle directly on Cody’s crotch which is definitely too close to her face for comfort. She can feel him tense on top of her as he comes to terms with how close his own mouth is to her lower extremities.

Neither of them move. If anyone were to walk in or look on from the many windows, all of the times they denied being just friends would no longer matter. No one would believe them if they were caught like this. But for some reason they stay like that. Breathing heavily as they sit in the electrified silence.

If Y/N were to listen to her intrusive thoughts, she would have leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the slight bulge in his sweatpants, but thankfully she has some sense of self control.

Cody swallows roughly, not able to look away from where his eyeline is currently lined up. He could easily slide his fingers up through her spandex. He mentally scolds himself for thinking that about her, but the thought in itself is enough to make his face flush red.

He finally snaps out of his trance, rolling off of her and onto the floor. Y/N keeps her eyes on the ceiling for a split second longer before finally sitting up and looking at Cody. They both were at a loss for words as they tried to figure out what to say to each other after what just happened.

Cody’s the first one to finally speak up, “Are you okay?”

Y/N nods slowly, “Yeah… Are you?”

“Yeah,” he replies.

Y/N can feel her neck heating up as her mind continues replaying the incident that just unfolded. Her eyes flicker down to his lips, biting the inside of her cheek trying to find a way to control herself. She finally finds the right words to say to try and move them forward. “Wanna go get breakfast?”

Cody stares at her blankly until an amused laugh leaves his lips. He shakes his head, pushing himself up off the floor before sticking his hand out to her. “Yeah, let’s get out of here before you try to kill me again.”

“You fell on top of me!” She exclaims playfully, taking his palm in hers as they walk out of the gym and to his car.

The two of them playfully bicker, things falling back into a natural rhythm as they try to forget the heated exchange that happened at the gym. Cody brought her to his favorite bagel place, the two of them enjoying their protein bagels in peace. Until Y/N’s phone begins blowing up. Her brows furrow as she sees Savelina’s name pop up. Cody takes a bite of his food before nodding his head, silently telling her to take the call.

Y/N does, “Hey, Lina. What’s up?”

“Please tell me you’ve checked at least one of your social media accounts in the last thirty minutes,” the woman rushes out, her voice containing an edge of panic.

“No…” Y/N trails off, sharing a worried look with Cody. “Why, what’s going on?”

“Is Cody with you?”

“Yeah…” Y/N trails off with a nervous chuckle. “You’re scaring me, Lina. What’s going on?”

“Here, I’ll send it to you,” she answers.

Y/N takes her phone away from her ear to check her text messages. When she opens their thread, her eyes practically pop out of her head. “Holy shit!”

Cody jumps from the sudden raise in her voice. There’s a tad bit of cream cheese on the corner of his mouth which makes her want to giggle but her mind is still focused on the photo Savelina just sent her. Y/N puts her on speaker so Cody can hear. “That wasn’t even an hour ago,” Y/N says exasperatedly.

“Yeah, I guess a fan was walking past at the wrong time and snapped the photo.”

Cody looks at his best friend, “What photo?”

Y/n sighs before pulling up the picture again and shows it to Cody’s who’s face mimicked her own expression from moments ago. “Shit…” he mumbles.

“You guys are trending number one on X right now,” Sav warns them. “So I would lay low for the next few days if I were you. I’m sure one of you will be getting a call from someone soon.”

Y/N exhales frustratedly, running a hand over her face. Not even three seconds later, Cody’s phone begins to buzz. Both of them tense as they watch Paul Levesque’s name pop up. Y/N hits her head on the dash compartment before speaking again, “Thanks for the warning, Lina.”

“Yeah, good luck guys.” The woman says sympathetically before hanging up.

Cody begrudgingly answers Paul’s call, putting him on speaker. Both of the best friends prepare themselves to get yelled at by their boss. “Hey Paul,” Cody says with a sigh.

“I’m assuming you’ve seen the photo,” Paul says, not angry or disappointed, maybe even slightly amused.

“Just now, yeah,” Cody answers, his hand running over his jaw.

“Is Y/N still with you?”

“Hey Paul…” Y/N greets awkwardly.

“Yeah, I figured,” he says. They hear papers shuffling on his end of the line which indicates that he’s probably already at the arena. “I need you guys to come in a bit earlier so we can do some… damage control on this whole situation before it gets blown out of proportion.”

“All right,” Cody agrees. “We’ll be there.”

“Perfect. See you in a few.”

As soon as Paul hung up the phone, the first thing that came out of either of them was one simple statement.

“We’re fucked.”

By the time they showered, got dressed, and drove over to the arena, an hour had passed. No other talent was there yet and they were specifically instructed by the execs to avoid getting on social media today at all costs so they’ve been actively avoiding their phones.

They had gotten calls from pretty much everyone on the roster and from their families asking what is actually going on. After the fifth or sixth time of telling the story, they both wanted to just send a massive group text to everyone in order to prevent themselves from going insane.

Cody could feel Y/N’s nerves as they walked through the halls to go find Paul. She wrings her hands together, not even realizing she’s doing it. He noticed it was a habit she had when she was anxious. Without putting much thought into it, he reaches over and grabs her left hand with his right. They both flinch from the sudden shock wave that’s sent through them. Y/N’s arm buzzes from the sensation, but she can’t help lacing her fingers through his.

They fit together like a puzzle piece.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he tells her with a nod. She looks in his eyes and he really isn’t just saying that to make her feel better. He actually believes it, and his confidence is enough to make her believe it too. “Nothing bad’s gonna happen. We’ve been through worse.”

Y/N laughs but it lacks the humor it usually has, “I don’t know about that,” she says.

“We have,” Cody insists as they continue walking. “Remember two years ago when you broke your collarbone and we didn’t know how long it would be til you could come back?” He brings up the incident, a brief flash of pain crossing his face as he remembers the tumultuous time. “That to me was definitely worse than this.”

Y/N huffs, “Okay, maybe I am being a bit dramatic, but this is serious. I don’t want this to affect our careers and the business. And I really don’t want people thinking we’ve been dating this whole time and lying about it.”

“Would it really be so bad if we were?” He says out of nowhere, almost like it was an afterthought.

Y/N stops just outside of Paul’s office, her head snapping towards Cody. “What?” She asks incredulously.

“I’m just saying it wouldn’t be that bad if people assumed we had been dating this whole time,” he defends. “We do spend a lot of time together. It’s not completely out of the blue.” He takes note of the shock on Y/N’s face. “Unless you’d be embarrassed to say you were with me.”

Y/N blinks, “I never said that,” she scoffs. “I wouldn’t be embarrassed, I’m just saying I don’t want either of our careers to be focused on a relationship,” she explains. “We’ve both seen what happens when two superstars start dating. They get linked to each other and it’s almost impossible to be separated afterwards. And I don’t wanna make it a gender thing, but it’s a lot easier for the guy in the situation to not be reduced to a piece of eye candy.”

Cody sighs knowing she’s right. Y/N has put her heart and soul into her career and he would hate himself if she became tethered to him over this rumor. He didn’t know why he brought up the fact they could pretend they’d been together, but the more time that goes on, the more he realizes he wouldn’t mind calling her more than his best friend.

“I don’t want you to think I’d ever be ashamed or embarrassed to say that I was with you,” Y/N says softly, almost like she read his mind. “You’re my best friend and a great guy. I just don’t want to be a show girl that accompanies you out to your matches and then I get none of my own.”

Cody’s half grin finally shows, his dimple poking out, “You’re too badass for that. They couldn’t make you just a show girl even if they tried.” He rubs his thumb on the back of her hand, “If anything I’d be out there as your piece of ass.”

Y/N and him both share an intimate chuckle, “Okay mister quarterback of the company,” she teases as their eyes meet at the same time.

“A quarterback is nothing without their left tackle,” he says, his voice lowering as his eyes flicker to her lips briefly. Y/N feels her heart begin to race, wondering if she imagined his quick glance.

Suddenly his head ducks down closer to her face, their noses only inches apart. Y/N does her best to try and diffuse whatever tension is bubbling between them, “I don’t know anything about football…” she mumbles humorously, “so I’m starting to regret my reference.”

Cody laughs, the sound rumbling deep in his chest, “It just means I wouldn’t be successful without you,” he explains.

Y/N is no longer in control of what her body does. She finds herself leaning forward towards him as well. If either of them budged even the slightest, that photo would make them look even more incriminating. Now they would actually be guilty of lying about their relationship.

“You’d be fine without me…” she mumbles, her breath fanning his face.

“I wouldn’t want to be.”

Just as he says that, Y/N reaches up to loop her arms around his neck. Both of them are clearly running on autopilot as the heat of the moment seems to fog their brains and distract them from why they’re even at the stadium this early.

That is until they’re reminded.

“There you two are,” Paul’s voice rings out as he opens up the door to his office. Cody and Y/N jump apart, thanking their lucky stars that Paul’s face is buried in a folder with papers in complete disarray. It gives them enough time to look like they weren’t about to make out in the middle of the hallway. Cody and Y/N share a look, both of their faces burning up from whatever just occurred between them. Paul glances between them when neither of them make a move, “You guys gonna come in?”

Y/N’s the first to snap out of her trance, “Uh, yeah. Sorry,” she apologizes before following Paul into his office, Cody trailing in closely behind. “Just a little thrown off by everything going on,” she explains.

“Yeah, that’s why we wanted you guys to stay away from the internet for right now,” Paul rattles off, gesturing for them to sit down as he puts away whatever paperwork he was working on. “Things get crazy when stuff like this happens.” He finally takes a seat behind his desk, putting his whole attention on the two adults across from him. They might be considered adults by age, but by the way Paul is looking at them, anyone would think they were getting called to the principal's office.

“Listen, I’m not gonna beat around the bush, I respect you both too much to do that. I need you both to understand the severity of the situation. This incident alone might just break the internet,” Paul reveals, folding his hands together. “People are speculating that you two have been together this whole time and have been lying about it. Normally it wouldn’t be that big of a deal, but with both of you being the top two babyfaces in the company, lying doesn’t look good on you guys.”

Y/N sighs, running a hand over her face once again, “Yeah, we figured that’s what was gonna happen.”

“Long story short, we don’t want it to affect how fans look at you guys,” Paul explains. “If we have people booing you for lying then it throws off the balance of all the stories we’re trying to create for you now and in the future.” He leans forward, “So I talked to a couple of the execs and writers and we think we’ve come up with a solution.”

Cody and Y/N remain silent but nod their heads, telling their boss they’re interested in what he’s come up with. If there’s any way Paul can fix this, they’re all ears. “We want you two to come out as a couple in Kayfabe.”

Silence.

Y/N’s mind buzzes with white noise. She should have expected this. It was a logical solution to their problem. But it doesn’t change the sudden wave of nerves that takes over her at the thought of being Cody’s girlfriend, even if it is just for storyline purposes. She voiced her concerns to him in the hallway about this exact situation. She didn’t want to become his sidekick that just supported him whenever he had a match.

“I can see a look of apprehension on your face,” Paul looks at Y/N with a fond smile. “What’s up?”

She looks at Cody for a moment before turning back to Paul, “I just don’t want us to be stuck in a romance trope for the next ten years,” she voices a little too bluntly. “No offense to them, but I don’t want this to turn into a Scarlett and Karrion situation where she’s only out there to support him. I want to continue fighting the same way I’ve been doing. I won’t be benched.”

Paul tilts his head endearingly, “I wouldn’t dream of benching you, Y/N. I wouldn’t do that to either of you. This whole thing will just be a subplot to everything you both have going on,” he clarifies. “You both are frequently seen together in the ring anyway, so this just makes it a bit easier to explain. We can easily say that the photo and gym session was going to be exposed anyway to reveal your relationship in the storyline. It’ll line up perfectly for the business and won’t affect your lives outside of it.”

Cody couldn’t help but stare at her. She seems relieved at the situation being presented. He will admit that it is the best case scenario. Neither of them are in trouble and they found a solution to their problem. It’s panning out wonderfully. He just gets to spend more time with the woman he’s considered his best friend since the day they met.

But it doesn’t change the fact that he’s become much more attune to the small things that make Y/N, Y/N. Like the little dimple on her right cheek that is much deeper than the one on her left side. Or the little mischievous smirk she sports when she knows something someone else doesn’t. Or the way her voice speeds up when she’s excited to talk about something she loves. Even the little divot in between her eyebrows that appears when she’s angry or anxious about something.

Are these all things best friends take note of? Is this normal? To suddenly become obsessed with the way she tilts her head when mocking someone, leaning in close when he catches a whiff of her signature perfume. He doesn’t know when she managed to set up camp in his mind, but she’s been a resident there for the past few weeks, and he’s not sure if he’ll ever be able to get her out.

Paul notices Cody’s eyes focused on the woman next to him and he can’t help but let a small smile show. He recognizes that look. It’s the same one he remembers sporting when he first realized he was in love with his boss's daughter. It’s clear they’re both not completely ready to admit how they feel, but maybe this storyline angle will push them in the right direction.

Paul clears his throat, swallowing any teasing remark he had locked and loaded to fire at Cody. The blonde man snaps out of his thoughts and turns back to Paul with a stiff nod. “Yeah, if you think it’s best for business, I don’t see why it would be a problem.”

Y/N agrees, “We can make it work. Whatever you give us, we’ll run with it and make sure even the people who know it’s fake believe it.”

Paul’s eyes flicker over to Cody with a smirk, pushing up his reading glasses as he goes to grab another stack of paper. “I’m sure you will… Now both of you get out of here. One of the on scene writers will bring you the new scripts for tonight.”

Y/N and Cody both thank their boss profusely before walking out of his office. It’s obvious Y/N is in much higher spirits walking out than she was walking in. “Well, that went better than I expected,” she says happily.

“Yeah, yeah it did.” Cody tries to reciprocate her excitement, but part of him feels like somewhere along this road something is going to happen that’s going to throw them all for a loop.

═══════•°• ⚠ •°•═══════

The reveal went better than they could have imagined. Fans were thrilled to see two of their favorite wrestlers admit their feelings for each other on screen. The writers did an incredible job building the story and telling them why they kept it a secret for as long as they did. It was received very well.

It’s been about a month since the big reveal and things couldn’t have been better for Cody and Y/N. They’ve been spending much more time together, most of their promos and matches involving the other as moral support. They’ve even started a storyline with Seth trying to poach Y/N from Cody, wanting her talent to be used to support him.

Tonight is one of the many charity galas that they get the pleasure to attend. Cody and Y/N were put in coordinating outfits, making them seem even more cohesive as an on screen couple than they already were.

The event was in full swing, everyone mingling and sharing lovely conversations. The two of them never drift very far from the other and whenever they’re together, one of them is always touching the other. Whether it’s Y/N having a hand on his chest or Cody keeping his hand leisurely on her waist or the small of her back.

Sometimes it got hard to tell the difference between the storyline and reality. Some days it really felt like they were an actual couple. Y/N didn’t realize how much she’d actually enjoy pretending to be in a relationship with him. There wasn’t a huge change from their usual dynamic besides the extra touches and kisses shared on screen. But the air between them had definitely shifted and neither of them knew what to do with it just yet. So they kept pretending it wasn’t there.

“Dang they really got you guys out here doing the most,” Phil Brooks walks up to them with a small smirk on his lips as he looks between the two younger wrestlers. “Matching outfits and everything.”

Cody laughs, his arm still comfortably around Y/N’s waist, “Gotta keep the fans happy, y’know?”

He looks in between them, a mischievous glint in his eyes, “I don’t know… you guys don’t seem too torn up about being attached at the hip,” he says teasingly.

Y/N chuckles, patting Cody’s chest with her freshly manicured nails, “It doesn’t feel much different than before,” she admits. “I’m sure he’ll piss me off eventually though.”

Cody smiles at her, “I’m sure I will too.”

Phil simply shakes his head with a knowing expression, “Careful,” he warns. “You guys keep looking at each other like that and people might start thinking this is more than just a storyline.”

And with that he walks away, leaving Cody and Y/N feeling slightly flustered though they don’t show it on the outside. They continue walking around the venue, trying the small treats here and there. Y/N grabs a mini cupcake she had noticed were Reese’s flavored before turning to Cody with a small grin. She holds the cupcake to his lips, knowing that Reese’s is his favorite candy.

Cody smiles, “Really?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Just eat it,” she huffs playfully.

Cody shakes his head but does as he’s told. He leans forward, eating the small delicacy from her hand. While he wishes he could focus on the explosion of flavor in his mouth, his focus only seems to be on her. How she’s staring at him like he’s the only other person in the room.

Her teeth sparkle underneath the lighting, “Was it good?”

“Yeah,” he replies, his mind in an otherworldly place. “Really good.”

Y/N notices the tiny bit of frosting that didn’t make it to his mouth, “Oh, you got a little something–” she reaches out, swiping it gently with her finger. Cody feels his body ignite with chills, their eyes meeting in such an intense way it makes him forget how to breathe.

Y/N pauses for a moment, her hand lingering near his face as they sit in the moment for a bit longer than necessary. Butterflies erupt in her stomach as Cody’s blue eyes bore into hers. He truly is the most handsome man she’s ever seen. Her mind runs on autopilot as she raises her finger to her mouth, sucking off the sugary icing. His eyes narrow as she does so, his pupils dilating. She smiles at him as if she wasn’t aware of the effect she just had.

“There,” Y/N says, her voice much quieter than before. “All better.”

Cody’s chest rises and falls with every bated breath as he tries to regain full control of his mind and mouth, “Thanks…”

“Of course,” she tilts her head, fixing his tie and smoothing over his suit. Her hands rest on his broad chest, loving the feeling of his muscles under her fingertips. “Can’t have my man walking around lookin’ like a mess, now can I?”

Her man.

That felt way too good and slipped off her tongue far too easily. He could get used to hearing that come from her. He’s tired of pretending like this little gimmick they have going on isn’t affecting their real relationship. It’s clear to anyone the different way they look at each other now. He would love to have her on his arm like this from here on out, but he has no idea how to approach that conversation.

“C’mon,” she nods over to a couple reporters who are asking questions to the talent. “We need to go do our interview.”

Before he has a chance to respond, her fingers are laced through his as she walks him over to one of the reporters. He’s not even sure he understood one word that came out of the journalist's mouth. The only time his hearing came back into focus was when Y/N was speaking. She would laugh, answer their question, and glance at Cody to see if he wanted to answer. They were on the fourth or fifth question by now, the American Nightmare not having uttered a word the entire time.

Y/N squeezes his bicep, “You okay?” She asks tentatively, knowing how overwhelmed he can get with press interviews at events like this. Her eyes shine with concern, silently telling him he can leave if he needs to take a breather.

It’s touching how well she knows him. He smiles, simply pulling her closer into him as he looks back at the interviewer. “Sorry, I swear, sometimes she walks into a room and I forget every word in the English language.” His compliment makes the woman questioning them coo. But there’s a deeper level under Cody’s words that steals the breath from Y/N’s lungs. It’s more than just for Kayfabe, but they can’t let anyone, including their colleagues know that. He glances back down at her, “She doesn’t even try, and somehow I’m standing here like I’ve never seen a beautiful woman before."

“Totally understandable,” the woman smiles. “She is definitely one of the most gorgeous women in the world. No one can blame you for getting caught up in that.”

Y/N feels herself becoming shy due to all the compliments being thrown her way, “Guys, you’re gonna inflate my ego…” she says, trying to make a joke out of it.

“Well, I only have one more question for you guys and you can go back to being WWE’s power couple for the night,” she looks down at her notepad. The interviewer leans forward, a knowing smile tugging at their lips. "So, you two have insane chemistry on screen — and let’s be honest, off screen too. Is there ever a moment you catch yourselves forgetting where the characters end and real life begins?"

Y/N lets out a soft laugh, playing it cool as she leans back in her chair. “I mean… that’s kind of the job, right? Sell the story, make people believe it.” She shoots Cody a quick sideways glance, teasing but guarded. “We’re just really good at our jobs.”

Cody’s smile twitches, like he’s holding back a laugh — or maybe something else. “Yeah,” he says slowly, thoughtful. “It’s… kind of funny, actually. Sometimes the line gets blurry. Not because we forget, but because it doesn’t always feel like we’re acting.”

Y/N blinks, her smirk faltering just for a second. The air between them tightens — barely noticeable to the camera, but tangible to anyone watching closely.

Cody doesn’t break eye contact. “We’ve known each other for years. That kind of bond doesn’t turn off just because the cameras are rolling. If anything, it makes the performances more honest.”

Y/N’s voice is quieter when she speaks next. “I guess when you trust someone that much, the feelings start to feel… real. Even if they’re not supposed to be.”

The interviewer raises a brow, sensing something. “So are you saying there are real feelings?”

Cody chuckles, looking down briefly, but his thumb taps anxiously against his knee. “I’m saying… there are moments where I look at her, and I forget the difference.”

Y/N’s breath catches, just for a second. Her smile returns, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes this time.

“Well, thank you both for your time,” the woman smiles at them. “I’m looking forward to hopefully interviewing you both in the near future.”

“Us too,” Cody nods respectfully before moving to guide Y/N away by her waist. “Thank you.”

The two of them slip away and travel back to the heat of the party. They smile at their friends, sending polite nods to the people they aren’t as close with. Cody leans down to whisper in her ear, his gorgeous smile still plastered on his face. “You really threw me under the bus with that ‘real feelings’ bit,” he says playfully.

Y/N shrugged, cocking a brow. “What can I say? The fans love blurred lines.”

“Blurred, huh?” He looked at her then, head slightly tilted, the corner of his mouth twitching like he knew something she didn’t.

She rolled her eyes, pretending she wasn’t already hyper-aware of the heat rolling off him in waves. “Relax, Runnels. I didn’t tell them about that time you cried during The Notebook.”

He scoffed, grabbing the door and holding it open. “Once. I cried once. And Rachel McAdams was very convincing.”

The room was still buzzing but much more lowkey than before — the usual mix of tired talent, sparkling water, and event food passed off as fine dining. Y/N weaved her way to the snack table and grabbed a chocolate-covered strawberry, eyeing Cody from over her shoulder as he joined her with two drinks in hand.

“What?” she asked around a mouthful of strawberry, juice slipping unexpectedly onto her chest just as she bit into it.

Cody blinked, his gaze shifting downward. “You, uh—” He pointed vaguely. “You got a little… right there.”

Y/N looked down, groaning when she spotted the spot of red on the silky material just above her neckline. “Ugh. Of course I did.”

Without thinking, Cody reached for a napkin and stepped closer. “Here, I got it.”

She froze when his hand gently dabbed the spot, the fabric dipping slightly under the weight of his touch. Her breath caught. So did his.

Neither of them spoke.

The space between them thinned to something taut, like a rope pulled too tight.

His hand hovered a beat too long before they were interrupted.

“Well damn,” came a drawl behind them. “This still a PG show?”

They turned sharply to see Demi Bennett sauntering toward them with a knowing smirk. Matthew Adams stood beside her, brow raised in amusement.

Cody took a sharp step back, napkin still in hand. “It’s not what it looked like.”

“Oh, no,” Rhea teased, eyes flicking between them. “It looked exactly like what it looked like.”

“It was strawberry juice,” Y/N added quickly, wiping at her dress herself now. “He was just helping.”

Buddy snorted. “Helping, huh? That what we’re calling second base now?”

Y/N’s mouth opened in protest, but Cody beat her to it.

“Alright,” he said, half-laughing, half-grimacing. “Noted. No touching near fruit.”

Rhea just winked. “Next time, try grapes. Less messy.”

As the couple walked off, Y/N avoided Cody’s eyes and instead fixed her gaze on her dress. “Well. That wasn’t mortifying at all.”

Cody rubbed the back of his neck. “Nope. Totally normal. Just a guy helping a friend clean juice off her—chest.”

The air crackled with everything neither of them said.

Y/N looked up at him, a teasing spark in her eyes. “So, uh… you always that hands-on when it comes to helping friends?”

Cody smirked, but his voice was quieter now. “Only the ones I don’t wanna just be friends with.”

Her heart skipped. “What?”

But he was already walking away, tossing his cup in the trash without looking back. “C’mon. Let’s head back before someone else tries to bet on us.”

She stood frozen for a beat longer than she should’ve, chest tight and lips twitching with something she wasn’t ready to name. But her feet followed him anyway — straight into the night, straight toward the conversation neither of them could avoid any longer.

═══════•°• ⚠ •°•═══════

Once the party was over, everyone headed back to the hotel where they were staying for the weekend. Cody and Y/N bid their goodnights to their friends before traveling up to their shared room. They always shared rooms even before the whole dating fiasco, so that was nothing new.

What was slightly different was the way their hands never disconnected as they traveled back.

Cody slides his key into the mechanism of the door, a small click indicating it is now open. The two of them shuffle into the room, both letting out a relieved exhale at finally being able to lay down in a quiet space. The two full sized beds in the room are like heaven on earth for the two best friends.

Y/N falls face first into the mattress, not even bothering to try and take off her dress or shoes. Cody laughs at her dramatic behavior, loosening his tie before taking off his vest. “Yeah?”

Y/N simply grunts in response, the noise coming out muffled as her face is still buried in the comforter. Cody shakes his head, the smile never disappearing from his face. “Didn’t know spending an evening with me was so exhausting,” he teases, removing his long sleeve shirt, leaving his upper body and torso completely bare as he searches for his pajamas.

Y/N rolls her and body simultaneously. She sits up, looking at Cody but her breath gets caught in her throat. She’s used to seeing him shirtless due to the nature of their work, but it’s never been in an intimate environment like this. She also wasn’t expecting to flip over and come face to face with his god-like body.

She manages to find her voice, “I never said you were exhausting,” she corrects. “I just need like ten hours to myself to recover. I hate people.”

“You don’t hate people,” Cody laughs, throwing his shirt on. “You just hate being around them. Key difference.”

“Tomato, potato,” Y/N chucks her pillow at him as he collapses onto his own mattress.

Cody caught it midair with an exaggerated grunt. “Ah! Deadly.”

Y/N smirked, rolling onto her side, propping her head up on her hand. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to actually fight you.”

He gave her a sly grin, tossing the pillow back. “Oh, I’d win.”

“Ha!” she snorted, half-laughing. “Yeah, okay, Nightmare. I literally know all your moves.”

Cody stretched out on his back, arms folded under his head. “Nah. You don’t know all of them,” he said casually, a little too casually.

Y/N narrowed her eyes, tossing the pillow aside. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He smirked without looking at her, like he knew exactly what he was doing. “Just sayin’… I got a few tricks you haven’t seen yet.”

The room felt warmer suddenly. Y/N swallowed, her face heating up before she could stop it.

She sat up a little too quickly. “Anyway,” she cleared her throat, running a hand through her hair, “I should probably change or something.”

But Cody’s voice stayed soft, less teasing now. “Hey, Y/N.”

She paused, halfway off the bed. “Yeah?”

He pushed up on his elbows, watching her with an expression that made her stomach knot. “You okay?”

She blinked. “What? Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’ve been…” He exhaled, scratching the back of his head. “I dunno. Since the day we got locked in that supply closet — you’ve kinda been pulling back a little.”

Y/N inhales, closing her eyes briefly as she thinks. It’s not that she’s been pulling back, it’s more along the lines of not knowing how to control herself and the growing feelings she was obtaining for her best friend. She sat down on the edge of her bed, chewing her lip. “I’ve just been trying to adjust to the new things that have been handed to us and our relationship,” she tells him, her eyes flickering in his direction. I guess I just feel like I don’t know how to act around you anymore,” she admitted quietly.

Cody’s brow softened. “Yeah.” He shifted, resting his arms on his knees, elbows propped forward. “Me neither.”

They both sat there for a beat, staring at the floor like it might explain what the hell was happening between them.

Y/N laughed under her breath, shaking her head. “This was supposed to be easy, you know? We’ve always been easy.”

Cody gave a small smile. “Yeah. Best friends, right?”

She glanced over at him, heart stuttering. “Right.”

His gaze met hers, and suddenly the air shifted — thick, humming, like neither of them wanted to say the next thing but both needed to.

Cody stood slowly, running a hand through his hair. “I keep thinking,” he began, voice low, “about how weird it is that it took some stupid accidental moments to make me realize how much I… care about you.”

Y/N’s breath caught. She turned fully, legs swinging off the bed, hands clenched nervously in her lap. “Cody…”

He stepped closer, almost hesitant, like he didn’t want to spook her. “I keep waiting for this to go back to normal. For us to laugh it off and move on. But I don’t want it to go back.”

Her throat felt tight. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

He gave a soft, almost helpless laugh. “Because I didn’t wanna mess this up.” His voice dropped to a near whisper. “You mean everything to me, Y/N.”

She stood slowly, heart pounding so loud she was sure he could hear it. “Cody, I—”

Before she could finish, he was there, right in front of her, one hand gently cupping her jaw, the other hovering like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch her waist. His eyes searched hers, hesitant and vulnerable in a way few people ever saw from Cody Rhodes.

“I don’t wanna be just your friend anymore,” he murmured.

Y/N let out a shaky breath. “I don’t either.”

That was all it took.

His mouth met hers in a kiss that was slow, careful — like he was memorizing every second — but it didn’t take long before her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, kissing him like she’d wanted to for weeks.

When they finally broke apart, Cody leaned his forehead against hers, smiling, breathless. “Well,” he said softly, “guess we’re not just platonic soulmates after all, huh?”

Y/N laughed, her heart full and wild. “Guess not.”

Cody chuckled low in his throat. “So… can I stay over here tonight, or do I still get my own bed?”

She raised a brow, playful now. “We’ll see.”

═══════•°• ⚠ •°•═══════

Backstage was buzzing — crew members running cables, wrestlers milling around in sweats and ring gear, trainers moving between rooms. Cody stood near one of the black crates, absentmindedly rolling his wrists, waiting for his cue.

Y/N appeared at his side, slightly breathless from her segment, her hair still pinned up from earlier. “They ran me long,” she murmured, exhaling as she tugged lightly at the uncomfortable neckline of her top. “I swear, I’m two seconds from ripping this thing off.”

Cody gave her a quick once-over, a small amused smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t tempt me….”

Y/N snorted, elbowing him lightly. “Shut up.”

He just chuckled, watching her fiddle with a bobby pin. There was something easy between them — always had been — but lately, it sparked under the surface in ways neither of them could fully ignore anymore.

Without really thinking, Cody reached over and brushed a stray hair off her face, his fingers lingering just a little too long against her cheek.

Y/N froze slightly, her eyes lifting to his.

Cody shifted his weight, his voice dropping a little. “Y’know,” he said quietly, “we don’t gotta keep pretending we’re just best friends.”

She gave a small, nervous laugh. “I mean… we are best friends.”

“Yeah,” Cody murmured, his thumb grazing her jaw lightly. “But I’d say we’re a little more now too.”

Y/N’s breath caught, eyes flicking briefly to his mouth before darting away. Cody saw it — of course he saw it.

Screw it.

He slid a hand to the small of her back, gently pulling her closer, and pressed a kiss to her lips — soft, sure, no hesitation.

For a second, it was just them — quiet in the middle of the noise.

But then they heard the unmistakable throat-clear from behind.

“About damn time.”

Cody turned, arm still draped loosely around Y/N, to see Randy Orton leaning against a crate with an infuriating smirk on his face. Behind him, Kevin Steen and Rami Sebei pretended to be very engrossed in their phones, though the poorly hidden grins gave them away.

Y/N huffs a laugh, shaking her head. “Y’all are unreal.”

Randy shrugs, pushing off the crate. “What, you thought nobody noticed the way you two look at each other?”

Cody leans forward to kiss Y/N’s forehead, half laughing, half mortified.

“Hey,” Randy sticks his hand out to Kevin and Rami. “Pay up.”

Y/N gapes, laughing. “You bet on us?!”

Kevin gave a non apologetic shrug. “You weren’t exactly subtle.”

“We saw the way you two were looking at each other months ago,” Rami tells them.

“Congrats lovebirds,” Randy tells them as he and the guys start to walk off. “Just don’t get anymore sappy than you already are in the ring, yeah?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Cody replies, fist bumping the Viper.

Y/N watches them go before looking up at Cody, still tucked against him, her cheeks warm. “I still can’t believe they bet on us.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Cody drawled, brushing his thumb along her back, “I’m pretty sure half this locker room’s been waiting longer than we have.”

She smiled softly, resting her forehead lightly against his chest.

And just like that, there was no big announcement, no stage lights, no performative gesture — just two people standing backstage, in a stolen quiet moment, grinning like idiots because they were finally exactly where they wanted to be.

#female reader #love story #cody rhodes x reader #cody rhodes imagine #world wrestling entertainment #wwe imagine #wwe imagines #rhea ripley #randy orton #kevin owens #sami zayn #paul levesque #triple h #nia jax #wrestling

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iamquiantrelle · 29 days ago

Text

BLOOD OATH (chapter 4) • iamquaintrelle

# pairings: mob!lewis hamilton x black reader (☔️⚡️)

# tags: @queenshikongo3 @peyiswriting @yeea-nah @ggaslyp1 @pickingupmymercedes @donteventry-itdude @snowseasonmademe @szariahwroteit @amirawrah @beauty-gurl @jessnotwiththemess @sailurmewn @lewismcqueen @purplerain-94 @vintagesoul-01 @aykxz98 @thepointlessideas @lostennyc @saintslewis @cocobutterqwueen @purplelewlew @imjustheretomanifest @a-moment-captured @mauvecherie-writes @httpsserene-main

# wc: long af...

# summary: A marriage of convenience between crime families was supposed to be simple. No one mentioned it would be this complicated...or this deadly. series masterlist

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Sunlight flooded the room in bright, unforgiving streams when you finally opened your eyes. You blinked at the bedside clock, the digital numbers momentarily refusing to make sense. 10:47 a.m. Impossible. You never slept past seven, a lifetime of your father's strict schedules and your mother's quiet insistence on proper appearances having trained you out of such indulgence years ago.

The absence beside your bed registered next—no wrinkled bulldog face greeting you with expectant eyes, no impatient snuffling demanding your attention. For seven consecutive mornings, Roscoe had appeared in your room like clockwork, his canine precision more reliable than any alarm. His absence felt strangely significant, another routine disrupted in a house where control and predictability reigned supreme.

Memories from the previous night flooded back as you pushed yourself upright—the shattering glass that had woken you, Lewis's uncharacteristic rage, blood dripping from his split knuckles into ice water turned pink. The kidnapping attempt. Suarez's operative infiltrating the house to reach your suite. The discovery of betrayal from within Lewis's organization, someone trusted enough to provide access codes and patrol schedules.

The Geneva trip, accelerated to tonight rather than next week.

You moved with practiced ease despite the late hour, selecting clothes appropriate for travel yet versatile enough for whatever situations might arise—dark jeans, a cashmere sweater in deep burgundy, boots with hidden compartments where a ceramic blade could be secured if necessary. Practicality disguised as style, preparation masked as fashion choices. In your world, even wardrobe decisions carried strategic implications.

The house felt different as you descended the main staircase—additional security personnel stationed at intervals, faces you didn't recognize mixed with the usual guards. The controlled chaos of crisis response operated beneath a veneer of normalcy, like watching blood spread beneath skin without breaking the surface.

Jensen stood in the entrance hall, directing a team of men unloading equipment from large metal cases—tactical vests, communication devices, and an array of weapons that would have been impressive even by your father's standards. The conversation halted momentarily as you passed, Jensen acknowledging you with a respectful nod before continuing his instructions in lowered tones.

You caught fragments as you moved past—"perimeter reconfigured," "additional scanners," "rotating protocols"—the language of security being reinforced, of vulnerabilities being eliminated. The intrusion had wounded Lewis's pride as much as it had threatened your safety; the response would be proportionate to both concerns.

Lewis's office door stood partially open, light spilling into the hallway. You hesitated briefly before knocking, the events of last night having shifted something fundamental in your relationship that hadn't yet found its proper balance.

"Come in." His voice sounded rougher than usual, fatigue eroding the edges of his usual control.

The sight that greeted you was so unexpected that it momentarily halted your stride. Lewis sat on the edge of his desk—not behind it in his usual position of authority—dressed in gray sweatpants and a simple black t-shirt that revealed the full extent of tattoos normally hidden beneath bespoke tailoring. The casual attire humanized him in ways that were strangely more intimate than if you'd seen him undressed. This was Lewis with his armor removed, the carefully constructed image of power deliberately set aside.

Dark circles shadowed his eyes, his normally immaculate braids slightly mussed, as if he'd been running his hands through them repeatedly. The knuckles you'd bandaged last night were now properly wrapped, though spots of blood had seeped through the white gauze like morse code transmitting messages of violence.

"You didn't sleep," you observed, closing the door behind you.

The ghost of a smile touched his lips, there and gone so quickly it might have been imagined. "Observant as always."

"Difficult not to be when you look like something Roscoe dragged in from the garden."

The unexpected teasing drew a flicker of genuine surprise across his features, followed by something that almost resembled amusement. "I've had more restful nights," he acknowledged, studying you with that intense focus that somehow felt more penetrating without his usual formal attire creating distance.

"How did you sleep?" he asked, the casual question carrying more weight than it would have in normal circumstances.

"Apparently too well," you replied, gesturing toward the ornate clock on his office wall that confirmed the late hour. "Why didn't anyone wake me? We're leaving tonight, and there must be preparations—"

"I gave explicit instructions not to disturb you," Lewis interrupted, his tone matter-of-fact rather than defensive. "Someone tried to kidnap you last night. I figured rest might be prudent before we uproot to Geneva."

"Fair point," you conceded, unable to keep a touch of sarcasm from your voice. "Though typically when someone tries to kidnap me, sleeping in feels rather low on the priority list."

"Typically?" Lewis raised an eyebrow. "These attempts happen with such regularity that you've established protocols?"

"Figure of speech," you clarified, though the Ricci family did, in fact, have specific procedures for various threat levels and kidnapping attempts. Your father had drilled them into all his children from an early age—the macabre equivalent of other families' fire evacuation plans.

Lewis studied you for a moment longer before beckoning you closer with a subtle gesture. You moved toward him without hesitation, curious about this more casual version of your husband and what had prompted the summons.

He reached out when you drew near, his hands settling lightly on your upper arms in a touch that wasn't quite an embrace but far more intimate than any previous contact between you. The unexpected physical connection sent a current of awareness through your body, goosebumps rising beneath the soft fabric of your sweater. This close, you could detect the subtle notes of his cologne—sandalwood and something darker beneath, expensive but not ostentatious, like everything else about Lewis Hamilton.

"Lorenzo Bianchi is dead," he said without preamble, his eyes fixed on yours to gauge your reaction.

The news wasn't surprising—you'd heard him order the execution yesterday in the car—but the confirmation still carried weight. Another piece removed from the chessboard, the game advancing with Lewis's precise strategy.

"Confirmed?" you asked, practical rather than shocked.

Lewis nodded once, appreciation for your directness evident in his expression. "This morning. Clean execution, no witnesses, no traces back to us. Martinelli has received his warning and appears to be reconsidering his alignment with Suarez."

"How did Martinelli take it?" The question was relevant to your safety as much as to business operations—allies frightened into submission often proved more dangerous than open enemies.

"With appropriate recognition of the consequences," Lewis replied, his thumb moving almost unconsciously against your arm in a small circular motion that was oddly comforting despite the subject matter. "His response suggests that he wants neutrality moving forward rather than continued opposition."

"Smart choice," you noted. "Though Suarez is unlikely to be as easily convinced."

"Suarez is a different problem entirely," Lewis agreed, something cold flickering in his eyes. "One that requires more comprehensive measures."

This reminded you of discussions in your father's study, tactical evaluations of threats and necessary responses, except Lewis approached such matters with calculated precision rather than explosive reaction. Different methods, same lethal results.

Without releasing you, Lewis reached across to open a desk drawer with his free hand, extracting a small matte black Glock. The weapon was compact but deadly, a professional's choice rather than a showpiece.

"You know how to use this." Not a question but a statement of fact, his tone reflecting confidence in your capabilities.

You nodded anyway, familiar with firearms since your early teens when your father had insisted all his daughters learn to protect themselves. "Since I was fourteen."

Lewis extended the gun toward you, handle first. "Keep this on you at all times," he instructed, his voice leaving no room for discussion. "It's registered under a clean identity, untraceable. The safety features are minimal—it will fire if you need it to, without complication."

You took the weapon, its weight familiar in your palm. Your father had given you your first gun on your sixteenth birthday—a delicate silver .22 with pearl inlay that looked more decorative than deadly. This was its opposite—purely functional, designed for one purpose without pretense or embellishment.

"The house has been secured, but until we identify the source of the breach, assume nowhere is completely safe," Lewis continued. "Naomi will remain your primary security detail, but this—" he nodded toward the gun, "—provides insurance no bodyguard can offer."

"Thank you," you said simply, appreciating both the practical protection and the respect implied by the gesture. Lewis wasn't attempting to shield you from danger through ignorance, but empowering you to participate in your own defense—another subtle distinction from your father's more paternalistic approach.

Lewis didn't immediately release the gun, his hand still wrapped around yours, creating a connection both literal and symbolic—shared danger, shared responsibility, shared understanding of the world you both inhabited. Your eyes met over this physical bridge, something unspoken passing between you that transcended the practical aspects of the moment.

For the first time, you noticed flecks of amber in his dark irises, visible only at this closeness. The observation felt strangely intimate, like uncovering another secret carefully hidden beneath Lewis's controlled exterior.

The moment stretched, tension building not from awkwardness but from something more complex—recognition, perhaps, of shifting boundaries, of territory being explored beyond strategic alliance into something neither of you had fully anticipated.

A knock at the door broke the spell, Naomi's voice calling through: "Lewis, you need to see this. The surveillance footage from the east entrance shows something interesting."

Lewis didn't immediately respond, his eyes still holding yours, hand still connected through the weapon between you. "One minute," he finally called, not looking away.

Then he did something so unexpected it momentarily stopped your breath. Leaning forward slightly, he pressed his lips to your forehead—a gesture too deliberate to be casual, too restrained to be passionate, yet somehow more meaningful than either extreme would have been.

The contact lasted only seconds before he withdrew, releasing the gun fully into your possession as he straightened. Without another word, he moved past you toward the door, the familiar mask of controlled power sliding back into place despite the incongruity of his casual attire.

You remained motionless for a moment after he'd gone, the ghost of his lips still warm against your skin, the weight of the gun in your hand a tangible reminder of danger and protection inextricably linked. Like everything in your world, intimacy and violence existed side by side, neither fully separate from the other.

Carefully, you secured the weapon in your waistband, adjusting your sweater to conceal its presence. Another layer of protection, another secret carried beneath the surface. In many ways, it felt more natural than the diamond ring on your finger—deadly practicality over decorative symbolism.

The unexpected kiss lingered in your thoughts, not because it represented romantic development, but because it suggested trust developing in a world where trust was the rarest and most valuable currency of all. You slipped the gun from your waistband briefly to check the magazine and chamber with practiced movements—fully loaded, one in the chamber, ready for immediate use. Just like you. No longer merely a Ricci daughter or Hamilton wife, but something evolving into its own dangerous identity.

You slid the gun back into place and moved toward the door, ready to prepare for Geneva and whatever awaited there. The game continued, the stakes escalating, the players adjusting strategies with each new development.

And you, once merely a piece to be moved across the board, were increasingly becoming a player in your own right.

*****************************************************

Back in your suite, you paced the length of the bedroom, phone pressed to your ear as Sophia's indignant voice filled the space. The conversation with your sisters had started with concern about your safety wrapped in complaints about canceled plans and was rapidly evolving into the particular brand of guilt only younger siblings could perfect.

"This is complete bullshit," Sophia declared, her frustration practically vibrating through the phone. "We've been planning this London trip for a week. Maria already bought new clothes, and Gabriella rescheduled three different appointments."

"I know, and I'm sorry," you replied, keeping your tone measured despite your own frustration. "But circumstances have changed. It's not safe right now."

"Since when has 'not safe' ever stopped a Ricci from doing anything?" Sophia challenged, the eye roll practically audible in her tone. "Papa taught us to move through danger, not hide from it."

You pinched the bridge of your nose, weighing how much to reveal versus how much to conceal. The delicate balance of big sister responsibilities—protect them from unnecessary worry while not treating them like children who couldn't handle truth.

"This isn't standard business danger, Soph. Someone breached Lewis's security last night." The partial truth, enough to convey seriousness without sending your sisters into panic. "We're relocating temporarily while the situation is handled."

"Relocate to where?" Maria's more practical voice cut in, suggesting Sophia had put the call on speaker without warning—typical of your youngest sister's disregard for privacy.

"Can't say over the phone," you replied, caution ingrained by years of your father's paranoia about communications. "But I'll let you know when it's safe to visit. It won't be long."

"So we're just supposed to sit here in New York while you're off playing international crime wife?" Sophia's dramatic flair hadn't diminished with distance. "This wasn't the deal when you got shipped off to London."

"I wasn't 'shipped off,'" you corrected automatically, though the description wasn't entirely inaccurate. "And yes, for now, that's exactly what you're supposed to do. Listen to Papa's security team, stay within protected areas, and wait for my call."

Gabriella's calm voice joined the conversation, the voice of reason among your sisters as always. "She's right, Soph. If Lewis's security was breached, that's serious. Better to delay than walk into a situation."

Sophia made a disgusted sound. "Fine. But you owe me for this disappointment."

You recognized the negotiation opening for what it was—Sophia's transition from outright refusal to bargaining phase. "What exactly do I owe you?"

"That Birkin bag I showed you last week. The green one."

"A thirty thousand dollar bag for postponing a trip?" You couldn't help but laugh. "Your extortion skills need work."

"Twenty thousand with the discount Papa's friend could get," Sophia countered. "And I've been wanting it forever."

"Ten thousand maximum, and you follow all security protocols without complaint until this is resolved," you countered, falling into the familiar rhythm of sisterly negotiation.

"Fifteen, and I want it in the special edition leather."

"Twelve, standard leather, and you stop interrogating Papa's guards about my situation. They have actual work to do besides satisfying your curiosity."

A pause, then a reluctant sigh. "Fine. But I want it by my birthday."

"Done," you agreed, knowing the bag was a small price for your sister's cooperation and safety. "Now put Maria back on."

As you shifted into more practical conversation with your middle sister about security arrangements and family matters, movement caught your peripheral vision. The connecting door between your suite and Lewis's—a door that had remained firmly closed since your arrival in London—stood slightly ajar, a sliver of the adjoining room visible through the gap.

Words died in your throat as Lewis came into view, back turned toward the door, clearly in the process of changing clothes. He pulled his t-shirt over his head in a smooth motion, revealing a canvas of muscle and ink that momentarily short-circuited your thoughts. Unlike the decorative softness of mobsters from your father's generation, with their espresso-paunches and gold chain necklaces, Lewis's body was a functional weapon—all lean sinew and defined strength without unnecessary bulk.

Tattoos covered his torso in strategic patterns—a large compass design centered on his chest, its intricate detail suggesting meaning beyond mere decoration. A rose bloomed along his left side, its thorny stem wrapping around his ribs like a warning. A huge cross cascaded down his spine, religion and art intertwined in permanent ink.

"Hello? Are you still there?" Maria's voice suddenly pierced your focus, jarring you back to the phone conversation you'd completely forgotten.

"Sorry, got distracted," you managed, quickly moving to close the connecting door with as little sound as possible. "What were you saying?"

"I was asking when you think we might actually get to visit," Maria repeated, suspicion coloring her tone. "What was so distracting?"

"Just security staff needing confirmation on something," you lied smoothly, turning your back on the now-closed door. "And I'm not sure about visit timing yet. I'll call you from... where I'm going... once we're settled."

The conversation wrapped up with the usual sisterly threats of bodily harm if you didn't call regularly, promises to keep them updated, and Sophia's final reminder about her bag—"Green, special edition, size 30, and I'll send the exact reference number to make sure there's no 'confusion'."

You set the phone down after hanging up, your mind returning unbidden to the glimpse of Lewis through the door. The sight shouldn't have affected you as it did—you'd seen shirtless men before, had even had a few lovers during college, but something about the unexpected vulnerability of Lewis, seeing the man beneath the tailored suits and controlled exterior, stirred something complicated in your chest.

The connecting door's sudden accessibility raised questions as well. Had it been unlocked all along, or was this a recent development? Another boundary shifting in the wake of last night's events, perhaps—security considerations trumping privacy concerns. The thought of Lewis having access to your bedroom at any time should have been unsettling, yet somehow wasn't, which was potentially more disturbing than the access itself.

You returned to packing methodically, selecting clothes appropriate for Geneva's early autumn climate along with a few pieces elegant enough for whatever business functions Lewis might need you to attend. The Glock he'd given you was carefully wrapped in a silk scarf and tucked into a hidden compartment in your luggage—easily accessible but not immediately visible.

A knock on your door interrupted your thoughts. "Yes?" you called, closing your suitcase with a decisive click.

Lewis pushed the door open slightly, his head appearing in the gap. "May I come in?"

"Of course," you replied, straightening as he entered the room fully.

He'd changed into dark slacks and a charcoal sweater that somehow looked both casual and expensive, the sleeves pushed up to reveal the intricate tattoos covering his forearms. The outfit was a middle ground between the formal suits he typically wore and the unexpectedly revealing sweatpants from earlier—comfortable but still controlled, like Lewis himself.

"Almost ready?" he asked, eyes scanning the packed luggage at the foot of your bed.

"Just about. Waiting for my passport from Naomi—she's adding the Swiss visa."

Lewis nodded, moving further into the room with his characteristic measured grace. "The jet's being prepared. We should be wheels up by seven, arrival in Geneva around eleven local time."

"And your meeting is tomorrow?" you asked, recalling fragments of information gathered over the past week.

"Afternoon, with Augustus Mueller. He heads the digital currency department at Banque Privée Genève." Lewis leaned against the bedpost, his posture more relaxed than usual though still carrying that coiled readiness that never fully left him. "I've been trying to secure accounts there for years. They've finally agreed to a formal meeting."

"They've made you wait that long?" you asked, genuine surprise coloring your tone. Most financial institutions fell over themselves to accommodate clients with Lewis's resources, regardless of how those resources were acquired.

A hint of that rare smile touched his lips. "Swiss bankers are the original assholes of the financial world. They make you prove your worth before deigning to take your money." The light profanity and touch of humor felt unexpectedly intimate—another glimpse behind the carefully constructed facade. "Three years of negotiations to get a meeting that should have happened in three weeks."

You couldn't help the small chuckle that escaped you. "Impressive patience on your part."

"Strategic necessity," he corrected, though amusement lingered in his expression. "Their security protocols are worth the wait. Once established, the accounts will provide protection beyond what any other institution can offer."

You nodded, understanding the value of such banking relationships in your world. The right financial infrastructure could provide protection more effective than armed guards—money properly secured was power properly preserved.

"I've made additional arrangements for Geneva," Lewis continued, something shifting in his tone that caught your attention. "Given the circumstances, I thought it appropriate to adjust our itinerary."

"In what way?" you asked, curiosity piqued by his suddenly careful phrasing.

"We need a legitimate reason to remain in Switzerland while certain situations develop," he explained. "A proper honeymoon provides perfect cover while allowing us to remain close to banking operations."

Honeymoon.

The word hung in the air between you, loaded with implications that had nothing to do with security protocols or business strategy.

Lewis watched your reaction with careful attention, reading the momentary unease that you couldn't quite mask. "Not like that," he clarified quickly, then with unexpected hesitation added, "...unless?"

"Unless?" you echoed, eyebrow rising in genuine surprise at the uncharacteristic ambiguity from someone typically so precise in his communication.

The question drew a genuine chuckle from Lewis—not the controlled almost-smile you'd grown accustomed to, but actual amusement that transformed his severe features. The sound was rich and unexpectedly warm, like discovering a rare instrument could produce music when you'd only ever heard it used for formal announcements.

You found yourself smiling in response, oddly pleased to have elicited such a reaction. It was then you noticed his dimples—those small indentations that appeared only with genuine smiles, a detail you'd intellectually registered when first meeting him but hadn't truly seen in action until this moment. When had that feature become so attractive? The shift in your perception was subtle but undeniable, like suddenly noticing a painting's details after passing it daily.

Lewis scratched his beard thoughtfully, head tilting slightly as he studied you. "Never mind on that," he said, though the amusement hadn't fully left his eyes. "But I thought you might appreciate some time to relax."

"I wouldn't mind that," you admitted, surprised by your own sincerity. The idea of breathing space, even within the constraints of your complicated situation, held unexpected appeal.

He nodded, gaze sweeping around your room as if mentally cataloging its contents. "I'll let you finish packing, then."

"Okay."

Another moment of charged silence stretched between you, neither entirely comfortable nor precisely uncomfortable—a space of possibility neither of you seemed quite ready to define. Then Lewis turned, crossing to the door in a few measured strides and pulling it closed behind him with a soft click.

You released a breath you hadn't realized you were holding, the oxygen leaving your lungs in a rush that left you slightly light-headed. The conversation replayed in your mind, focusing on that single word—"unless"—and the implications that hung unspoken behind it.

Had Lewis Hamilton, your strategic husband of calculated precision, just implied interest in consummating your marriage of convenience? Like everything about Lewis, it had been carefully calibrated—an opening created without pressure applied, a possibility presented without expectation attached.

More surprising than his implied interest was your own reaction to it—not revulsion or even reluctance, but a complex mixture of curiosity and something warmer that you weren't entirely prepared to examine. The memory of his shirtless form seen through the doorway resurfaced.

You moved to the window, gazing out at the manicured grounds of the estate while your thoughts reorganized themselves around this new development. Marriage in your world had always been primarily strategic—emotional connection an added bonus. You'd entered this arrangement fully expecting a business partnership, perhaps eventually a friendship of mutual respect.

The possibility of genuine attraction hadn't factored into your calculations, yet here it was, introducing a variable you hadn't prepared for. Not unwelcome, but certainly interesting.

*******************************************************

The private jet hummed around you, its engines a steady drone that matched the circular pattern of your thoughts as you stared out the window at darkness punctuated by occasional city lights below. Across the aisle, Lewis worked steadily on his laptop, the blue glow casting shadows across the angles of his face, emphasizing the controlled focus you'd come to recognize as his default state.

Two hours into the flight to Geneva, and the conversation from your bedroom still circled your mind like a persistent melody—that single word "unless" and all it implied hanging in the air between you even now. Not that Lewis showed any sign of it. Since boarding, he'd been courteous but professional; the momentary crack in his composure sealed as if it had never existed.

You took another sip of the excellent red wine the flight attendant had poured before discreetly retreating to the forward cabin, leaving you and Lewis alone in the main cabin's luxurious privacy. The alcohol warmed your throat but did nothing to quiet your thoughts about what Lewis had been suggesting in your bedroom.

Sex. Fucking. Consummating a marriage that existed on paper but had yet to become physical reality.

It wasn't that the idea itself was disturbing. Lewis was objectively hot—that glimpse of his tattooed torso through the doorway had confirmed what his tailored suits had merely suggested. But the implications of crossing that particular line felt more significant than a simple physical act. Sex changed things, complicated arrangements that functioned perfectly well without such entanglements.

Lewis had been nothing if not respectful of boundaries since your arrival in London. Every interaction had maintained careful distance, every conversation balanced between professional and personal without tipping decisively toward the latter. Even his suggestion had been presented as possibility rather than expectation—a door opened but not insisted upon.

Your mother's words from years ago surfaced in your memory: "Men in our world handle danger in predictable ways—with violence, with alcohol, or with sex. Sometimes all three in sequence." She'd been explaining your father's particularly aggressive bedroom demands after narrowly escaping a federal investigation, her matter-of-fact acceptance of his behavior part of the unspoken contract of their marriage.

Perhaps Lewis was simply experiencing the natural male response to threats and violence—physical desire as a release valve for tension. The kidnapping attempt, the betrayal from within his organization, the complications with Suarez—enough pressure to drive any man toward basic outlets for stress. Sex as a biological need rather than an emotional connection.

You'd been aware of your father's numerous mistresses since adolescence, had seen the knowing glances between your mother and his guards when he'd stay out late on certain nights. Not that he'd been disrespectful enough to bring evidence home, but the pattern had been clear enough to recognize even before you understood its mechanics. Men had urges, had needs—Ricci daughters were taught this reality early, prepared for the inevitability of husbands who would seek physical satisfaction beyond marriage beds while expecting absolute fidelity from their wives.

Maybe Lewis, for all his controlled distinction from men like your father, was ultimately driven by the same basic male programming. The timing certainly aligned with your mother's warnings about danger heightening sexual impulses. The breached security, the blood-spotted bandages on his knuckles—violence already engaged, perhaps sex naturally following in the cycle your mother had described.

You glanced at him across the aisle, studying his profile as he focused on whatever complicated financial maneuvers filled his screen. Nothing in his demeanor suggested a man consumed by sex. If it was indeed on his mind, he concealed it with the same precision he applied to all potentially compromising emotions.

The question that kept circling back wasn't whether Lewis wanted sex—his "unless" had made that possibility clear enough—but whether you did. And if so, what it would mean beyond the obvious physical consequences.

You weren't naive about sex. College had provided opportunities for exploration before your father's reputation inevitably scared away potential partners. You understood the basics, had even enjoyed some wildness on occasion, but you had always maintained emotional distance.

Sex with Lewis would be something else entirely—crossing a threshold that couldn't be uncrossed, creating connection where strategic distance might be safer. Yet the prospect wasn't without appeal. That glimpse of his body, the rare genuine smile with those dimples, the focused intensity that characterized everything he did—

"You're thinking very loudly," Lewis observed without looking up from his screen, his voice startling you from your thoughts.

"Excuse me?" you replied, caught off-guard by the sudden break in silence.

Now he did look up, those dark eyes finding yours with practiced precision. "Your expression. It's quite... concentrated. Like you're solving a complex equation."

You couldn't help the slight smile that tugged at your lips. "Something like that."

"Care to share the problem? I'm reasonably good with difficult calculations." The hint of dry humor was becoming more frequent in his interactions with you.

"Just processing everything," you replied, deliberately vague. "It's been an eventful twenty-four hours."

Lewis closed his laptop, giving you his full attention. "That's an understatement. How are you handling it? The attempt was directed at you specifically."

"I've had kidnapping threats before," you reminded him. "The Ricci name comes with certain occupational hazards."

"There's a difference between abstract threats and someone physically breaching security to reach your bedroom," Lewis pointed out. "Most people would find that deeply disturbing."

"I'm not most people," you echoed his own words from earlier with deliberate parallelism.

That almost-smile appeared briefly. "No, you certainly aren't. But the question still stands."

You considered how to respond honestly without revealing the actual direction of your thoughts. "I'm more concerned about what it represents than the attempt itself. Suarez has connections inside your organization—that's the disturbing part."

Lewis nodded. "We're making progress identifying the source. The operative who died had communications that point toward specific personnel. It's being handled."

The clinical phrasing couldn't quite disguise what "being handled" likely meant—interrogations considerably more thorough than what had left Lewis's knuckles bloody, followed by disposal methods that would leave no evidence for authorities to find.

"How extensive do you think the breach is?" you asked.

"Limited but strategically placed," Lewis replied, his expression hardening slightly. "Someone with access to security protocols but not operational details. Which narrows the field considerably."

"Then there's hope your Geneva banking connections haven't been compromised?"

"The compartmentalization should have protected that information, yes." Lewis leaned back in his seat, an uncharacteristically casual posture that suggested growing comfort in your presence. "Mueller doesn't know about Suarez or Bianchi. To him, we're simply a wealthy couple looking to establish private accounts for legitimate business interests."

"With a honeymoon cover story," you added, deliberately addressing the elephant that had followed you onto the plane.

Something flickered in Lewis's expression—surprise at your directness, perhaps, or appreciation for not dancing around the subject. "Yes. It provides legitimate reason for an extended stay if needed."

"Practical," you acknowledged, holding his gaze. "Though complicated."

"Most effective strategies involve some level of complexity," Lewis replied, his tone carefully neutral despite the weight of unspoken meaning beneath his words. "The question is whether the advantages outweigh potential complications."

"And what's your thoughts on that particular equation?" you asked.

Lewis studied you for a moment, his expression revealing nothing of his thoughts. "I think it depends entirely on mutual agreement about desired outcomes and acceptable risks."

"Very diplomatic," you observed with a hint of genuine amusement.

Something like self-awareness crossed his features. "Occupational hazard. Precision in communication prevents misunderstandings with potentially significant consequences."

"Then let me be precise," you said, setting your wine glass down decisively. "Earlier, in my bedroom, you had an implied question. I'd like clarity on what exactly you were suggesting."

The directness clearly caught him off-guard, that rare unguarded expression briefly crossing his features before control reasserted itself.

"I was saying that our marriage could potentially incorporate additional aspects if mutually desired," Lewis replied after a moment, his phrasing still careful but considerably more direct than before. "Not as requirement or expectation, simply as... an option available should preferences align."

"Sex," you translated bluntly. "You were asking if I might be interested in having sex with you."

Lewis's eyebrow raised slightly at your candor, but he didn't flinch from it. "Yes. Though with more emphasis on choice and timing being entirely on your terms."

"I appreciate the honesty," you said. "And the emphasis on choice."

"Your father made clear from the beginning that certain traditional expectations wouldn't be part of our initial arrangement," Lewis explained, his tone matter-of-fact rather than defensive. "I've respected those parameters and will continue to do so unless you indicate otherwise."

The information was new—your father negotiating sexual boundaries on your behalf without your knowledge, Lewis accepting limitations that men of your father's generation would have considered insulting to their masculinity. Another unexpected dimension to an arrangement that continued revealing new facets with each passing day.

"And yet you made the suggestion," you observed, not accusatory but curious about the shift.

Something almost like vulnerability suddenly crossed Lewis's features. "Circumstances change. Relationships evolve. What begins as purely strategic can develop into something else when people work closely together."

"My mother always said men in our world have predictable responses to danger," you said, deciding honesty deserved equal honesty in return. "Violence, alcohol, or sex—usually in that order."

Understanding registered in Lewis's expression. "You think my suggestion was just a response to a threat."

"The timing fits with her theory," you added. "Less about me specifically and more about male needs after danger triggers certain responses."

Lewis considered this, his expression thoughtful rather than offended. "There's likely some truth to that observation as general pattern. Stress and danger do trigger certain biological responses." He met your eyes directly. "But I'd like to think I'm capable of distinguishing between chemical reactions and genuine interest."

"And which category did your suggestion fall into?" The question was bold, but the conversation had already crossed into territory where traditional caution seemed unnecessarily limiting.

"Both, if I'm being entirely honest," Lewis replied after a moment, the admission clearly costing something in terms of his usual controlled presentation. "The danger certainly heightened awareness of mortality and corresponding impulses. But those impulses were directed specifically toward you for reasons beyond mere proximity or convenience."

It was perhaps the most revealing statement he'd made since your marriage—acknowledgment of genuine attraction rather than strategic consideration alone, of personal desire beyond contractual arrangement.

"I see," you said simply, processing this new information and its implications for your evolving relationship.

"My suggestion wasn't made with an expectation of immediate response," Lewis added, apparently sensing your need for space to consider. "Geneva provides the opportunity, but creates no obligation whatsoever. We have more immediate concerns to address regardless."

The statement offered graceful retreat from territory that had perhaps been explored further than either of you had initially intended.

"Mueller's banking connections being primary among them," you agreed, accepting the shift back to business.

Lewis nodded, reaching for his laptop again though not immediately opening it. "Get some rest if you can. We land in just over an hour, and tomorrow will likely be demanding."

You recognized the gentle conclusion to a conversation that had revealed more than perhaps either of you had planned. "Good advice. I think I will."

As you reclined your seat and closed your eyes, not actually expecting sleep but welcoming the opportunity to process without observation, you found your thoughts considerably clearer than before the conversation. Whatever developed between you and Lewis, at least it would be based on direct communication rather than assumption or manipulation.

*******************************************************

Geneva greeted you with crisp autumn air. Lewis's security team had traveled ahead, establishing protocols before your arrival, so when you emerged from customs, the transition was seamless—black Mercedes waiting, driver holding a discreet sign, no names required.

The city gleamed under moonlight as you were driven from the airport—old money and new power coexisting in architectural harmony, the lake reflecting lights like scattered diamonds across its surface. Everything pristine, everything controlled, everything operating according to precise rules that were never overtly stated but universally understood.

Lewis spent the drive exchanging texts with his advance team, the blue glow of his phone illuminating his profile in brief flashes as you gazed out at the passing scenery. Despite the eleven p.m. arrival, he looked unfazed by travel—the same controlled composure he maintained regardless of circumstances. You wondered, not for the first time, what it would take to truly disrupt that legendary control. The bloodied knuckles had been one glimpse. Perhaps there were others to discover.

The hotel—a discreet five-star establishment that catered to wealth that preferred anonymity—welcomed you with the particular deference reserved for guests who paid in cash and required no credit check. The lobby was a study in understated luxury, nothing so gauche as gold fixtures or other displays, just perfect proportions and materials that whispered rather than shouted their quality.

"Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton," the concierge greeted you, his English impeccable, his eyes professionally warm without being presumptuous. "Welcome to La Réserve. We've been expecting you."

Lewis placed a protective hand at the small of your back as you were escorted to a private elevator—a gesture that could have been performative for watching eyes but felt oddly genuine in its subtle pressure. The flight had shifted something between you, the direct conversation about potential consummation of your arrangement clearing air that had grown increasingly charged with unspoken possibilities.

The penthouse suite occupied the building's entire top floor, its windows offering panoramic views of the lake and mountains beyond. A security sweep had already been completed, Jensen nodding confirmation to Lewis as you entered, before discreetly retreating with the remaining hotel staff. Within moments, you were alone in the expansive space, the door closing with a soft click that emphasized the sudden privacy.

You moved further into the suite, noting the elegant furnishings, the fresh flowers arranged with Swiss precision, the bottle of Dom Pérignon chilling in a silver bucket—all the expected luxuries for guests of your presumed status. What caught your attention, however, was the bedroom visible through open double doors—specifically, the single king-sized bed that dominated the space.

One bed. Not the two you'd anticipated based on your careful maintenance of separate sleeping arrangements in London.

Lewis followed your gaze, a momentary frown crossing his features as he registered the same detail. Without comment, he moved to the house phone, dialing with controlled precision.

"This is Hamilton in the penthouse," he said when someone answered, his tone polite but carrying that edge of authority that expected immediate resolution. "There seems to be a misunderstanding regarding our accommodation requirements."

You couldn't hear the response, but Lewis's expression tightened incrementally as he listened.

"I specifically requested a two-bedroom suite or connecting rooms," he continued. "This arrangement wasn't part of our agreement."

Another pause, longer this time, his fingers tapping a controlled rhythm against the polished desk surface—the only visible indication of his displeasure.

"Until Monday?" he repeated, glancing in your direction with a question in his eyes. "That's four nights."

You moved closer, the telephone exchange now audible as you approached—a professionally apologetic voice explaining that the hotel was fully booked due to an international banking conference, that no other suites were available until early next week, that they deeply regretted the inconvenience but could offer no immediate solution beyond a substantial rate reduction for the trouble.

"It's fine," you said, the decision made with practical ease. After all, it was hardly the most complicated situation you'd navigated in recent weeks. "We can manage."

Lewis studied you for a moment, clearly gauging the sincerity of your acceptance before returning to the call. "Thank you for checking. We'll make the current arrangement work." He paused, listening to further apologies. "Yes, that rate adjustment would be appropriate. Thank you."

He replaced the receiver with the same careful control he applied to all movements, turning to face you fully. "I apologize for the mixup. I was very specific about our requirements when making the arrangements."

"It's not a problem," you assured him, moving toward your luggage to unpack essentials. "We're adults, not teenagers at prom. I think we can handle sharing a bed for a few nights."

"I'll take the couch," Lewis said immediately, nodding toward the living area with its admittedly luxurious sofa. "You take the bedroom."

The offer was entirely expected—the gentlemanly solution to an awkward situation, precisely what etiquette demanded from a man of his position. But something about the automatic distancing struck you as unnecessary after the directness you'd established on the plane. If anything, the separate spaces in London now seemed like artifice maintained out of habit rather than necessity.

"Don't be ridiculous," you replied, moving to the bed and grabbing one of the many pillows from its elaborate arrangement. You placed it lengthwise down the center of the mattress, creating an improvised boundary. "There. Now we have space."

Lewis stared at your solution for several beats, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. "Interesting," he finally said, the single word carrying layers of potential meaning.

"Practical," you corrected, though you couldn't quite suppress the small smile that tugged at your lips. "And considerably more comfortable than that couch."

Something that might have been amusement flickered across his features—there, then gone, controlled as always but not completely extinguished. "Practicality does appear to be a shared value."

You grabbed necessities from your suitcase—silk pajamas, toiletries, the small handgun Lewis had given you earlier that day—and moved toward the bathroom. "I'm going to shower and change. It's been a long day."

Lewis nodded, already turning his attention to his own luggage. "Take your time. I have calls to make regarding tomorrow's meeting anyway."

The bathroom was a marble-clad sanctuary larger than some New York apartments, with a rainfall shower and a soaking tub positioned to capture views of the mountains through privacy glass. You turned the water as hot as you could stand it, letting steam fill the space as you stripped away clothes that carried the staleness of travel and the weight of the day's tensions.

As water sluiced over your skin, you found your thoughts drifting to the man in the next room and the strangeness of your evolving situation. Not just the marriage itself—though that remained surreal enough, but the unexpected developments within it. From strategic arrangement to potential partnership to whatever liminal state you now occupied, with shared beds and direct acknowledgment of possibilities.

The pillow barrier was childish, perhaps, a symbolic division that would do nothing to address the actual complexities between you. But symbols mattered in your world. They established boundaries and expectations, created frameworks within which negotiations could occur. The barrier wasn't about physical separation so much as psychological space—acknowledgment that whatever might eventually develop between you would happen by choice rather than circumstance.

You emerged from the bathroom wrapped in one of the hotel's robes, hair damp and curling around your shoulders, to find Lewis speaking quietly into his phone near the windows.

He ended the call as you approached, tucking the phone away with practiced ease. "Everything alright?" he asked, his eyes making a quick assessment that felt professional rather than invasive.

"Fine," you assured him, gesturing toward the bathroom. "All yours. There's enough hot water for a small army."

Lewis nodded, gathering his own necessities before disappearing into the steamy bathroom. The door closed with a decisive click, leaving you alone in the suite with thoughts that refused to settle into orderly patterns.

You changed quickly into silk pajamas after blow drying and wrapping your hair. The gun went under your pillow, old habits from the Ricci household transferring seamlessly to this new context. In your world, weapons during sleep were as essential as teeth brushing before bed—just another routine of self-preservation.

You'd just settled on your side of the pillowed barrier, checking emails on your phone, when Lewis emerged from the bathroom. Unlike your robe-wrapped transition, he was already dressed for sleep—dark pants that might have been either expensive loungewear or athletic gear, and a simple white t-shirt that did nothing to disguise the muscular definition beneath. More tattoos were visible now—the intricate linework extending down both arms in patterns too complex to decipher from a distance.

He paused briefly, taking in your position on the bed, before moving to his own suitcase to secure something inside, likely a weapon similar to the one beneath your pillow.

"Jensen reports no unusual activity around the hotel," he said, the security update offered as neutral conversational territory. "Additional personnel are stationed on the floor below and in the lobby. Naomi will join us for breakfast to review tomorrow's schedule."

Lewis settled on his side of the barrier, his movements economical as he arranged himself against the headboard, close enough for conversation but carefully observing the boundary you'd established. The king-sized bed was large enough that you weren't truly crowded, yet the awareness of his presence carried a charge that made the space feel more intimate.

"May I ask you something?" you said, curiosity overriding caution.

"Of course." His tone suggested openness, though his posture remained carefully controlled.

"The tattoos," you gestured toward his arms and what was visible of his chest beneath the white shirt. "They're more extensive than I realized. Do they have significance?"

Lewis glanced down at his forearms, as if briefly seeing them through your eyes rather than his own accustomed perspective. "Most have specific meaning, yes. Milestones, reminders, certain principles I choose to keep literally close."

"The compass?" you asked, recalling the design you'd glimpsed through the connecting door.

"Direction," he replied after a brief hesitation, one hand unconsciously moving to his chest where the tattoo lay beneath fabric. "A reminder to maintain course regardless of external pressures or distractions."

"And the rose?" The question pushed further into personal territory, acknowledgment that you'd seen more of him than perhaps he'd intended through that partially open door.

Something shifted in his expression—surprise giving way to understanding. "The connecting door," he said, neither accusatory nor embarrassed. "I didn't realize it had opened."

"Just a glimpse," you clarified, not wanting him to think you'd been deliberately watching. "While talking to my sisters."

Lewis nodded, accepting this without apparent concern. "The rose represents beauty with defense—thorns necessary for survival in hostile environments." His hand moved to his side where you'd seen the flower design wrapping around his ribs. "Beauty alone is vulnerability; defense alone is isolation. The combination creates sustainable strength."

The philosophy revealed more about Lewis Hamilton than perhaps he intended, values encoded permanently in skin, carrying meaning beyond mere decoration. Not the crude symbology of traditional mobsters with their misspelled Latin phrases and religious iconography.

"Do you have any?" he asked, turning the question back to you with genuine curiosity. "Tattoos?"

You shook your head. "My father considers them common—beneath a Ricci's dignity. My sisters and I were forbidden from getting any."

"And now?" Lewis raised an eyebrow. "Your father's prohibitions no longer apply to your choices."

The simple observation carried more weight than its surface suggestion about body art—acknowledgment of your shifting status from daughter under paternal authority to wife with autonomy within new parameters. The transition was still ongoing, boundaries still being established between old identity and new reality.

"I haven't given it much thought," you admitted. "There's been rather a lot happening lately."

That almost-smile appeared briefly. "Fair point."

Silence settled between you—not uncomfortable but charged with awareness of the unusual intimacy of your position. Two people legally married yet practically strangers, sharing a bed divided by pillows rather than walls, navigating territory neither had fully anticipated when signatures formalized your union.

"We should get some rest," Lewis said finally, reaching for the lamp on his bedside table. "Tomorrow's meeting with Mueller will require focus."

"Of course," you agreed, settling further beneath the covers on your side of the barrier.

Lewis turned off his light, the room plunging into near-darkness broken only by city glow through partially drawn curtains. You followed suit, switching off your own lamp and adjusting to new shadows in unfamiliar space.

For several minutes, silence reigned, broken only by the distant sounds of occasional traffic below and the subtle rhythm of two people breathing in careful awareness of each other's presence. Despite exhaustion from travel and the day's tensions, sleep remained elusive—too many unprocessed thoughts circling your mind.

"Lewis?" you said quietly, uncertain if he was still awake.

"Yes?" His response came immediately, suggesting he'd been equally unable to find sleep.

"Thank you for being direct on the plane. About everything."

The darkness concealed his expression, but his voice carried a warmth rarely present in daylight conversations. "Directness seems to work well between us. Better than alternatives."

"It does," you agreed, finding unexpected comfort in this simple shared understanding.

Another silence, this one softer somehow, settled between you. Just as sleep began to pull at the edges of your consciousness, Lewis spoke again, his voice low in the darkness.

"For what it's worth, I respect the barrier. Both what it represents and what it potentially allows."

The statement carried layers of meaning—acknowledgment of boundaries established and possibilities left open, respect for choice without presumption of outcome. It was perhaps the most perfectly calibrated communication yet from a man who specialized in precise calculation.

"I know," you replied simply, the words carrying more certainty than you'd anticipated. Whatever else remained uncertain between you, Lewis's respect for your autonomy had been consistently demonstrated through actions rather than merely words.

Sleep claimed you shortly after, the strange intimacy of shared space somehow less disruptive than expected. Your last conscious thought was recognition that danger and desire continued their parallel trajectories in your new life—both requiring careful navigation, both carrying potential for either destruction or something unexpectedly valuable.

Tomorrow would bring Mueller and banking arrangements and the continued strategic dance of your unconventional marriage. But tonight, for the first time since arriving in London as Lewis's wife, you slept without Roscoe's watchful presence or security personnel patrolling outside your door—just the measured breathing of the dangerous, controlled man beside you, separated by pillows but increasingly connected by something neither of you had fully anticipated when signatures sealed your arrangement.

*************************************************

Consciousness returned in layers, warm and hazy around the edges as morning light pressed against your closed eyelids. Something felt different—the weight of covers, the texture beneath your cheek, the subtle rhythm against your ear that wasn't quite the sound of your own heartbeat.

You opened your eyes to find yourself not on your designated side of the bed, the carefully arranged pillow barrier long abandoned during the night. Instead, you were curled against Lewis's side, head resting on his chest, one arm draped across his torso in unconscious intimacy that sent a jolt of surprise through you.

You jerked upright, disoriented by the unexpected closeness, only to hear Lewis's voice—deeper, slightly rough with sleep, yet still carrying that fundamental control that never quite left him.

"Don't worry about it," he murmured, making no move to shift away despite your sudden movement.

Your eyes found his, one arm casually positioned behind his head as he regarded you with surprising nonchalance given the circumstances. No sign of discomfort or awkwardness, just calm acceptance of waking to find his strategic wife cuddled against him like a lover.

"I'm sorry—" you began, embarrassment heating your cheeks.

"Don't," he interrupted gently. "It's fine. You talk in your sleep sometimes... did you know that?"

Embarrassment deepened, your mind racing through potential revelations you might have unknowingly shared while unconscious. Growing up in a household where information was currency and vulnerability was weakness had made you pathologically private, even in sleep.

Lewis's expression softened, a hint of amusement warming his usually reserved features. "It wasn't anything serious. You didn't reveal anything vital to destroy an empire, if you're worried about that."

You couldn't help but return his half-smile, surprised by the light-hearted reference to your shared world of secrets and power. "Good to know my subconscious isn't committing treason."

A low chuckle rumbled through his chest, the sound still touched with sleep. "Sounded like you had a nightmare... so I pulled you closer to me."

You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion, the statement so at odds with the controlled, calculated man you'd come to know. Lewis, deliberately drawing someone closer during vulnerability rather than maintaining careful distance? The revelation felt more intimate than the physical closeness itself—a glimpse behind carefully constructed walls that few were likely permitted.

"Come 'ere," he said, the words carrying the unmistakable weight of command despite their quiet delivery, brooking no argument or hesitation.

You found yourself complying without conscious decision, moving closer until you were near but not quite touching as you had been moments before.

"More," Lewis prompted, a teasing lilt warming his voice that you'd never heard before—playfulness from the man who approached even casual conversation with strategic precision.

Drawn by something that felt like gravity, you shifted until your head rested in the crook of his arm, the position deliberate rather than accidental this time. His arm wrapped around you with surprising naturalness, hand settling against your upper arm with gentle pressure as his other arm completed the embrace.

You inhaled deeply, his scent filling your senses—that expensive cologne now mingled with the warmth of sleep, creating something more intimate than the carefully curated presentation he maintained in public. The combination was unexpectedly appealing, triggering responses you hadn't anticipated when placing that now-forgotten pillow barrier between you.

Lewis sighed, the sound carrying contentment rather than resignation. "I enjoy cuddling," he revealed, the simple admission somehow more surprising than if he'd confessed to complex criminal operations.

The idea of Lewis Hamilton—the dangerous, controlled crime lord who ordered executions between wine selections—being someone who "enjoyed cuddling" created cognitive dissonance so profound it almost made you laugh. Yet here was evidence in the form of strong arms holding you with gentle but definite intention, his body relaxed against yours in a way that suggested genuine comfort rather than strategic performance.

"Your skin is so soft," he murmured, his voice dropping to a lower timbre that sent an involuntary shiver through you. His hands skimmed delicately over your arms, the touch light but deliberate, somewhere between affection and assessment.

The observation immediately transported you back to your conversation on the plane. His tone carried the same quality now, appreciative without demanding, noting without claiming.

"Thank you," you replied, the response automatic though hardly adequate for the complex moment unfolding between you.

"You're welcome," Lewis said simply, seemingly content with both your response and the continued physical contact that neither of you appeared inclined to end.

Silence settled comfortably around you, allowing space to absorb the strangeness of this new intimacy—strategic partners becoming something less defined yet more connected, the carefully maintained distance of previous days giving way to whatever this tentative embrace represented.

You listened to birds calling outside the windows, watched as early sunlight strengthened across the room. Lewis's heartbeat maintained its steady rhythm beneath your ear, his breathing even and calm as if this level of physical closeness were commonplace between you rather than unprecedented.

"I've been attracted to you since our first meeting," Lewis said finally, his voice quiet but clear in the morning stillness. "Not just for strategic advantage or family connection, though those factors were certainly relevant to the arrangement."

The revelation caught you by surprise, though in retrospect, it shouldn't have. Lewis approached most matters with calculated precision—once a decision was made to address a topic, he did so without unnecessary pretense.

"Your father showed me the notes," he continued, his hand still moving in gentle patterns against your arm. "The ones Suarez sent with his flowers. The presumption, the crude possessiveness disguised as courtship. It was... illuminating."

You stiffened slightly at the mention, unaware that Lewis had seen the messages the Cuban had sent—increasingly threatening "romantic" overtures your father had apparently shared during negotiations without your knowledge.

"I didn't realize," you said, uncertain how to feel about this exchange of information about you without your participation.

"Your father wanted me to understand what I was potentially standing against," Lewis explained, sensing your discomfort. "Though I suspect his intent was more to gauge my reaction than out of concern for your feelings about Suarez's attention."

The assessment aligned with your understanding of your father's methods—using information as both test and manipulation, revealing vulnerabilities to assess responses rather than from genuine concern.

"What was your reaction?" you asked, curious despite yourself about how Lewis had responded to seeing another man's presumptuous advances.

His arms tightened fractionally around you, the only indication that the memory triggered something less controlled than his usual presentation. "Professional outwardly. Your father needed to see reasoned strategic assessment, not emotional response."

"And inwardly?" you pressed, somehow knowing there had been more beneath the surface.

Lewis was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing small circles against your shoulder as he considered his answer. "Inwardly, I found myself... unexpectedly territorial about someone I hadn't yet met. It wasn't strategic. It was visceral."

The admission carried weight beyond its simple words—Lewis acknowledging emotional response that transcended calculated advantage, revealing layers beneath controlled exterior that few likely witnessed.

"Seeing you bandage my hand that night after the intruder," he continued, his voice taking on a quality you hadn't heard before, "watching you think through strategic countermeasures when most would have been focused solely on the danger... it did something to me."

His hand moved from your arm to your shoulder, then traced a path down your back with deliberate slowness, the touch firm enough to be intentional but gentle enough to allow withdrawal if unwanted. "Your intelligence, your composure under pressure, the way you see through performances to underlying motivations—those qualities are intriguing beyond any physical attraction, though that certainly exists as well."

His hand continued its careful exploration of your back, not straying beyond appropriate boundaries but making its awareness of your body unmistakably clear.

"I'm not going to push," Lewis said, his voice carrying absolute certainty. "That isn't how this works between us. But I find myself... anticipating possibilities. Savoring moments like this in the interim."

His hand stilled against your lower back, pressure firm but not restrictive. "Imagining what it might be like to hear you, to feel you... to watch you come apart before pulling you back together." The statement was delivered with the same measured control as business assessments, yet carried heat beneath its precision. "But patience has always been among my stronger qualities."

As if to emphasize this point, his hand lifted from where it had been creating distracting patterns against your body, the withdrawal of contact almost as potent as its application had been.

You glanced up, needing to see his expression, to read whatever might be visible in features that typically revealed only what he deliberately allowed. You found his eyes already watching you, intense focus softened by something that might have been genuine affection. His lower lip was caught briefly between his teeth—a rare display of even minor loss of control that drew your attention with unexpected force.

"Yes, babygirl?" he asked, the unexpected nickname sending a jolt of something electric through your nervous system.

The term of endearment—possessive yet affectionate, dominant yet caring—highlighted how rapidly territory was shifting between you. From Mrs. Hamilton to given name to this new designation in the span of weeks, each step changing the landscape of your arrangement in ways neither of you had fully anticipated.

Your eyes dropped briefly to his lip, still caught between teeth in uncharacteristic display of actual human impulse, before returning to meet his gaze directly. "You said you liked control," you reminded him, referencing the conversation in your father's garden where he'd first alluded to preferences that transcended business interactions.

"I do," Lewis confirmed, something darkening in his expression that wasn't quite dangerousness but carried similar intensity. "In certain contexts, control is... essential to my satisfaction."

The deliberate phrasing didn't disguise the fundamental meaning—Lewis preferred dominance in sexual encounters, requiring surrender from partners in ways that aligned with his carefully controlled approach to all other aspects of his existence.

"It's not about degradation or inequality," he clarified, reading potential concern in your expression. "It's about trust. About someone choosing to surrender control rather than having it taken. About creating space where submission becomes strength rather than weakness."

The philosophy revealed more than perhaps he intended—values that extended beyond bedroom preferences into fundamental worldview, approach to power that differed from men like your father who equated dominance with negation of others' agency.

"I would never do anything you wouldn't like," Lewis continued, his tone carrying absolute certainty. "That's not the point of control. It's about maximizing pleasure through structure and boundaries, not imposing unwanted experience."

The detailed explanation was both reassuring and intriguing, the implications of what such dynamic might entail in practice rather than theory.

"How would I know if I like it?" you asked, the question emerging from genuine curiosity rather than challenge or evasion.

Instead of answering directly, Lewis's expression shifted into something that could only be described as smugly confident—a smile that contained certainty born of experience rather than mere theory. The expression was so unlike his usual controlled presentation that it caught you off-guard, revealing yet another facet of the increasingly complex man whose ring you wore.

Before he could respond verbally, a sharp electronic tone cut through the moment—his phone signaling priority communication that couldn't be ignored regardless of personal preference. The sound broke the intimate bubble that had formed around you, reality reasserting itself with typical inconvenient timing.

Lewis sighed—a rare display of actual frustration—before reaching for the device on his nightstand. "Hamilton," he answered, professional mask sliding seamlessly back into place despite the lingering effects of your conversation.

You shifted away, using the interruption as opportunity to collect thoughts scattered by the unexpected intimacy. Whatever had been developing between you would need to wait—business calling as it always did in your world, possibilities deferred but not forgotten as you both returned to the roles that had brought you together initially.

Strategic partners first and foremost, regardless of what else might be evolving beneath that fundamental arrangement.

Lewis's expression hardened as he listened to whoever was on the other end of the call, the intimate warmth from moments ago replaced by the calculated focus of a man handling business complications. "Send me the details. I want the complete file before the meeting," he instructed, rising from the bed in a single fluid movement. "And double the surveillance on Mueller's associates. If he's meeting with Castellano's people, I want to know why."

You slipped from the bed as well, giving him privacy for the call while gathering clothes for the day. The transition felt abrupt but familiar—moments of personal connection inevitably interrupted by business demands, the constant rhythm of life in your world. That fundamental reality hadn't changed with marriage, just the specific players and territories involved.

"Bloody hell." Lewis ended the call with terse efficiency, setting the phone down with controlled precision that didn't quite mask the tension radiating from him. He turned to find you watching him, his expression softening fractionally when your eyes met.

"Problem?" you asked, practical rather than disappointed about the interrupted moment.

"Potential complication," he clarified. "Mueller's been meeting with representatives from a rival banking group with connections to certain Italian interests in Milan."

The careful phrasing didn't disguise the actual concern—potential compromise of your banking arrangements through competing criminal organizations. The Swiss financial world operated within careful parameters, maintaining neutrality while still facilitating transactions other institutions wouldn't touch. Loyalty wasn't guaranteed to the highest bidder, but alliances shifted based on calculated advantage.

"Castellano?" you asked, the name triggering recognition. "As in Giovanni Castellano?"

Lewis raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by your familiarity with what should have been an obscure connection. "You know the family?"

"My father considered an alliance with them three years ago," you explained, memories surfacing of overheard conversations and files you weren't supposed to access. "The negotiation broke down over territorial disputes in Newark."

Lewis's expression shifted from surprise to something closer to genuine appreciation. "That information wasn't in your father's briefing materials about your family connections."

"It wouldn't be," you acknowledged. "The discussion never reached formal negotiation stage. But I remember my father mentioning their Swiss banking arrangements were particularly sophisticated, especially regarding digital assets."

Lewis studied you with renewed intensity, that focused assessment that made you feel simultaneously examined and valued. "The Castellanos have been strengthening their European operations, particularly in fintech. If they're meeting with Mueller before our appointment—"

"They could be positioning to block our access," you finished, mind already analyzing potential countermeasures. "Or at minimum, raising Mueller's expectations regarding compensation for his services."

Lewis nodded, something like genuine partnership passing between you—shared understanding of the complex chess game your world operated within, mutual recognition of threats and opportunities without need for simplified explanation.

"I need to make some calls," he said, reaching for his phone again. "The meeting's been moved up to eleven rather than afternoon—Mueller's office 'apologizes for any inconvenience' but claims scheduling conflicts."

"Convenient timing," you observed dryly. "Almost as if someone wanted to limit our preparation."

"Exactly." Lewis was already scrolling through contacts. "This changes our approach. Instead of separate meetings, I want you with me for the Mueller discussion."

The statement caught you by surprise—not because of inclusion itself, which aligned with your emerging role in his operations, but because of its implications for strategy. "You want to present unified front rather than using me as unexpected asset later?"

Lewis paused, giving you his full attention despite pressing concerns. "I want Mueller to understand exactly what he's dealing with—not just another criminal with money to hide, but a partnership with complementary capabilities. Your understanding of the Castellano connections creates leverage we didn't know we had."

The assessment was both practical and oddly gratifying—recognition of value beyond decorative accessory or symbolic alliance. "What's our angle, then? Good cop, bad cop? Sophisticated couple? Business partners?"

Lewis considered this, his expression thoughtful despite the time pressure. "Executive team, I think. Professional, knowledgeable, with clear division of expertise but unified direction." His eyes held yours with unwavering focus. "No pretense of traditional marriage roles—Mueller needs to see you as equal strategic partner, not wife along for decorative purposes."

The approach differed markedly from how your father would have positioned you in similar circumstances—as silent ornament whose occasional intelligent comment would surprise by contrast with assumed decorative function. Lewis was suggesting something fundamentally different.

"I'll need information on what we know about Mueller's digital banking operations," you said, mind already shifting to practical preparation. "And the specific services we're seeking from his institution."

Lewis nodded, reaching for his laptop. "I'll have Claire send the complete file immediately. We have just over two hours before we need to leave for the meeting."

The next ninety minutes passed in focused preparation—files reviewed, strategies discussed, contingency plans established for various potential complications. The intimate moment from earlier remained unacknowledged but not forgotten, its implications temporarily set aside rather than dismissed as you both channeled energy into the immediate challenge.

You emerged from the bathroom dressed for battle in your own way—charcoal pencil skirt and burgundy silk blouse that managed to be simultaneously professional and striking, heels adding height without sacrificing mobility should circumstances require quick exit. Not dramatically different from your usual business attire, but selected with particular attention to the impression it would create on Swiss bankers with traditional expectations constantly at war with reality of their clientele.

Lewis looked up from his laptop as you entered, his eyes making a quick but thorough assessment. "Perfect," he said simply, the single word carrying more weight than elaborate compliment.

He had transformed as well—the relaxed, cuddling man from earlier morning completely replaced by the dangerous, controlled crime lord his reputation described. His suit was flawlessly tailored black with subtle gray pinstripe, white shirt providing stark contrast to the deep blue tie secured with mathematical precision. The tattoos were once again hidden beneath formal armor, the only hint of their existence the edges visible at his wrists when his cuffs shifted and the markings on his hands.

"Mueller has particular views about appropriate business attire," Lewis explained, making a final adjustment to his tie. "Traditional to the point of anachronism. It's one battle not worth fighting if we want his cooperation."

You nodded, understanding the strategic concession. In your world, adapting to certain expectations created space to challenge others more central to your objectives. Conformity in surface matters often facilitated deviation in more substantial ones.

"The car will be ready in twenty minutes," Lewis continued, closing his laptop with decisive click. "Naomi and Jensen are already downstairs coordinating security for the route."

"What about the gun?" you asked, pointing to the Glock still sitting on the nightstand. "I'm guessing Swiss bankers aren't big fans of armed clients, no matter how nicely we dress."

Lewis's mouth quirked up slightly. "Jensen took care of it. Apparently 'clients of Mueller's particular specialization' get diplomatic courtesy for their security measures."

You couldn't help but smile at the delicate phrasing—"clients of particular specialization" instead of just saying "criminals with enough money." The Swiss had turned discretion into an art form long before modern organized crime even existed.

Lewis moved closer, near enough that you caught his cologne but not so close it felt like he was crowding you. "There's something else you should know before we meet Mueller," he said, his tone more serious now.

"What is it?" you asked, immediately on alert.

"Mueller's got this thing about marriages in our world," Lewis explained. "He sees them as proof of stability and succession planning. His best deals go to clients whose family setup looks like it'll last."

That made immediate sense. "So our honeymoon cover actually serves a real business purpose."

Lewis nodded. "Exactly. Mueller likes dynasty-building—banking relationships that'll continue through generations instead of ending when one person dies or goes to prison."

"So he'll be sizing up our marriage as much as our business," you translated. "Looking for signs we're actually partners and not just a convenient alliance."

"Yes," Lewis confirmed. "Which means we need to... perform a bit differently than your standard business meeting."

The meaning was clear—to convince Mueller, we'd need to show a connection beyond just strategic arrangement, suggesting something with a future. Not fake romance exactly, but definitely showing a united front beyond just business.

"So we need to act like a real couple, not just business partners," you clarified. "What, should I call you 'darling' while we talk about blockchain?"

That drew another brief smile from him. "Nothing that over-the-top. Just... being comfortable around each other. Familiar with each other's movements. The little tells of people who actually share a life, not just a business card."

The irony wasn't lost on you, given how this morning you'd woken up cuddled against him after crossing the pillow barrier in your sleep.

"I think we can handle that," you said, feeling oddly confident about this particular act. The pillow barrier had been abandoned in more ways than one, making space for whatever was developing between you.

Lewis studied you a moment longer, as if checking that you were really okay with this. "Good. But if anything crosses a line you're not comfortable with, just say 'Geneva protocol' and I'll back off immediately."

That consideration—setting up a safety word for something as simple as physical closeness—told you volumes about Lewis's approach to your partnership. Consent mattered to him in ways that stood out among powerful men, creating a foundation of respect regardless of strategic needs.

"I appreciate that," you said sincerely. "But I don't think it'll be necessary."

Lewis nodded, accepting your word without pushing. "We should head downstairs. Naomi will want to brief us on security before we leave."

As you gathered your things, you caught Lewis watching you with an expression that wasn't entirely professional. The look disappeared quickly as his usual control took over, but that brief glimpse confirmed what your morning conversation had established—Lewis was interested in you beyond just strategic advantage, creating possibilities neither of you had expected when you signed those marriage papers.

Those possibilities would have to wait, though. Mueller and his banking empire came first—another move in the complex game that defined your shared existence, another piece on the international chessboard of power and influence.

You followed Lewis toward the door, mentally reviewing key points from the files while thinking about how to show the right level of marital connection that Mueller would expect. The double performance felt strangely fitting—operating on multiple levels at once had always been a survival skill in your world.

At least with Lewis, you weren't carrying the strategic burden alone. For the first time in your experience with powerful men, you had a partner who saw your mind as an asset rather than an inconvenience, who treated you as an equal player instead of just decoration.

Whatever else might develop between you—whatever that heated look and your morning conversation might lead to—that fundamental respect created a foundation unlike anything you'd experienced in your father's world of traditional power structures.

The thought brought an unexpected warmth as you stepped into the elevator beside Lewis, his hand resting briefly at the small of your back in a gesture that could have been just for show but somehow felt more genuine than calculation alone would explain.

****************************************************

Banque Privée Genève occupied a discreet limestone building that managed to project both historical gravitas and understated wealth without resorting to the ostentatious displays that characterized newer financial institutions. No gleaming steel and glass here, no modern architectural statements—just three centuries of accumulated power disguised as conservative respectability.

The car dropped you at a side entrance where private clients could avoid the public lobby, a concierge in impeccable formal attire greeting you by name without consulting any visible record. Such flawless execution spoke to thorough preparation—Mueller's operation had been studying you both well before your arrival.

"Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton," the man said with perfect Swiss precision—not too warm, not too distant. "Herr Mueller is expecting you. If you would follow me, please."

The corridors you traversed could have belonged to an exclusive museum rather than financial institution—antique furnishings that were clearly original rather than reproduction, oil paintings by masters whose works rarely appeared at public auction, display cases housing historical documents that traced the bank's lineage through European wars and financial crises it had weathered with characteristic neutrality.

Lewis walked beside you, close enough that your shoulders occasionally brushed—establishing the comfortable physical proximity your strategy required without overplaying the connection. His hand rested briefly at the small of your back as you entered an elevator requiring key card access, the touch feeling less calculated than previous similar gestures. Whatever was developing between you had begun bleeding through the performance, creating something that felt increasingly genuine despite its strategic foundations.

Mueller's office occupied the building's top floor, a space that managed to be both grand and understated—old money that had no need to announce its presence with flashy displays. The man himself embodied similar contradiction—mid-sixties with silver hair and patrician features, his suit so perfectly tailored it appeared molded to his frame.

"Mr. Hamilton," Mueller greeted, extending his hand with precisely calibrated pressure in the handshake. "A pleasure to finally meet in person after our extensive correspondence."

"The pleasure's mine," Lewis replied smoothly. "Thanks for accommodating our schedule change."

Mueller turned his attention to you, his assessment quick but comprehensive—taking in every detail from your carefully selected attire to the wedding band on your finger. "And Mrs. Hamilton. A delightful addition to our meeting. I was unaware you would be joining us today."

"My wife has a unique perspective on digital currency integration that's particularly relevant," Lewis explained, the word 'wife' somehow sounding natural in his British accent. "Her financial tech background has given our operations an edge I've come to rely on."

Mueller's eyebrows rose slightly, clearly reassessing initial assumptions about your presence. "How fascinating. The younger generation's embrace of technology provides critical advantage in evolving markets. Please, both of you, be seated."

The chairs positioned before Mueller's massive oak desk were deliberately placed, close enough to suggest unity between occupants while maintaining clear sightlines for all participants. You took your seat with practiced grace, crossing your legs at the ankle in the conservative posture your mother had drilled into you for such situations.

"I understand congratulations are in order," Mueller continued, gesturing toward your wedding rings. "A recent union, yes? You're in Geneva for your honeymoon, I'm told."

"Thank you," Lewis replied, his tone warming slightly. "Yes, we're combining business with pleasure while in Switzerland. Geneva has special significance for both our families."

The careful phrasing established both personal connection to the location and hint of generational ties, exactly the type of dynastic implication Mueller reportedly valued in clients. Your briefing materials had emphasized the banker's preference for family operations over individual entrepreneurs, his belief in bloodlines and succession as indicators of reliable long-term partnerships.

"The most successful unions in our world balance both practical alliance and personal compatibility," Mueller observed, his gaze moving between you with evaluative precision. "Particularly across traditional territorial boundaries. Quite progressive, bringing American and British operations together through marriage."

"The old geographical divisions don't really matter in digital markets anymore," you replied, joining the conversation naturally. "Strategic positioning across financial systems matters more than physical location now."

Mueller's attention sharpened at your contribution, his assessment visibly adjusting. "Indeed. A perspective many of my more traditional clients struggle to embrace." He leaned forward slightly. "Your father's operation maintains more conventional territorial focus, if I recall correctly."

The direct reference to your family connection confirmed what you'd suspected, Mueller had thoroughly researched both your backgrounds, understanding exactly what alliance your marriage represented. No point in pretense with someone so well-informed.

"My father's good at what he does within established boundaries," you acknowledged diplomatically. "Lewis and I see opportunities in pushing beyond them."

Lewis's hand moved to rest lightly on your forearm—a subtle gesture of approval that felt warmer than mere performance would justify. "Her insights on regulatory adaptations have already given us an edge in our European expansion. Especially with integrating blockchain and traditional banking systems."

The discussion shifted into technical territory—Mueller probing your combined knowledge of financial systems, testing both expertise and unity of vision through increasingly pointed questions. You and Lewis responded with natural coordination, each covering areas of strength while supporting the other's perspectives.

The banker's skepticism gradually transformed into genuine interest as the conversation progressed, particularly when you outlined how digital currency conversion could address traditional banking vulnerabilities.

"Your approach is more sophisticated than I anticipated," Mueller acknowledged, making notes in an actual leather-bound ledger rather than electronic device—old-school methods for old-school power. "Most clients in your... particular industry... focus exclusively on concealment rather than legitimate integration opportunities."

"Hiding money only works for so long in today's world," Lewis responded. "We're more interested in building systems that work across different regulatory environments, not just hiding assets."

"A longer-term perspective," Mueller noted with approval. "Generational thinking rather than quarterly objectives."

"Exactly," you confirmed, seeing the perfect opening to appeal to Mueller's known preferences. "We're building foundations that will last well beyond our lives."

Mueller's eyes moved meaningfully between you, the implication clear without being stated directly—foundations that included potential heirs, succession planning, dynasty-building that appealed to his traditional values despite your modern methodologies.

"I believe we can establish arrangements that would serve your particular requirements," he said finally, closing his ledger with deliberate precision. "Though certain additional verifications will be necessary before accounts can be fully activated."

"Of course," Lewis agreed easily. "We expected thorough due diligence. My team has prepared all the documentation you'll need."

Mueller nodded, apparently satisfied with both your professional presentation and the subtle but consistent indicators of genuine partnership. "Excellent. My assistant will coordinate the next steps with your team. I anticipate we can have preliminary accounts established within forty-eight hours, with full functionality following verification protocols."

The timeline was significantly accelerated from typical banking procedures—clear indicator that your combined approach had successfully convinced Mueller of your value as clients. Lewis's hand found yours briefly, a gentle squeeze communicating shared victory without need for words.

"We appreciate your efficiency," Lewis said, rising as Mueller did to indicate the meeting's conclusion. "And your flexibility regarding our accelerated timeline."

"Honeymooners should focus on pleasure rather than extended business negotiations," Mueller replied with surprising hint of warmth. "Geneva offers much to appreciate beyond banking facilities."

You stood as well, smoothing your skirt with practiced grace. "We're looking forward to exploring the city more once the business matters are settled."

Mueller extended his hand to you, the gesture conferring equal professional respect rather than merely ceremonial acknowledgment. "A pleasure, Mrs. Hamilton. Your contributions to today's discussion were most illuminating."

"Thank you," you replied, accepting the handshake with precisely the right balance of firmness and feminine grace your mother had taught you for dealing with the traditional European businessmen. "We look forward to a productive relationship with your institution."

The practiced phrases carried weight beyond their surface courtesy—establishing expectations for ongoing connection rather than merely transactional interaction. Mueller's approving nod suggested the message had been received exactly as intended.

Lewis's hand returned to the small of your back as you prepared to leave. Something was shifting between you with each such contact—boundaries slowly dissolving.

"One moment," Mueller said as you reached the door, his tone suddenly more cautious. "I should mention that an associate of yours is currently in the building. Giovanni Castellano arrived for his appointment earlier than scheduled. I believe you may know each other?"

The name hit you like an unexpected punch despite your earlier discussion of potential Castellano connections. Giovanni's presence immediately following your meeting couldn't be coincidence—the timing was too perfect to be anything but a deliberate power play.

Lewis's expression remained controlled despite the obvious provocation, only the slightest tightening around his eyes betraying his recognition of the competitive challenge. "We know each other," he acknowledged neutrally. "Though it's been a while since we've crossed paths directly."

Mueller's careful neutrality couldn't quite disguise his awareness of the underlying tension. Swiss banking thrived on maintaining relationships with competing interests, providing services to rivals without becoming entangled in their conflicts. "I mention it only as professional courtesy," he explained. "To avoid any... awkward encounters in the lobby."

"Appreciated," Lewis replied smoothly. "Though I don't have any problem greeting a colleague if needed."

The diplomatic phrasing barely disguised the underlying reality—neither man could afford to appear intimidated by potential confrontation, not with Mueller observing their respective responses. Backing down or avoiding contact would signal weakness neither could strategically afford.

"Your wife is welcome to make her own assessment," Mueller said, turning to you with a carefully neutral expression. "Given certain historical connections, I understand."

The reference to your father's previous negotiations with the Castellanos further confirmed your earlier suspicion—Mueller knew exactly who you were and what complex alliances your marriage represented. His seemingly casual mention of Giovanni's presence was actually calculated test of both your individual reactions and your unity as a couple.

"Family connections often go beyond business complications," you replied with the diplomatic smile your mother had perfected through decades of navigating your father's complex allegiances. "I'd be happy to say hello to Signore Castellano if we run into each other."

The response struck a perfect balance—acknowledging the relationship without overstating its significance, maintaining professional courtesy without suggesting actual alliance.

As if on cue, a knock at the office door preceded the entrance of Mueller's assistant. "Herr Mueller, Signore Castellano has arrived for his appointment," he announced.

"Thank you, Klaus," Mueller replied. "Please show him in. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton were just leaving."

The timing couldn't have been more perfectly orchestrated if planned in advance—which, you suspected, it very well might have been. Mueller's seemingly coincidental scheduling created an opportunity to observe direct interaction between competing interests.

The door opened fully to reveal Giovanni Castellano in all his traditional Italian glory—Brioni suit in charcoal gray, Ferragamo shoes polished to mirror shine, gold Rolex peeking from beneath French cuffs secured with diamond links. At sixty-five, he remained handsome in that distinctly Mediterranean way that aged like fine wine—silver threading through still-thick black hair, lines around his eyes speaking of laughter rather than hardship, the overall impression one of vitality rather than diminishment.

His eyes widened slightly at the sight of you—genuine surprise not quite masked by practiced social grace. Then a smile spread across his features, transforming serious business demeanor into something warmer and distinctly more Italian in its expressiveness.

"Madonna mia," Giovanni exclaimed, spreading his arms in theatrical gesture of delighted surprise. "Piccolo fiore! Is it really you?"

The childhood nickname—bestowed during a summer gathering at your father's Hampton estate when you were barely ten—carried uncomfortable weight given your current position as another man's wife. Lewis remained perfectly still beside you, his physical presence somehow intensifying without any visible movement.

"Uncle Gio," you replied, using the familial designation despite lack of actual blood relation—the traditional form of respect in your world for older family associates. "What a surprise to see you in Geneva."

Giovanni moved further into the room, his attention focused entirely on you as if Lewis and Mueller had temporarily ceased to exist. "Look how you've grown, piccolo fiore. A woman now, and such a beautiful one." His eyes moved deliberately to your wedding ring, expression shifting toward something less warm. "Though I must say, I was disappointed to learn of your marriage. Especially to..." his gaze finally acknowledged Lewis's presence, "...someone outside our traditional circles."

The implied criticism—Lewis lacking proper Italian heritage—carried deliberate provocation beneath its surface courtesy. Giovanni had always been among the most traditional family leaders, placing enormous value on bloodlines and ethnic connections despite his organization's international operations.

"Lewis and I just click," you replied simply, stepping closer to your husband in a subtle but visible show of unity. "Some traditions are worth moving beyond."

Giovanni's expression registered both surprise and something closer to grudging respect at your direct response—clearly having expected the silent deference traditional wives displayed in your world. Lewis's hand settled at your waist in quiet show of support, the touch feeling protective without being possessive.

"Stefano was quite upset to hear the news," Giovanni continued, referencing his eldest son with deliberate emphasis. "He always had special fondness for you, piccolo fiore. Such a shame timing didn't align differently."

The implication was clear—your father's failed negotiations with the Castellanos might have resulted in very different marriage arrangement had circumstances developed differently. Stefano Castellano's "special fondness" had always left sour taste in your mouth—his attention during family gatherings carrying entitled presumption that had made your skin crawl even as a teenager.

"Please give Stefano my regards," you replied carefully, avoiding the implied romantic connection. "It's been a few years since we saw each other at my father's Christmas party."

"Too many years between our families," Giovanni agreed, his attention finally shifting more directly to Lewis. "Business complications create unnecessary divisions where alliances would be more productive. Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Hamilton?"

Lewis's expression remained controlled, his response measured. "Partnerships work when they're built on shared values. The right foundation matters for anything that's going to last."

The professional phrasing couldn't quite disguise the underlying message—some divisions existed for substantive reasons beyond mere territorial competition. Giovanni's smile tightened slightly, recognition flashing beneath practiced cordiality.

"Of course, of course," the Italian agreed with theatrical wave of his hand. "Values, traditions, foundations of family operations. Speaking of which," his attention returned to you, "we've been watching your family's recent developments with great interest. Particularly the expansion into new territories through... unconventional alignments."

The indirect threat was thinly veiled—surveillance of your family's operations wrapped in seemingly casual observation. Lewis remained outwardly relaxed beside you, though you could sense the heightened alertness.

"How nice of you to keep such close tabs on us," you replied, deliberately emphasizing the word 'close' to acknowledge awareness of the surveillance without showing concern. "Of course, Uncle Gio. Our families have always kept an eye on each other's activities."

Giovanni's eyes narrowed slightly at the subtle countermove—your acknowledgment transforming his implied threat into mutual observation rather than one-sided vulnerability.

"Indeed," he agreed after brief pause. "Family connections transcend temporary business complications. Speaking of family," his tone shifted toward seemingly casual inquiry, "how is your lovely sister Gabriella? She must be, what, twenty now?"

The question carried weight beyond surface curiosity—Giovanni's well-known preference for strengthening alliances through marriage making his interest in your unmarried sister's status unmistakably strategic rather than merely conversational.

"Nineteen," you corrected. "And doing great. She's actually mentioned wanting to spend some time in Milan. I think she's been texting with Marco fairly regularly."

The reference to Giovanni's younger son—dropped casually as if it wasn't calculated—landed exactly as intended. Giovanni's expression shifted toward genuine interest, business maneuvering temporarily superseded by parental curiosity.

"Marco? My Marco has been speaking with Gabriella?" The surprise seemed genuine rather than performative. "He didn't mention this development."

"Young people and their private communications," you replied with a conspiratorial smile.

The implication was masterfully structured—suggesting potential romantic interest between Giovanni's son and your sister without making claims that could be directly verified. The "connection" was technically true—Gabriella and Marco had exchanged a few text messages following a charity event both had attended—but substantially exaggerated in its significance.

Giovanni processed this information with visible calculation, his strategic mind already incorporating potential new alliance pathway into existing plans. Despite past differences with your father, the Castellano patriarch had always been among those who placed highest value on uniting powerful families through marriage especially those with strong Italian bloodlines on at least one side.

"How interesting," he said finally, his tone warming considerably. "Young people finding their own paths while still honoring traditional connections. Perhaps we should arrange a family gathering when you return from your... honeymoon." The slight pause before the last word carried clear acknowledgment that your current marriage represented obstacle to a potential Castellano alliance with your sister.

"That would be lovely," you replied with practiced social grace that committed to nothing concrete. "Once our current business matters are settled and we've returned to London, of course."

Lewis chose this moment to re-enter the conversation, his tone balancing professional courtesy with subtle assertion of position. "We shouldn't keep Signore Castellano from his appointment with Herr Mueller any longer. Banking matters wait for no one, as we've just discovered ourselves."

The gentle redirection was masterfully executed—acknowledging Giovanni's status while establishing clear conclusion to the unexpected encounter. Mueller, who had been observing the entire exchange with careful neutrality characteristic of Swiss bankers witnessing potential conflicts between valued clients, nodded in agreement.

"Indeed, schedules remain tight today," the banker confirmed. "Though this unexpected reunion has been most... illuminating."

The final word carried knowing weight, Mueller clearly cataloging the complex dynamics he'd just witnessed for future reference regarding all parties involved. In the Swiss banking world, such intelligence often proved as valuable as financial assets themselves.

"Of course, of course," Giovanni agreed, though his attention remained primarily on you rather than the men. "We mustn't delay important financial matters. But piccolo fiore," he stepped closer, taking your hand with old-world formality, "it truly warms my heart to see you again. You've grown into a magnificent woman, just as your mother once predicted."

The reference to your mother—subtle reminder of Giovanni's longstanding connections to your family that predated current business complications—created another layer of complexity.

"Thank you, Uncle Gio," you replied, accepting the hand clasp with appropriate respect for his age and status despite your marriage to someone he clearly viewed as competitor. "Please give my regards to Aunt Nina and the family."

"I shall, I shall," he promised, finally releasing your hand with reluctant formality. "And we will be watching your progress with great interest. Both of you," he added, finally acknowledging Lewis directly again. "The banking world presents unique challenges for newcomers to its particular traditions."

The subtle warning—Castellano connections potentially influencing your banking arrangements—hung in the air between you as Giovanni stepped back to allow your departure. Lewis's hand returned to its now-familiar position at the small of your back, the touch carrying more definite pressure than in previous similar gestures.

"Until next time, Signore Castellano," Lewis said with perfect professional courtesy that didn't quite mask the underlying steel. "I'm sure our paths will cross again soon enough."

"In our world, they always do," Giovanni agreed, the seemingly casual observation carrying weight of both promise and potential threat. "Safe travels, Signore e Signora Hamilton. Geneva can be treacherous for unwary visitors."

You maintained perfect composure as Lewis guided you from the office, the practiced social mask never slipping despite the multiple layers of threatening subtext beneath seemingly cordial exchange. Only once the elevator doors closed, leaving you momentarily alone in the confined space, did you allow yourself to exhale fully.

"Well," you said quietly, aware of potential surveillance even in private banking elevators, "that was unexpected."

"Was it?" Lewis asked, his voice equally low though his expression remained neutral for any watching cameras. "Mueller strikes me as someone who creates opportunities to observe client interactions rather than leaving such intelligence to chance."

"True," you acknowledged. "Though Giovanni's presence itself might have been a coincidence. The Castellanos have maintained Swiss banking relationships for generations."

Lewis's hand found yours, fingers interlacing with deliberate intent that felt more protective than performative now that you were beyond Mueller's direct observation. "There are remarkably few coincidences in our world, particularly involving banking arrangements and family rivalries."

The elevator reached the ground floor, doors opening to reveal the discreet private lobby where Mueller's special clients could exit without being seen. Lewis's security team waited with their usual vigilance, Jensen stepping forward immediately.

"Car's ready, sir," he reported crisply. "Route's secure, no unusual activity."

Lewis nodded, his hand still holding yours as you moved toward the exit. The touch felt different now—a connection born from navigating those tricky waters together rather than just putting on a show for watching eyes.

"Meeting with Mueller went well," Lewis told Jensen as you approached the waiting vehicle. "But we've got a complication with Castellano showing interest. Keep surveillance up until we're clear of the banking district."

Jensen took this with professional calm, already activating his comms to alert the others. "Understood. Adjusting now."

As the car door closed behind you, creating a bubble of privacy, Lewis finally let his controlled expression relax slightly. "You were amazing in there," he said quietly, genuine admiration in his voice. "Mueller was impressed by your technical knowledge, but how you handled Giovanni was something else."

The compliment felt different from the usual male appreciation focused on looks or charm—he actually recognized your strategic skills, and that hit differently.

"The 'Uncle Gio' thing definitely caught him off guard," you acknowledged, remembering the surprise on Giovanni's face. "He's used to throwing around family connections to intimidate people, not having it turned back on him."

"It divided his attention perfectly," Lewis added, clearly appreciating your tactical thinking. "He couldn't focus solely on competing with us anymore."

This felt like real partnership, not just an arranged alliance—recognizing how your different skills created something better than either of you could manage alone.

"Mueller will approve the accounts," Lewis said, shifting to practical matters. "Our unified front was exactly what he wanted to see."

"Funny how our honeymoon cover story actually served a real purpose," you noted with a touch of irony.

Something changed in Lewis's expression, shifting from purely professional assessment to something more personal. "Sometimes strategies work out better than we plan," he said quietly. "Creating value we didn't expect."

As the car moved through Geneva's elegant streets, Lewis's hand found yours again. The contact wasn't necessary for show anymore, but he maintained it anyway. Something was shifting between you with each moment like this—boundaries fading not through violation but through mutual recognition of a connection developing beyond what was in the contract.

The famous lake gleamed outside your window, mountains rising majestically in the distance, beauty that had witnessed centuries of alliances made and broken, while Swiss neutrality provided a safe harbor regardless of who won or lost. Your own situation seemed both significant and tiny against this backdrop—personal changes playing out where generations had navigated similar waters before you.

"I believe that calls for celebration," Lewis said once you'd returned to the hotel suite, loosening his tie with uncharacteristic casualness. "Mueller's approval typically takes weeks, not hours. And I still can’t get over the way you handled Giovanni. Brilliant."

The suite felt different somehow upon your return—the morning's unexpected intimacy having shifted your perception of the space. Lewis moved to the bar, selecting a bottle of champagne with the efficient precision you'd come to expect from him.

"Mueller definitely didn't expect us to tag-team him like that," you acknowledged, slipping off your heels with a sigh of relief. "Though I bet Giovanni showing up was Mueller's idea all along."

"No doubt," Lewis agreed, opening the champagne with a controlled pop. "Swiss bankers love to watch how their clients handle pressure. Two birds, one stone kind of thing."

He poured two flutes and handed one to you, his eyes warmer than usual. "To kicking ass in banking negotiations."

"And surprising the hell out of Italians," you added with a smile, clinking your glass against his.

The champagne was excellent—crisp and not too sweet. You moved toward the window, enjoying the view of Geneva while allowing yourself a rare moment to actually feel satisfied about something.

"That Castellano move was smart," Lewis said, joining you at the window. "Bringing up Gabriella and Marco was a nice touch too."

"Giovanni's always thought of himself as everyone's Italian patriarch," you explained, remembering summers where he'd dispensed unwanted advice to all the younger generation. "He can't resist the chance to play matchmaker, even when he's supposed to be threatening us."

Lewis watched you with that intense focus that still sent an unexpected warmth through you. "You know, most people would've gotten defensive when he brought up your marriage. But you turned it around on him completely."

The compliment felt different from the usual male appreciation focused on appearance. He actually respected your mind, and that hit differently than you expected.

"My mother would say I just applied her lessons on handling difficult men," you replied with a half-smile.

"She taught you well," Lewis said, that rare smile briefly appearing. "But I think you've got natural talent."

You settled onto the window seat cushion, relaxing in a way that would have been impossible in public. Lewis remained standing, still carrying that readiness that never fully left him.

"Do you ever actually relax?" you asked. "Even now, you look ready to take down a threat at any second."

Lewis considered this, his expression thoughtful. "Hard habit to break," he admitted. "Survival mode becomes your default setting after a while."

"Even with champagne and a win this big?" you pressed, sensing a rare opportunity to see behind his carefully maintained facade.

Something shifted in his expression—a decision to let you see a bit more than usual. "Especially after a win," he said quietly. "That's when you're most vulnerable. When you think you're safe... that's usually when everything goes sideways."

The insight felt personal rather than theoretical. You found yourself genuinely curious about the experiences that had shaped him, what had created both his controlled precision and those glimpses of warmth you'd been seeing more frequently.

"Sounds like you learned that the hard way," you observed.

Lewis moved to join you on the window seat, reducing the physical distance between you. "Yeah," he acknowledged, setting his champagne aside. "Experience is a hell of a teacher. Especially when the lessons involve blood rather than just bruised pride."

His simple statement carried the weight of history you'd only glimpsed in fragments. The scars on his knuckles and forearms told stories his carefully measured words typically concealed.

"I got too comfortable after some early successes," he continued, surprising you by elaborating without further prompting. "Let my guard down. Started celebrating before I should have. And it cost me... more than I was prepared to lose."

The clinical way he said it couldn't quite hide the emotion underneath—personal pain transformed into hard principles through self-discipline. For the first time, you wondered about Lewis's life before he became the powerful, controlled man you knew—what relationships he might have had, what connections might have been severed.

"I'm sorry," you said simply.

Lewis looked momentarily surprised by your response, as if he'd expected something more strategic. "It was a long time ago," he replied, though his expression suggested the impact hadn't faded with time. "Made me better at what I do now, anyway."

Even personal loss became strategic advantage with Lewis—pain recalibrated into useful principles. Yet this glimpse of vulnerability felt like trust extended rather than weakness revealed.

"To lessons learned," you said quietly, raising your glass.

Lewis's expression softened as he picked up his champagne to meet your toast. "And doing better with them going forward."

The conversation drifted to more practical matters—next steps with Mueller, security plans, how to handle the Castellanos. Yet that underlying current remained, your connection subtly transformed by this shared moment into something more substantial than professional alignment alone.

When Lewis's phone eventually interrupted with a call that couldn't be ignored, you felt an unexpected disappointment. The realization itself was surprising—that you'd started to value these quieter moments with him.

"I should take this," Lewis said, genuine regret in his tone as he checked the caller ID. "Claire wouldn't call unless it was important."

"Of course," you said, professional understanding replacing personal disappointment with practiced ease. "Business never waits. Mueller taught us that much today."

Lewis stood with his usual grace, but paused before moving away to take the call. In a gesture that felt both calculated and spontaneous, he leaned down and pressed a light kiss against your forehead—brief contact that felt warmer now that no one was watching to make it necessary.

"Thanks," he said simply. "For everything today."

Then he was moving toward the office space, already shifting into business mode as he answered Claire's call, transforming from briefly relaxed to fully operational despite the champagne and momentary lowering of guards between you.

You remained at the window, watching Geneva spread out before you while your thoughts circled this latest evolution in your relationship with Lewis. Not quite a traditional marriage, not merely a business arrangement, but something developing its own unique shape, a connection building itself rather than following any predetermined pattern.

The celebration had been brief but genuine, the victory truly shared. Whatever developed next would build on the foundation being established through moments like this—trust extended through both professional respect and personal confidence, understanding built through actually seeing each other rather than just the roles you played.

Your wedding ring caught the afternoon light as you finished your champagne, the diamond's sparkle a reminder of a binding that had begun as strategic necessity but was evolving into something neither of you had anticipated. Not quite love in the traditional sense, but a connection increasingly substantial beyond mere convenience.

Lewis's voice carried from the office, handling whatever complication Claire had identified with his usual efficiency. The sound reminded you of the reality underlying your shared existence—danger and strategy never truly gone.

.............tbd

#quainwritings #blood oath #lewis hamilton fanfic #lewis hamilton fic #lewis hamilton fanfiction #lewis hamilton #mob!boss lewis hamilton #mob!lewis hamilton #lewis hamilton x black oc #lewis hamilton x black reader

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cupidsworstcrime · 1 month ago

Text

uh... dont know if i should tag this as

Johnny x reader,

Price x reader,

or tf-141 x reader.....

inspo - @goatgoesmbe

contains non con wife sharing , non con groping

You arrived at the base with a smile on your face, holding a warm lunch bag in hand, excited to see your husband. Price always made it a point to keep you involved in his world, even when he was away on missions, and you appreciated the little things—like bringing him lunch.

But as you approached the entrance, the last thing you expected was a sergeant stopping you, blocking your path. He was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing that smug grin that felt off. It didn’t take long for him to give you that all-too-familiar look, sizing you up like some piece of prey.

“Hold up, mam,” he said, his voice dripping with authority. He stood too close, his eyes flicking over your dress as he cleared his throat. “I’ll need to do a quick pa' down. Procedure, y’know?”

You froze for a moment. Something about the way he looked at you had your stomach twisting, but you held your ground. Standing still wasn’t difficult. His hands roamed over you, too deliberate, the pressure against your chest, the slow slide of his fingers down your legs.

He’s a bit too thorough, hands running over your chest first, lingering a little too long. You feel your skin heat up at his touch, but you keep your cool, not letting it show. His hands slide lower, over the smooth fabric of your dress, feeling the contours of your body like he’s looking for something more than just an innocent bag check.

You stand still, not saying anything at first, as his hands roam a bit further—down your legs, fingers brushing against the inside of your thighs in ways that make your stomach twist with a mix of confusion and irritation. He doesn’t seem to care, grinning up at you with that same cocky smirk that gets under your skin. The whole thing feels like an invasion, and you want to slap his hands away, but you stay silent.

When he was finally done, you couldn’t help but feel your skin crawl. You gave him a tight smile, barely holding it together. “Can you point me to my husband’s office? Captain Price?” you asked, voice steady despite everything.

The sergeant didn’t seem to care at all. In fact, he shrugged, like this was some kind of casual exchange. "Yeah, yeah, jus' head down the hall, turn left. You'll find him. Don’t be shy, hen." He didn’t seem concerned by your question or your tone.

How could you know that your sweet husband, John Price, shared everything with his team? How would you know the photos, the videos, the audios of your intimate moments—those personal things you thought were just for him, just for the two of you—had made their way through his men. How could you know that they all had personal Polaroids of you naked and peacefully asleep tucked in their gear?

The moment you walked into Price’s office, you couldn’t hide the frustration that had built up in your chest. You knew you needed to talk to him about what happened.

You set the lunch on the desk, your fingers gripping the edge as you took a breath. Price looked up, a warm smile on his face, as he walked over to greet you. But you couldn't ignore the sting of what you'd just endured, and you needed to voice it.

"My love," you began, your voice steady but still tinged with frustration. "A sergeant stopped me at the entrance. He gave me a full pat down—his hands were all over me. I mean, he had no business feeling me up like that." You paused for a second, rubbing your arms as you recalled how his hands had lingered. "Tall guy, Mohawk, stupid grin on his face... He had no fucking reason to touch me like that."

You saw John’s jaw twitch as you spoke, his eyes narrowing. But he didn’t seem angry—at least not in the way you expected. Instead, he let out a low chuckle and shook his head, rolling his eyes as if this was just another day.

“If Soap wanted to feel ya, he could’ve asked me first,” he muttered, a playful smirk tugging at his lips.

#john price x reader #john price x you #price x reader #price x you #john price call of duty #soap cod #john soap mactavish #soap x you #soap x reader #tf 141 x you #tf 141 x reader

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ringoffiction · 4 months ago

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Collision Course

Summary: You and Jeff were paired to form a team, the only problem was that he hated your guts. He would always accuse and shame you until the day you confronted him. Pairings: Jeff Hardy x Fem Reader Warnings: angst, enemies to lovers, cursing, kinda smut but not really, +18 Word Count: 593 Notes: This is my first fic in 8 years, so be patient I'm still rusty

Being one of the few women on the main roster that would constantly have rivalry with male superstars was no easy task. You were often taken for granted and your place as a top star in the company would always be seen as you “sleeping around to get your way to the top”, even though that was bullshit some of these comments got to your nerves. One male wrestler in particular could ruin your day just for existing in the same room as you.

Jeff Hardy was loved by everyone, when he got the ring next to his brother the arena would explode in chants and applause. With that much love at such a young age, his ego was definitely affected. So when he got the news that you would be paired with him and his brother he made his personal mission to make your life a living hell.

“Don’t fuck this up” was the first thing he said to you before his entrance music started playing, you just rolled your eyes and focused in your match.

This happened 4 months ago and the interactions between you and Jeff just became worse, but thankfully you and Matt started getting along and quickly became friends.

When the three of you were in the ring the chemistry was undeniable, but when you got behind the curtains the bickering would start, mostly Jeff saying you're sloppy and you were bringing their quality down.

But one day he crossed the line.

During a match against Edge and Lita you were supposed to let Jeff tag you, but Lita pulled you over ringside and started to wrestle you. This resulted in Jeff losing the tag and the match for the pair.

As you helped each other out of the ring, Jeff put his arms around your shoulders and whispered in your ear “You’re pathetic, you don’t deserve to be here”, this was the last straw for you, you swallowed your tears and continued to make your way backstage ready to confront the charismatic enigma.

You dragged him to an empty corner “what’s your problem?” you asked while holding his collar and bringing his face close to yours.

“you”, he said with a smirk on his face. He got even closer to your face and you breath mixed in one, he locked eyes with you and you could feel the heat of his body so close to you that it almost felt like it was burning. “I have a problem with you and how everyone falls for you”.

With that you couldn't help but scoff “so your problem is that everyone likes me and you don’t? Because you’re better than everyone?” you got even closer to him while saying this, lips so close to touching. “Grow up, Jeff”.

“But you see, princess… My problem is that I'm no better than anyone” Jeff said while putting his hands on your waist and pulling your lower body close to his. “I want you more than anything”

And just like that he closed the distance between your lips, the kiss was intense from the start. Your tongues fought for dominance as you explored each other bodies, his hands travelled from your waist to your butt.

At the same time you put your hand to his muscular chest and moved to the back of his neck pulling him even closer to you and deepening the kiss. Jeff let out a breath moan and you could feel his member against your core.

He separated the kiss with heavy breathing “wanna finish this somewhere else?”

#jeff hardy #Jeff Hardy x Reader #wwe fanfiction #wwe x reader #wwe x oc #Jeff hardy

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yeosbbm · 2 years ago

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Mine, All Mine

starring: idol! seonghwa x long distance gf! fem reader

genre: straight up smut, established relationship, possessiveness

summary: basically seonghwas been on tour and you finally see him and y’all SMASH !

warnings: barely any plot or dialogue, seonghwa is possessive, indirect dom - sub dynamic, breeding, face sitting, unprotected piv + riding, breast play, slight overstim

A/N: Something short and sweet also I opened up my request and ask question thing so if y’all have anything you’d like to ask/ask for y’all can go ahead and use it, also I might do a social/face reveal

You and Seonghwa haven’t seen each other in so long. So long being…three weeks. There are couples that go months apart even YEARS, but you know you weren’t the strongest soldier.

Since he’s been on tour you two have facetimed as often as possible, texting whenever you have the time to, send each other cute/funny vids you two like to cheer each other up about the separation. But there’s needs you two have that can only be resolved in person.

Physically…emotionally….sexually…I mean come on you two can only have phone sex for so many times.

However luckily…..you got a plane ticket to their next destination. As well as their managers agreeing with you tagging along as long as you don’t make a scene or attention to yourself whilst with them.

You joined the group with a team dinner at a restaurant. Sat next to Seonghwa you listen in and occasionally bring your own two cents into the conversation. However, there’s a problem in the mix. Seonghwa is already feeling so possessive and in need of your attention since it’s been so long, but Wooyoung and San haven’t made it better.

“You look absolutely gorgeous tonight by the way (y/n).” San says staring at your dress.

“Thank you San I appreciate it, Hwa bought me this dress.” You reply smiling at Seonghwa.

Wooyoung’s gaze is caught on your figure as well but he shifts his eyes to everyone else so he isn’t caught ogling.. “Yea she looks good enough to eat doesn’t she.”

Hongjoong steps on his foot under the table. “Manners Wooyoung.”

Wooyoung bites his lip avoiding yelping at the pain. “Yea my bad just got a little carried away.” He says strained.

San unfortunately adds fuel to the fire. “Just a shame you got to her first Seonghwa.”

Seonghwa gives a pained smile and sucks his teeth before his grip on your thigh tightens. Uh oh. While the guys are back chattering to each other about something he leans into your ear. “You really do look good enough to eat…wait till we get to the Hotel.”

You squeeze your thighs together and harshly swallow at his words. Despite what just left his mouth..Seonghwa is all smiles and giggling at the table.

————————

After dinner, the group was doing a YouTube live in Hongjoong’s hotel room. Well, minus Seonghwa. The boys were talking about the performance as well as the sight seeing they’ve been doing during this time.

Then they notice the comments questioning Hwa’s absence.

Hongjoong adjusts his glasses before saying “Ooh concerning Seonghwa….we all went to a restaurant with our staff and he told us he didn’t feel well after eating so he’s currently resting in his hotel room.”

Yunho chimes in “Wish a speedy recovery for Seonghwa please !”

Little do they know….Seonghwa was really having you sit on his face. Making you press all your weight onto him, not letting you lift your hips up in the slightest.

His tongue made its way back in forth on your slit. Starting with it circling and lightly dipping into your drenched entrance while his tongue trails its way to your clit…flicking and rubbing the tip of his tongue right on your pearl. His arms are wrapped around your thighs holding you in place.

“So sweet for me baby…” He mumbles against your folds before fully bring his tongue into your hole. Rolling and waving it inside. This makes you tense in pleasure, your hips attempting to lift up to ease the intensity but his grip keeps it from happening. He needs to see you squirm more, he goes back to your clit and sucks and slurps at it with no mercy. Mindlessly you’re grinding across his mouth. “Hwa I’m so close..fuck please please please.”

You don’t know exactly what you’re pleading for knowing he won’t deny your release. Or maybe you were just pleading for the release itself “Cum for me…cover my face with it..make a mess .” You rock on his tongue quickly before your legs spasm. Moaning and letting out signs of relief. Naturally…your hips rise up…but to your surprise Seonghwa brings you right back down.

You gasp in shock feeling Hwa wriggle his tongue across your cunt again. Slightly nodding his head to add to the stimulation. “‘S so much Hwa.”

He smiles against your cunt before tongue fucking you. Soon he takes his thumb and relentlessly toys with your clit. You’re shaking, your abdomen tense. Seonghwa is just staring intently as you fall apart. Your hips try to lift but he’s pressing you farther into his mouth. You cum again,,legs now jelly,,,cunt throbbing especially with Seonghwa lightly licking the last bits of arousal you left behind for him. You’re minds in a haze, a stuck dumb state until you feel Seonghwa scoot up under you..

You can feel the hot oozing tip of his cock rub against your already sensitive heat. You rock your hips again, needing him to satiate the final bit of aroused ache residing in you. “Let me get a condom baby…unless you want it raw..” The thought of him fucking you raw has you both hungry for more. He already knows.

“You want me to stuff you full of me don’t you…” You need him now..he needs you just as much. “Please…please stuff me full.” He moans before fucking up into you, he lets you ride him as much as you please. “Get off on me, use me.” You’re bouncing up and down his dick chasing your own high. Seonghwa just as much,,, while he reaches up to grope your breast and teasing your nipples. But you can only ride for so long, soon he can feel you slow down losing your own energy to go up and down. “You need some help hm baby ?” You nod. He holds on and starts bucking his hips up into you. The impact of you two’s hips has you seeing stars. “So fucking pretty so mine…”

You can feel him bully his cock into you. He trails a hand up touching the marks he left on you earlier…sweet red and purple blotches. You’re so his. You’re consumed by him. “You’re mine…this pussy is mine..Fuck. Fuck. Your hearts mine.” You’re lost in ecstasy and the feeling of his cock filling you to the brim. “All yours..all….yours Hwa.” He smiles…proud that only he can see you like this and make you feel like this. “Nobody else can even get close to this….” You can feel your next orgasm building up in your stomach. “Only you..it’s only you.” He can feel his cock twitch, he’s on the same verge of cumming as you are. “Cum on my dick..let go so I can fuck my cum into you.”

You and him both whine and moan during your releases. You can feel his cum filling you up. Moments later he pulls out and his cum slowly making its way out until he lazily takes his fingers and fucks it deeper into you. You’re in subspace or something like it. Mind in a complete quiet state.

Seonghwa takes you into the hotel bathtub. He helps you wash up with the faintly fragrant hotel soap and dry off. He sits you on his hotel bed and helps you put on your sweet smelling lotion he loves and adores. Carefully rubbing it into your skin and massaging where you might be sore in the morning.

He helps you fix your hair while kissing your forehead..He lays in bed with you holding you close until you fall asleep. Once you finally drift off,, he heads to the bathroom to take his own shower that’s when he realizes a text from Hongjoong.

“Did you two forget I’m in the room next door you sick damn perverts.”

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usomads · 6 months ago

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Finisher // Roman Reigns x Reader (Pin Me Pt. 2)

Author’s Note -> Hiiii everyone! So many of you requested a part two to Pin Me, which again thank you so much for all the love on the first part. I honestly didn’t think of making it multiple parts when I first wrote this, but here we are and here it is lol! Happy reading!

Plot -> After pinning the Smackdown Women’s Champion in your mixed tag-team match with Roman Reigns, you gained popularity and with that your first singles title opportunity. You’ve never been more nervous for anything in your life, so your Tribal Chief helps ease your nerves before your match…

Pairings -> Roman Reigns x Fem!Reader (Y/N)

Warnings -> Cursing, Oral Sex (Fem!Receiving), Fingering, Gagging, Implied Smut, Not Proofread, MDNI

Word Count -> 3.0k

(time skip to the first Smackdown episode after Saturday Night’s Main Event)

“I’ve been your Smackdown Women’s Champion for nearly five months now, and since becoming your champion I have proved that I am the irresistible force and nobody can take this title from me. Not Bayley, not Naomi, not Tiffany, and esp-” Nia’s promo was cut short by your entrance music hitting, the crowd rising to their feet and popping loudly for your theme. Since pinning Nia at Saturday Night’s Main Event, you had taken the WWE Universe by storm; your social media following went up, more and more people were recognizing you in public, you had gotten exactly the recognition you wanted all along- and it was all thanks to Roman Reigns.

Since last Saturday and your “celebration” post-match, you’ve grown closer to Joe. You were getting to know each other better, spending more time together, and what you initially thought was a one-time thing in the heat of the moment was clearly not. Joe got his hands on you every chance he could, it didn’t matter where or when, if he wanted you he was going to have you. And who were you to turn down your Tribal Chief?

Now, you two hadn’t defined your “relationship” just yet but you both were perfectly fine with the way things were at the moment- taking things slow and really getting to know each other (among other things) before making anything official. You were doing pretty well for yourself; you were gaining more traction than before and you had a fine ass man to go home to- you had zero complaints with how your life and career were going at the moment.

You emerged from backstage, microphone in hand, as the crowd roared at your entrance. You signaled for production to cut your music, walking confidently to the ring as you spoke. “Now, Nia, I know damn well you didn’t come in the ring to talk all this mess about ‘no one can beat me’ after last week… did you hit your head too hard during our match or something because I,” you paused, signaling to the crowd filling the arena, “as well as the entire WWE universe remember very clearly that I pinned you last week at Main Event.” The crowd cheered in response, boosting your already high confidence as you smirked at Nia. “If you’re soooo confident you can beat me one-on-one, then do it. Put your title on the line next week and let’s see how much of a ‘force’ you really are.”

“Oh, Y/N…” Nia mocked you, “it’s so adorable that you think you’re a threat to me and my title. That win you got last week, pinning me? Was pure luck.” Nia stepped to you, with little distance between you too as she glared down at you, “But unlike you, at least I don’t have to sleep with anyone to get my main event spots, I work hard for what I have. Do that first, then come talk to me.” That wasn’t in the fucking script, is she serious right now? Oh, if she wants to improv, best believe I can too. You swung without thinking twice, using the microphone in your hand to hit her on the side of the head. It was time for a fight.

You and Nia took turns trying to go at each other, both of you countering the other until she blindsided you out of nowhere with a hit that made you see double for a second. You knew you were done after that, feeling blood trickle from a cut on your head created by her. She continued to attack you while you were down, the crowd booing with every hit she delivered. After your body had slumped in the center of the ring she grabbed you by your hair and pulled you up, showing your beaten and bloody face to the crowd and cameras. “This isn’t fantasy, Y/N, stop playing pretend with Roman and go back to catering where you fucking belong.” She threw your head back onto the mat and exited the ring as security and medical personnel rushed to the ring. You dragged your fatigued body out of the ring and backstage, refusing treatment from medical despite their protests. You walked into the locker room Joe and you now shared, while Joe was screaming at someone on the phone.

“Nick, are you fucking kidding me? There’s gotta be some form of punish- I don’t give a shit what the higher ups thought about it, she could’ve seriously injured Y/N, I-,” Joe paused, turning around and seeing you enter the locker room, “I gotta go. This conversation isn’t over.” Joe hung up on the GM and rushed over to you. “Baby, are you okay? Did she hurt you? Have you gotten looked at by-”

“No, Joe, and I’m not going to. Just please, drop it. I’m over it.”

“Well, I’m not. Why the fuck would she even say something like that? How would she have known about us?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know, Joe! Now leave it alone, seriously, I’m not in the goddamn mood.” You went silent, thinking about what you were going to do about Nia. You needed to do something different, something she would never see coming. Your priorities shifted completely after that segment, you now no longer wanted just the title. Your biggest priority, maybe even more than wanting the belt, was to beat the shit outta Nia Jax, no matter what it took.

“Babe, c’mon, you need to sit down. You’re gonna stress yourself into a heart attack if you don’t quit pacing around the room like that,” Joe was currently attempting to calm you down, you had been completely fine this past week you were training and promoting the match, but now that the show had officially started your overwhelming amount of confidence had completely vanished.

“Easy for you to say, title matches are second nature to you. Muscle memory. I have never competed for a title before, I have every right to be freaking the fuck out right now, Joe,” you sighed. “It feels like everything just did a 180 degree turn, like I have so many eyes on me now and they all want me to beat Nia’s ass, and I just don’t know if I-”

“Hey, none of that. Y/N, look at me,” you slowly brought your head up to meet his eyes, the same ones that completely captivated your being just a couple weeks ago. “Whatever you’re about to say, don’t. That crowd out there knows exactly what you’re capable of, you know what you’re capable of, and I know what you’re capable of. I believe in you, baby, and if you can’t find it in you to believe in yourself then I’ll believe enough for the both of us. You got this, Y/N, I know you do.” Your heart melted at his words, the soothing and reassuring tone in his voice providing you some much needed comfort.

“You still nervous, baby?” You nodded your head, looking down at your lap as he scooted closer to you on the couch. “I think I have an idea on how we can fix that. Do you trust me?”

“A-always, Joe.”

“Good girl.” He lifts your chin with his finger and passionately presses his lips to yours, resting his palm on the side of your face as you moan into the kiss. Your stomach flutters at his soft demeanor, feeling some of your nerves dissipate as his lips caress yours. He lays you down on the couch, hovering over you as he deepens the kiss. Breathless, he pulls away, leaning his forehead against yours and looking lovingly into your eyes. “You still feelin’ nervous, baby?”

“Y-yeah,” you breathed out, “a little less, but still pretty nervous.”

“I guess I’ll have to keep going then, don’t I?” His lips find their way back to yours, resting there for a moment before trailing along your jawbone and down your neck, leaving a few wet kisses at the base of your throat before continuing his path downward. Your breathing had picked up, and you were now looking down at him as his lips left a trail down your abdomen.

“A-are you sure we should… now? I mean, I have my match later and I-”

“Shhh, I promise I’ll be quick. Just wanna take care of you, help my baby out,” he muttered against your hip bone as he teased the lining of your ring gear you had been wearing. You sighed contently, leaning your head back against the arm of the couch and allowing yourself to relax into his touch. His fingers interlock in the lining of your bottoms as he looks up for you, asking for permission to remove them. You lift your hips off the couch, allowing him to slowly drag the material down your legs and throw them to the side. He snakes both hands up your legs, kneading the soft flesh of your thighs before splitting them apart and exposing you to him. Your body was so reactive to him- Joe loved how goosebumps would scatter across your skin at the brush of his lips or how your eyes would flutter closed and your eyebrows would scrunch together with just his touch, but most of all, he loved how how wet he made you without doing a thing to you.

“Fuck, ma, always so ready for me,” you moaned loudly and bucked your hips, desperate for any sort of friction, “you gon’ have to be quiet for me, don’t want nobody to hear us, right baby?” You nodded and bit your lip, trying to hold in your cries and his fingers danced up the smooth skin of your inner thighs and through your folds, leaning down to make his face level with your core and presses a soft kiss on your clit before wrapping his lips around the swollen bud, nipping and sucking while he continues to drag his fingers along your slit before pushing a finger inside. His thrusts are slow, putting his focus on his mouth as he eats you with a burning intensity. His tongue works itself in ways that set your body on fire, the scruff of his beard along with it only adding to the sensation he’s giving you. The lip you’re biting to keep quiet is nearly drawing blood. You want to cry out, you want to moan his praises loud enough for the crowd inside the arena to hear, but you know you can’t so you continue to restrain yourself despite wanting to do the complete opposite.

He replaces his fingers with his tongue now, pumping it inside of you and using one to pin your hips down and the other to draw slow circles into your clit. This time you can’t help yourself; your clit is so sensitive that the second his fingers brushed it, you were done for. He pauses for a moment to remove his t-shirt he was wearing and you whine from the loss of contact, watching as he morphs the cotton material into a ball and hands it over to you, bringing his hand back down to your clit. “Bite down on this, since you can’t keep yourself quiet, I’ll make you.” You hesitate for a moment and look down at him, his features darkening and giving you a sly smirk before nodding his head. You bring the material to your lips before biting down on it, your senses being completely filled by Joe. He goes back to eating you as you moan into the cloth, the material successfully muffling your cries. Joe’s movements become more and more desperate, moving his tongue and fingers faster as he can sense you’re close. You can’t stop your moans now, saliva drooling from the corner of your mouth as you feel yourself getting closer to your release. Your legs begin to shake and Joe, noticing you were close, dives his head deeper into your pussy, trapping you with his mouth. Your eyes squeeze shut as you inhale, breathing in his scent and cologne you were using as a gag, triggering your own orgasm. You came on his tongue hard, shaking and moaning into the fabric of his shirt as he laps up your juices like an animal deprived of water. You even your breathing and throw his shirt back at him, the both of you laughing as he crawls on top of you.

“Oh, you wanna throw things at me do you? I might just have to teach you a le-”

Joe was interrupted by someone knocking on the door to his locker room. “Excuse me, Ms. Y/N? It’s almost time for your match, we need to head to Gorilla to finalize some things real quick.” You both sigh, him getting off of you as you put your bottoms back on in a rush. You make a run for the door to hurry and get to your position, but he grabs your arm to stop you. “You still feeling nervous?” You smiled at him and shook your head, going to thank him but getting cut off. “Good luck out there, baby. I’ll be waiting for you in Gorilla for you to show me that new title,” he kisses your cheek and you blush.

“Thank you, Joe, for everything. I mean it, I wouldn’t be doing this without you.” He gives you a soft smile and ushers you out the door, as you prepare yourself for possibly the biggest match of your entire career.

“Ughhh,” you groaned as Nia dragged you from the center of the ring to the corner, preparing to give you an Annihilator and win this match. From the jump Nia had punished you, much to the crowd’s distaste. It seemed like everybody in the arena had been behind you and you felt it, right up until the bell rang and she started throwing heavy combinations your way. You managed to sneak in a couple pieces of offense but none were convincing enough to give you any sort of edge. Nia got on the ropes, and performed the move. She remained seated on you, trying to get the pin. 1… 2… kick out. You pushed her off of you and sat on your heels, gripping your side. Jesus, my fuckin’ ribs.

Finally to your feet, you unload on Nia as she laid on the ground. Kicks, punches, springboard moves, you threw the whole arsenal but each pin attempt gave a 1 or 2 count, and never close calls. You knew deep down you were going to have to do something completely insane to get this win, so you start stringing things together to get it done. You start by giving her a drop kick to send her to the outside, following her out, then throwing her into the steel steps. You dragged her by the hair to the announce table, laying her on it as you ran to the ring and climbed to the top rope. You made sure everyone near the table had cleared before crossing your heart and doing a senton, landing on Nia as the table and collapsing along with it. You could tell that Nia was nearly to the breaking point, so you mustered all the energy and strength you could to drag her back into the ring and climbed to the top rope once more. You hit your finisher, but wasn’t satisfied. You wanted no doubts, so you climbed up and hit it again, straddling her shoulders and hooking your arms around her legs. The arena was so loud you could barely hear the ref’s count. 1… 2… 3… ‘Here is your winner, and the NEW… WWE Women’s Champion… Y/N!’

You couldn’t even process what had just happened, all you wanted to do was get the hell out of that ring so you snatched the title from the ref and escaped. You slowed down when you made it to the stage, clutching the title in your arms and looking down at it with tears brimming your eyes. Your knees felt weak, and your heart was beating out of your chest. You did it. You triumphantly raised the title in the air, tears starting to fall as you smiled and took the moment in. After the cameras had cut and you had taken a few pictures with fans, you walked backstage only to be greeted with cheers. You made your way to everyone, getting pictures, hugs, and everything else in between before locking eyes with the man you wanted to see ever since your hand was raised. Joe. You practically ran to him, jumping into his arms and wrapping yours around his neck, hugging him tightly. He spun you around and smiled from ear to ear.

“I’m so fuckin’ proud of you, baby. You had a helluva match out there, I knew you had it in you,” he kissed you sweetly right there, not caring who was watching as you grinned widely. “Now, let’s get you home,” he winked at you, setting you down before whispering low in your ear.

“We’ve got some more celebrating to do tonight.”

#roman reigns #roman reigns smut #roman reigns x reader #roman reigns fic #roman reigns fanfic #roman reigns x female reader #roman reigns oneshot

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recklesssturniolo · 1 year ago

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Locker Room - M.S

Matt loses a lacross game & takes his frustration out on you, dom!Matt, this is as if Matt was in college, reader and him are dating

A/N: idk how I feel about this I’m sorry😓 if no one likes it heart = shattered

NSFW below, leave if you’re a minor

I went to all of Matt’s games, always wearing his jersey, and always rooting for him. I loved watching him play, not only was it hot but I couldn’t help but always feel proud of him too. Nick and Chris usually tagged along as well, but today both weren’t able to. As I intensely watched the last few minutes of the game, my heart sank as I realized they had lost. I stood up from the bleachers, letting out a sigh knowing how upset Matt was going to be and made my way to the locker room to wait for him outside. I had watched as every other member of his team walked out, smiling and greeting them as they did but only grew more confused the longer Matt took. Assuming by this point that no one else was inside the lockeroom, I slowly made my way inside.

“Matt baby?” I called out.

“Yeah I’m here, you can come in no one else is inside” He mumbled back.

Spotting him as I walked inside, I couldn’t help but think to myself how good he looked. The sweat glisening off of him, his hair a mess and even just the way he was sitting, shirtless leaned back against the wall.

“It okay, it’s just one game Matty” I said, sitting beside him.

“For fuck sakes it isn’t just one game, this was important and we fucked it up” He said back, his voice raising a bit.

“How can I help make you feel better?” I asked as I brought my hand to rub his back.

Barley being able to process his movements I feel his lips smash to mine. The kiss immediately rough and his tongue winning for dominance. I moaned as his hands slipped up his jersey I had on, and he began playing with my breasts.

“Look so good in my jersey” He said, “You wanna make me feel better?”

“Yes of course” I replied.

“Get on your knees then” He responded, grabbing my arm and directing me to the ground.

I remove his pants, spitting on my hand before beginning to stroke his dick. My pace slow but steady, him instantly letting out a groan.

“Fuck sakes use your mouth” He demanded, his hand making its way to the back of my head.

I begin licking circles around his tip, before he applies pressure to the back of my head, making me take all of his dick in my mouth, a gag instantly leaving my mouth.

“Mph there you go, such a good girl for me” He groaned.

I was soaked, Matt being this dominant was something that rarely happened and I couldn’t get enough of it when it did. My pussy throbbing, beginning for some form of friction. I continued bobbing my head up and down, at times using my hand to stroke him when I wasn’t deep throating him.

“Matt” I whimpered, unable to stop myself, the throbbing between my legs becoming too much.

“Yeah? Fuck you’re so hot on your knees for me” He responds.

“I need you, please” I whine.

“Need me to fuck you? Take all my frustration out on your tight pussy?” He questioned.

“I - yes god please” I reply.

Matt grabs my arms and lifts me up, sitting me on the bench before spreading my legs open and smirking before rubbing circles over my clit.

“So wet for me, you won’t be able to walk out of here by the time I’m done with you” He smirks.

“Just fuck me Matty, I need you so bad” I moan out.

He moves me so I was bent over, my ass in the air facing him. I feel him line himself up with my entrance, a moan already falling from my mouth just knowing the sensation that was going to follow.

Without a warning, he slams into me.

“Fuck Matt I - oh my god you’re so big” I whimper, a slight mix of pain and pleasure shooting through my body.

“Take it I know you can pretty girl” He groans out, continuing to slam himself into me at an ungodly pace. His grip on my hips growing tigher with each thrust, no doubt going to leave me with bruising.

“So fucking tight” He groans out, his voice raspy, “Such a good girl for me”

Continuous moans fall effortlessly from my mouth as he fucks me, hitting my g-spot in a way so good that with each thrust I felt my pussy clench.

“Touch yourself, I want you touching yourself while I come all over your ass” He demands.

I do as he demands, my hand now rubbing circles around my clit, only hightening my pleasure. The knot in my stomach only tighening the longer we continued, my legs beginning to shake. Feeling a sudden loss of Matt’s touch, I whimper until I feel his come on my ass and him groan, my name leaving his mouth as he did so.

“God you feel so good, not such a good girl now all covered in my come are you?” He says, without a doubt a smirk on his face.

“Matty I -“ I start but he cuts me off.

“I know baby, I’m not done with you” He replies, spreading my legs wider and moving so he was underneath me, my pussy hovering above his face.

I feel him swipe two fingers up my pussy, a whine leaving my mouth. His thumb moving slow circles on my clit as he used his tongue to flick the rest of my pussy.

“Taste so good, covering my face with your juices. So fucking hot” He says.

The knot in my stomach only becoming tigher as he flattens his tongue against my pussy before sucking on my clit, pushing two fingers inside of me.

“I’m gonna come holy fuck don’t stop please” I whimper. My legs now shaking to the point I wasn’t sure how much longer I could stay standing.

“Good girl, show me how good I make you feel. Come all over my face” He mumbles, sending vibrations up my body.

Unable to hold myself back, I reach my climax, my eyes squeezing shut, and my legs buckling as I did, only pushing my pussy further down on his face. Moaning out his name continuously.

“Matt I can’t hold myself up much longer it - fuck it feels so good” I moan out.

Ignoring my comment, he continues using his tongue to lick up my juices, slowing the pace of his fingers that were insdie of me, before sliding out from underneath me and allowing me to sit down. Both of us catching our breath.

“Never really thought I’d feel this good after losing a game” He smirks.

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oatmealwrites · 4 months ago

Text

A Night To...Forget? Ch.4

Aizawa x Eidetic memory! Law student! F Reader

Part 3 | Part 5

[a night to forget masterlist here]

Synopsis: It's time for you the case debrief going over the prosecution process for a handful of members captured from the LOV. Aizawa waits for you after the meeting concludes as your mentor pawns off even more work for you to complete. Minutes turn to hours and eventually he's offering you a ride home...

Tags: Jealous! Aizawa, he's kinda cute and caring hehe, mentions of car sex, mention of erection, mention of female arousal, make out, french kissing, hickies, hair pulling, horny thoughts, 'what are we', he's down bad, so are you tho, Keigo is an indirect instigator, 18+, MDNI

Word count: 6k

[it's getting hot n heavy...]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The debrief is scheduled to begin promptly at 3:45 on Tuesday afternoon at your mentor’s office with a handful of heroes from UA, first responders, and prosecution team working on the case. Just prior to the student dorms being built, an attack against the students of classes 1-a and 1-b from the LOV resulted in a few arrests that now needed to be filtered through the judicial systems. Both the pro-heroes and police responders who were in attendance are at this meeting.

You linger in the breakroom, watching the way coffee drips into the glass pot and fills the air with a warm aroma, silently counting down the hours left until you could clock out. Leaning against the counter, you straighten the fabric of your newly returned blazer and tap the side of your mug to an impatient rhythm.

You clocked in promptly at 9:30 this morning after your 8am lecture and haven’t left since. Keigo texted you a few hours earlier, a mix of daily life updates and the link to a brand new fried chicken shop he happened to hear about, but you haven’t been able to fully respond.

Ughhh

A soft ‘beep’ emits from the coffee maker and you slide the glass pot from its stand to pour the hot contents into your awaiting mug. You stayed up way too late last night….aside from your evening moment of ‘self care’, you struggled to fall asleep with nerves keeping you awake. It was a weird mix of giddiness at the prospect of going on a date and anxiety that you were misinterpreting a ‘work dinner’.

“Ready for the debrief? I’m hoping to have all the paperwork signed before 5.”

The voice of your mentor resonates from the entrance of the break room causing you to instantly stand up a little straighter. He chuckles and saunters in, reaching for the coffee pot and grabbing a spare mug from the counter.

You back up a little bit and bring the ceramic mug to your lips to blow steam away. “Yes, sir. Hopefully it will go smoothly.”

He doesn’t turn to you when he responds, too focused on his own beverage to look up. “Good, good. I have to run out of here at 6pm on the dot…. Mind filing the residual documents and forwarding copies to all parties? Need it done in 48 hours.”

You pause, mentally adding up all the hours it would take to complete such a task before he spins around and gives you a pat on the back while heading for exit.

“Thanks, kid!” He waves with his back facing you, and heads for the conference room.

Great.

You sigh into your cup and can feel a migraine already beginning to form from the amount of tasks you have to complete. A late night would be guaranteed tonight, and you could always come into the office before your class tomorrow morning…. On top of the other case assignments you have to sort through.

Making a mental note to update your agenda, you glance at the clock on the wall and resolve to finally head for the conference room. You were only supposed to take meeting minutes for this debrief and highlight applicable clauses the prosecution team and heroes can use during the case. Not the most involved role, but a mentally draining one regardless.

Small heels clicking on the granite office floors, you walk down the hallway past glass office windows and pull the meeting room door open. A variety of police officers are already inside, along with the majority of the prosecution team and the heroes ‘Erasurehead’ and ‘Vlad King’.

Mindless chatter fills the space, but as soon as you make your way into the room Aizawa looks up from his conversation with Kan and locks eyes with you. The baggy pro-hero uniform enhances the rugged look while his hair is left down and tousled from the commute over.

Damn, he’s hot.

Swallowing any horny inappropriate thoughts and maintaining a professional decorum, you raise your hand in a slight wave ‘hello’ which he immediately returns. Kan notices and follows his gaze to you, offering a slight greeting as well before throwing a gentle elbow into the side of his colleague; Aizawa blinks once before murmuring something under his breath to the man.

You peel your eyes off the two of them and observe the large oval table that makes up the majority of the room. At the main head is your mentor with support prosecution staff flanking both sides until it dissolves into police officers and finally Aizawa and Kan on the mirroring end. You roll out a chair from between another lawyer and first responder and sit down; taking out your pad and pen, you wait for the meeting to commence.

It’s relatively routine; there’s a detailed review of the evening, timeline of the act and arrest, and a list of charges the villains can be prosecuted under given the offense. You occasionally remind the legal limitation regarding one of the arrests, a middle school boy, and offer separate charges given his age before the debrief is nearly done.

Going from your notes to observing everything being discussed, you can’t help but glance in Aizawa’s direction every so often. And every time you look up, he’s already staring in your direction.

It’s awkward at first, both of you immediately looking away once you realize you’ve been caught, before inevitably glancing back over once again. By the end of the meeting, when you lock eyes he doesn’t turn away; Aizawa holds the gaze until you eventually look back down at your meeting notes with cheeks dusted red.

“Alright everyone.” Your mentor stands up and signals to you. “Y/N is going to assist in the paperwork process for the case. You’ll be contacting her for documents, case updates, and any questions you have.”

You rise to your feet and give a light wave to the table, ready to introduce yourself before your mentor cuts you off. “I have to excuse myself given the hour, but please don’t hesitate to remain here until you’re all caught up to speed on the process.”

An invitation to the heroes and police officers, but a silent obligation reminding you of your now ensured overtime work. The table stands up as you pass out a variety of legal documents that require their signature and explain the estimated timeline for the court cases if there’s no bail payment or appeals.

After about 30 minutes of questions and document processing, the conference room is nearly empty except for Aizawa, Kan, and a few other prosecutors on the case. Tapping a stack of documents against the table, you reach forward to collect a few scatter papers and sort them into the pile in family name order.

The sun has already set given the time of year, and the fluorescent lights from other offices outside have flicked on. From the large glass window wall of the conference room, you can see into said office buildings and peer down at the busy traffic picking up from the street below.

“Heading home soon?”

Aizawa’s deep voice rumbles from behind you, and you spin to admire the man once again before sorting the last paper into the pile; Kan stands further behind him on his phone, scrolling without thought as he waits for his colleague. You sigh and hug the stack into your chest and lean against the glossy wooden table.

“No, I have to scan all of these before digitally and physically filing them.”

Aizawa raises an eyebrow and glances down at the pile. “That’s a lot of work. You’re doing it all by yourself?”

“I mean, yea? I have to send you, and everyone else, a copy within 2 days so I have to get a headstart tonight.”

The man in front of you frowns at the response and looks over at the clock on the wall which ticks absentmindedly.

“It’s nearly 7pm already. How late are you staying?”

You blink and peel your eyes off of him and down to the papers in your hands. “Uh, maybe another 2 hours?”

Aizawa scoffs and furrows his brows at the response but doesn’t say anything right away. It’s not like he’s your boss and can give you better working hours, but the complacency you have in the shitty task makes him annoyed that you’ve grown used to being so overworked.

When he still doesn’t answer, you pivot past him and flip through the first documents on the top before opening the conference door with your hip.

“I’ll bring you home then.”

Stopping the door with your foot, you pause in the doorway while Aizawa walks over in an effort to follow you to the printer. Kan stops scrolling on his phone and shrugs at the man; his attention preoccupied on a food order app that he has pulled up.

“Wait, what?”

Aizawa doesn’t answer you and instead turns to his coworker. “Is that alright, Kan? I know we drove here together, but I’d like to make sure she gets home safe.”

Kan looks back up and heads towards the room exit as well, giving a slight eyebrow at the chivalry Aizawa was offering you. “That’s fine. I was going to stop by this one restaurant nearby anyways. There’s a train station not far from it.”

The three of you now standing in the hallway, flourenscent lights reflecting on the shiny stone floors, you look between the two men.

“W-Wait you don’t have to–” your voice is quiet as the two continue speaking as if you weren’t even in there.

“Ah, so it works out then. I’ll be back on campus by around 10, hopefully the dorms won't be burned down by then.”

Kan laughs and sets up the map feature for the walk to the restaurant. “With this year’s class I wouldn’t be surprised. But Toshinori is covering your students, so they should be ok.”

Words dead in your throat, your body acts on autopilot to wave goodbye to the pro-hero as Aizawa stands beside you; once Kan disappears into the elevator, you snap back into reality.

“Wait. You don’t need to do all of this! I’ll be ok.”

Aizawa turns and finally looks down at you with a neutral face as if he had offered you advice on a good recipe he heard of, not a ride home in his car.

“It’s dangerous to walk around late at night.”

You raise an eyebrow and spin to head towards the printer. “Why, because I’m a lady?”

“Yes. And, you’re working with heroes carrying important legal information. That makes you an even bigger target.” He replies while following you.

You purse your lips and line up the first set of documents into the tray before tapping though the options on the screen, “Touche.”

Aizawa watches you start the scan, collect the papers, and load up the next set to the tray. You’ve done this a million times before, but having an audience watch your every move is a mix of comforting at the company and nerve wracking considering it’s him.

He sits in a plush office seat facing the printer and crosses his legs in contentment while resting his head in his hand.

“Do you usually work this late?”

You load the next set of papers and look at the screen option selections. “Mmm, sometimes. When there’s big cases like this one… yea. Sometimes later.”

Aizawa grunts and peers out of the window. “It’s bad to head home so late… and alone.”

The word choice makes your gut stir in multiple ways; anticipation and curiosity at his tone leaves you speechless for a moment. Whirring as it scans the next set of papers, you rock back on your heels and glance over at the man.

“Keigo walks me home sometimes.”

He holds your gaze and his jaw tightens at the mention of Keigo’s name; he swings his leg off the other and splays his thighs to sit back in the chair more comfortably. The movement has your gaze lingering on the muscular swell of his legs a moment too long before awkwardly spinning back around to load in the next set of documents.

Aizawa exhales as you place the last set of papers in the tray and press the ‘start’ button to finish the scan. “You should’ve told me– or someone– to bring you home all those times.”

His subtle save at offering anybody else in helping you home leaves a warm feeling in your chest; you collect the papers and stack them into the same neat pile before motioning for him to follow you.

Heels clicking softly, you head over to your cubicle near your mentor’s main office. “Well, you’re here now to bring me home. So it's ok.” You place the stack on your desk and slide out your rolling chair.

Aizawa leans against the half-wall and watches the way you sit in front of your computer and pull up the new scans that have been forwarded to your email. Silently, he pushes off the wall and walks over to another cubicle to roll your colleague's office chair over to your own.

“Sorry, this must be pretty boring.” You mumble, saving the documents into new folders based on the signature’s name.

The man beside you hums and pulls out his phone to sort through his messages, clearly in no rush to go home.

Minutes feels like hours, and it takes roughly 90 minutes to have everything organized in digital folders on the company cloud, email all recipients their respective copy, and prepare an outline of the prosecution timeline. Tomorrow you could better go through the individual charges and sort out which court the case would be filtering through; sitting back in your chair, you crack your back while raising your arms above your head.

Satisfied with the few ‘pops’ that emit from your spine, you spin in your chair and peer over at the empty space where Aizawa had been sitting. When did he leave? Putting your computer on sleep mode, you stand and push in your chair before returning your coworker’s seat to their cubicle.

Most overhead lights are off, and while you slide your belongings into your soft briefcase, a set of footsteps echoes on the granite floor. Only throwing your winter puffer coat over your blazer and straightening out your skirt does a voice ring out.

“Oh, you're finished?”

Aizawa stands at the entrance of your cubicle with two paper cups of coffee and a small bag of chips tucked under his arm.

“I grabbed these in case you needed more time…”

Blinking for a moment, a grin spreads across your lips as you take the snack from under his arm and place it on your desk. “You didn’t need to do that.”

“Maybe, the two coffees were for me.”

Aizawa cracks a small smirk as you shake your head and graciously take a cup from his hand and blow away the steam. “Thank you, though. That's very sweet of you.”

He smiles gently back at you, a small heat on his cheeks, before pivoting to take in the dark and emptiness of the office around you. It’s cold and lonely; the large glass windows reflect the city lights and the lack of color in the furniture limits the personality of the building.

“Ready? I parked in the garage underground; I assume we can just take the elevator down?”

“Yep.”

You adjust the straps of your briefcase and walk next to him, heart pounding at the proximity despite sitting next to him for the past 2 hours. Aizawa matches your speed and eyes the way you fiddle with the bag to get a better weight balance; your winter coat causes the fabric to slip off your shoulder occasionally.

“Here, let me.”

Deft hands wrap around the leather, and you pause in surprise before tilting your head down for him to slide the straps off. Silently, Aizawa places it on his own shoulder and motions for you to continue walking towards the elevator.

“You didn’t have to do that either; it’s kinda heavy…”

Aizawa doesn’t answer for a moment before pressing the call button for the lift and shrugging. “It’s pretty light. Besides, it’s probably annoying to carry this while wearing those.”

He points to your puffy coat and kitten heeled shoes when the elevator dings upon arrival and you both step in. The silence in between your conversation isn’t awkward or forced; the casualness of it all makes your heart swell in a domestic sort of way.

“It should be part of hero training for you. Saving people in heels would be the needed score to pass.”

“That sounds more like torture.” He rolls his eyes but keeps a small grin on his lips.

“Oh? Think you would fail?”

The elevator descends down to the level -3 and you both step out into the cold and lonely parking garage. Most cars have left, and the only two you can spot are two sedans; a sleek black model and an older gray one. Aizawa digs out his car keys and unlocks the newer car from a distance causing the headlights to turn on; walking past the silver car, you notice the windows are completely fogged.

“Huh?”

You both pause and watch the car for a moment before an embarrassed blush covers both of your faces; it jerks side to side on occasion before a hand shoots up to blur the condensation of the fog on the back passenger window. Both you and Aizawa stand there for a moment in shock at the scene before awkwardly turning your attention back to his car and walking faster.

“Well.. uh, i guess a few people were working late–” he awkwardly mumbles, opening the driver’s door and sliding behind the wheel.

You take your briefcase back from his hands and place it at your feet while buckling, “oh.. Yea.”

It’s an uncomfortable atmosphere that Aizawa notices before he reaches forward to turn on the radio and steer the car towards the garage exit. The last station playing was a real time news outlet relaying current events and traffic information on the nearby highways.

He rolls down his window to scan the paper visitor pass before the gate opens up and the car pulls into the street.

“Where are we headed?”

“Oh, right!” you sit upright and tap the address to your apartment on the screen of the car navigation system before sheepishly apologizing.

The open endedness of the question isn’t lost on you though, he was asking where to go… not necessarily implying you two were going straight to dropping you off. Did he want to get a drink? Go for a drive? Maybe–

“Why do you keep doing that?”

His voice is deep and sincere while his eyes occasionally drift off the road to look over at you; short winter parka still zipped up to your chin, you tilt your head in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Smooth hands turn the wheel at an intersection before the car rolls to a stop at a light; red LEDs painting you both in a warm glow.

“You keep apologizing. Why?”

“I don’t know…” you dig your chin into your coat collar and look out the windshield at the car ahead of you before glancing back at Aizawa. “I just feel bad when people go out of their way when it’s unnecessary.”

A short horn peels his attention back to the road; the light now green and his foot hitting the acceleration from the impatient driver behind you both. A sigh escapes his lips as he occasionally glances between the road, the navigation, and you.

“It’s not unnecessary. Helping you isn’t unnecessary… I offered because I want to, not because I’m obligated to.”

Heat rises to your face and you squirm slightly in your seat at the conversation; the intensity and confidence in his own explanation makes your pulse spike. You absentmindedly tap against the window button on the side of the car door and glance at the passing buildings as the scenery becomes more residential from the proximity to your neighborhood.

“But it is your obligation. You’re a hero so… you have to do nice things.”

It’s the only thought that prevents you from fully believing the man at your side was giving you special treatment and not simply fulfilling his usual role of assisting people. Now that it hangs in the air, Aizawa remains quiet for a moment with his hands tracing the seam of the leather wheel in silent thought.

“Listen, y/n.. I–”

RING!

Aizawa is cut off by your cell phone buzzing away in your bag which instantly cuts the tension in the situation. With a sigh and slight apology, you lean over to dig through the contents of your leather briefcase before pulling out your phone and rolling your eyes at the caller ID plastered on the screen.

Incoming Call: Bird Brain [Keigo]

Decline Accept

Aizawa motions for you to answer, unable to read the person’s contact on the screen and continues driving; his eyes linger on you through his peripherals as you scoff while accepting the call.

“What do you want?”

“Woaaaa what’s with the hostility right away? I haven’t even said anything~” Keigo’s voice jokes from the other side of the line.

You lean against the window and watch the traffic trickle to nearly nothing as Aizawa keeps his eyes on the road. You weren’t particularly in the mood for a phone call with him right now; too tired from a long day of work to hear about whatever ramblings he had this time.

“Ok, fine. What’s up?”

He laughs lightly on the other side. “Well, since you haven’t answered any of my texts, I wanted to know if you wanted to stop by that chicken place I sent you.”

You glance at the clock on the car screen and raise an eyebrow. “At this hour? Aren’t they probably closed?”

Keigo doesn’t answer for a moment, the sound of a microwave beeping in the background and feet shuffling can be heard before he answers. “Yea, they are.”

“Then why are you–”

This prick. He’s obviously not still out, considering the background noise of kitchen equipment and suddenly an array of slight construction work can be heard on the other end.

You sit up right and clench the phone tight in your hand; Aizawa looks over and raises an eyebrow, ready to ask if you’re alright before you raise your voice into the phone.

“Are you at my apartment?!”

Keigo presumably shuts the microwave door and leans into his shoulder holding up the phone with a laugh. “Hey~ winner winner, chicken din–”

“You asshole; what’s the point of asking me to dinner if you’re already at my house?”

A slight curse from the temperature of the plate causes Keigo to pause before replying. “So you can’t skip out on it. Duh. I picked it up earlier after my parole and figured you would probably be getting off work around now.”

If Aizawa was doing his very best not to eavesdrop earlier, he made no effort to hide it now. You give him an apologetic glance while his eyebrows are furrowed at the conversation; his jaw noticeably tighter ever since the phrase ‘ask me to dinner’ left your lips.

Pinching your temple with your thumb and index finger, you lean against the cool glass of the window and sigh. “Alright, whatever. I’ll be home in–” you glance at the navigation, “3 minutes. So please don’t burn down my apartment in the meantime.”

“No promises~”

Silently cursing yourself for ever giving him a spare key, you end the call and rub your temples in stress from his stupid antics. Aizawa swallows thickly and continues down the road, your apartment building and slight scaffolding from renovations, coming into view.

“Is everything alright?”

His voice causes you to look up and face the man at your side, suddenly embarrassed for how much of a bitch you probably sounded like when yelling at your friend on the phone. Cutting your losses, you shrug and slide your phone into your pocket as Aizawa turns into the parking lot.

“Yea, just Keigo inviting himself over. As usual.”

Sucking in the flesh of his cheek between his molars, Aizawa glides the vehicle into a ‘Visitor - 15 Minute Parking’ spot but keeping his foot on the brake and the car in drive. You shuffle to organize your belongings as the news continues playing in the background while Aizawa plugs in the directions back to UA campus.

“Does he do that a lot?”

You look up from your briefcase at the man and shrug slightly. “Yea, kinda.”

He nods once and turns back to the screen before frowning and glancing back at you; a serious look on his face now as a million indiscernible thoughts run through his head.

“Maybe we should cancel next week.”

Huh?

Your heart drops to your stomach, and you turn your head up at him so fast that your neck nearly cracks from the speed.

“W-what? Why?”

Aizawa awkwardly scratches the light scruff on his chin that has already begun to grow back from yesterday’s shave. “It would impose on what you and...him have going on. I don’t want to make things weird between you two.”

…

Me and… him?

“Him…? -KEIGO?”

Aizawa winces at the tone before looking at you as if you were the crazy one in this conversation. Sitting back upright in your seat, briefcase haphazardly open at your feet, you bring your hands up and shake your head violently.

“Yea, you two are close–”

“No!” you wave your hands again “I mean, yes, we’re close. But not like that. We’re best friends, not anything else.”

Aizawa silently calculates your response and watches the way you’ve spun in your seat to lean closer to the center console to deny his suspension. Taking a few deep breaths, you calm down and stare into his dark eyes, silently trying to communicate you’re serious.

He waits a moment and wets his lips; his eyes never leaving yours. “That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

Your immediate response is a bit desperate, but you’d be damned if you let Keigo indirectly cause your date(?) to be canceled. Aizawa nods once, his foot still on the break but his body facing yours; the proximity and intensity of the situation causes arousal to pool in the fabric of your panties.

He swallows thickly once more, his eyes leaving your own to now stare down at the shine of chapstick on your lips. “So he won’t mind that we’re getting dinner next week?”

Your own gaze lingers on his lips as you lean in slightly to portray more certainty. “No, he won’t.”

Aizawa nods once, his eyes flickering up to yours for a moment before settling back down your lips. In a moment of clarity, he begins backing up in his seat, realizing the thick sexual tension in the atmosphere before you lean in again.

“He won’t mind–...”

Your words trail off, but the bait works as Aizawa leans back down again, presumably to continue the conversation before you pivot forward and connect your lips to his. It only lasts a few seconds, and the stiffness of his lips makes your heart rate spike.

Fuck. what if he didn’t–

“Hmpf”

Before you can overanalyze the aftermath of your actions, Aizawa snakes his hand up behind your head and tugs your lips back into his with force. Eyes fluttering shut and cunt clenching pathetically around nothing, your hand digs into the fabric of his hero uniform and pulls him in even closer.

Head tilting slightly, you part your lips to breathe for a moment before reconnecting your lips; the kiss no longer timid but now full of desperation and longing. Pouring all the pitiful months you spent thinking about him into the action, Aizawa doesn't hesitate to meet the intensity with equal force.

Your nose brushing into his cheek while the slight stubble rubs into the flesh of your chin, your hand raises to wrap around his shoulders and grab at his long, unruly hair. The kiss stays closed-mouth until his lips part slightly to lick your own in a silent question to open; the moment they do, his tongue is snaking inside your mouth and grinding against your own.

Hot muscle running along yours, the bitter taste of black coffee makes your mind fuzzy as your fingers pull at the long tresses of his hair. On one particular tug, a groan escapes his throat and reverberates on your lips before the car jerks.

“Oh.. shit–”

Aizawa releases his gentle hold on your waist from over the console and pivots his body back to the wheel. “Forgot to put this in park. Heh..”

Hand firmly adjusting the shifter and sliding it to ‘park’, you barely have a moment to wonder if the moment is over before he’s clicking off his seat belt and leaning in once again. Effectively silenced by his tongue, your hands wrap around his neck again and find solace in his hair; lips chasing yours every time you part for air, Aizawa runs his tongue against yours one more time before sitting back slightly.

Saliva running down the corner of your lips, your hand lifts to wipe it away while panting and staring at the man in front of you. Aizawa’s pupils are blown wide, causing his already dark eyes to become even more unreadable as he stares at you like prey; his chest lifts with each pant escaping his lips.

Blinking once, but not moving, you sit up slightly and glance towards the back seat with a mind hazy with pent up sexual desire. Sure, you didn’t expect to be so horny as to silently offer fucking in the back seat of his car…but desperate times call for…

Aizawa doesn’t give you the chance to finish the thought process, instead he reaches over to release the seat belt holding you to the passenger seat and wraps his fingers around the zipper of your coat. Only tugging it down maybe 6 inches from your chin, he tugs the fabric open as his eyes are locked on your throat the same way a wolf stalks a rabbit.

Pulse beating rapidly, he doesn’t hesitate to lean into the warmth of your neck and connect his lips to the flesh in an array of open mouth kisses. Gasp escaping your lips as Aizawa’s free hands reaches up to tug your head juuust slightly to the side to allow for more room, his teeth begin to sink into the delicate flesh.

“Oh… fuck-”

Bitting your lip to prevent from embarrassing yourself further, Aizawa’s lips find the thrumming heart rate on your pulse point and latch his mouth to the area in a drunken haze. His body is half over the shallow console, pining you to the leather seat and car door as his mouth sucks ugly purple bruises all over the flesh of your neck.

Nimble fingers rub circles into your hips with enough force that you can feel the pressure of his fingertips through the thick pencil skirt and lower portion of your blazer; your hands tug at the strands of his hair while clawing at him in a desperate attempt to be closer, closer, closer.

You need him. Pussy aching and dripping into the flimsy fabric of your panties leaves your thighs sticky and desperately rubbing together in a pathetic heat to ease the desire.

A hot tongue runs down the side of your neck to soothe the bullied skin while the tip of Aizawa’s nose tickles the flesh just under your ear. Hips twitching at the sensation as your mind becomes a puddle of feral attraction.

“Stop squirming.” Strong hands push you further into the seat as Aizawa glances at your drunken face before moving hair away from the other side of your neck. “Gotta keep still f’me.”

Lips latching on to the other side of your throat, your back arches uncomfortably in the car and you tilt your hips further into his hands. Surely he’s just as horny as you are.. So why won’t he…?

“A-Aizawa–”

“Shōta.” He corrects, before digging his canines into the flesh just above where your pretty corporate button up sits on your neck.

“...shit.. S-Shōta–” Mind reeling as your hands leave the mess of his hair and fall to his capture weapon, pathetically clawing at it to loosen from his shoulders.

As soon as you’re able to pull maybe a single loop of the scarf from his neck, Aizawa backs up away from your bruised throat and wraps a hand around your own. A silent plea to stop, your fingers drop the material and peer up at him as you both pant and take in the moment around you.

“Is something..wrong?” You question nervously, wondering if you had been rushing things.

Aizawa breathes deeply a few more times, his lips swollen from their suction on your neck, and focuses his breath to calm himself rather than calm you.

“Not like this… I can’t do this with you, in here.” He motions to the car and shuts his eyes for a brief moment, using all the strength in the world to not pivot you both to the back seat and continue where you left off. “I want this, but– it needs to happen a certain way… a better way. It would be rude to take you in here when I’ve already planned it out properly.”

If you weren’t completely drunk in sexual desire, your heart would be doing cartwheels at his desperate admission to imagining having sex with you in a more gentlemanly fashion than the back seat of his car. It’s honestly more chivalrous than half the shitty dates you’ve been on.

Panting slightly and sitting upright, you nod and try to cool yourself off from the situation; the 'what the fuck just happened' topic lingers in the air. Brushing through your hair and zipping your coat up to your chin once more; a nervous anticipation builds as you can feel the slick in your panties stick to your thighs.

He was able to get you so embarrassingly wet without even removing either of your clothes. Bicep flexing in his shirt as he adjusts his capture weapon, you silently settle on the outcome that you were absolutely fucked.

Aizawa shifts uncomfortably in his seat and positions his seat belt delicately across his waist; the action makes your eyes dip down to the very noticeable erection in his pants before embarrassingly peeling away.

“I guess I should go inside then.” You offer awkwardly while sliding the briefcase strap over your shoulder.

“Yea...”

Aizawa swallows thickly and taps on the navigation screen for the fastest route back to UA while you open the passenger side door and wince at the cold wind blowing. Not totally standing upright, you pivot back to face him and take a breath of sexual-tension-induced courage.

“So, I’ll see you next week then? For our date?”

The wording makes Aizawa whip his head in your direction this time, and his eyes are wide with dusted cheeks; he looks as if he wasn’t just sucking the nastiest bruises into your neck. “O-Oh, yea of course. Our date.”

You smile at his sudden reserved nature and lean over to plant a small kiss to the side of his cheek; lips brushing his slight stubble before you fully stand up and exit the car. Aizawa cranes his neck to watch you through the passenger window as you shut the door and offer a slight wave before running to the lobby of your apartment building to escape the winter wind.

His hand grazing the spot where you kissed him, Aizawa’s brain finally catches up with what just happened as all the oxygen escapes his lungs. You watch him from the entrance for a moment, enjoying the heat and giggling as he takes several minutes to compose himself. Phone pinging with ‘WYA’ messages from Keigo, you don’t bother to take your eyes off his car until it leaves the parking lot and drives down the road out of view.

a/n : its finally doneeee

I've finally found a better way to get into writing and the speed at which i finished this is kinda impressive

ANYWAYS, it's getting steamy and i'm thinking of making ch.5 a whole moment hehe [plot will still be continuing dw, we will eventually fully learn what happened that night ;) ]

reblogs/comments/likes all appreciated! lmk if you wanna join the tag list

-oatmeal <33

Tags: @idkidk32 @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @aizawasbaeee @smashley351 @beachaddict48 @lynnesm @lashaemorow @kriscr0ss @hotvillianapologist @loverofdeepspace

#aizawa shouta x reader #aizawa shota #aizawa shouta #aizawa shouta smut #aizawa smut #aizawa shouta x reader smut #aizawa shota x reader smut #bnha x reader #bnha x reader smut #bnha smut #mha x reader #mha x reader smut #mha smut #oamtealwritesaizawa #oatmealwordsaizawa

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ak319 · 20 days ago

Text

Yan G!P Princess x fem reader

Part XII ➺ Prev

⤷ Series m.list

Warnings/MDNI: Suggestive content.

tag: @nayykura

By 11 a.m., you’re already in the car, heading to the Vanity Blast match. You sit by the window, the faint hum of the engine filling the silence, your gaze fixed on the world outside. Dressed in a casual shirt and jeans, you look effortlessly simple, but that simplicity seems to chip away at Kade’s composure.

Seated beside you, Kade leans back with her hands folded neatly on her lap, though her thoughts are far from orderly. Her eyes, despite her best efforts to keep them straight ahead, keep drifting toward you. There’s something about the way the fabric of your shirt hugs your frame, the unguarded nature of your posture as you lean slightly against the window, that stirs something in her. It’s not jealousy exactly, no, she knows no one else will have you, but rather an unsettling discomfort.

Her lips press into a thin line. Jeans, she muses with a faint frown. They make you look so... casual. Reminds her of the time when she first laid her eyes on you. So unbound by the rigid expectations she’s used to. A part of her wonders if this is intentional, a quiet rebellion to irritate her. And it does. It’s not that she wants you in pearls and tailored dresses, but this look, it’s too relaxed, too untouchable.

Bloody sexy. Yeah, that's the right word.

But that's what she hated. There's going to be a whole fucking stadium and cameras...and even...

"You seem quiet," she remarks finally, her voice slicing through the stillness.

You don’t turn, your gaze fixed out the window, lost in thought.

Still, she hums softly, almost to herself, her fingers tapping a rhythmic pattern against the leather seat. Her eyes wander from your profile, lingering on the subtle details the way your hair brushes your shoulders, the light glinting against your skin, the tension etched in your posture.

"Stay close to me there, okay? Wouldn’t want you getting lost, darling."

Her hand reaches for yours, lifting it gently before pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles, the one with the ring. She didn't need to remind you this time--Katie is also doing a good job keeping track of details. You’re finally learning.

Look at you.....good little wifey.

════∘◦❁◦∘════

The car slows to a halt at the stadium’s VIP entrance, the low hum of the crowd outside filtering through the tinted windows. The energy is palpable even here fans chanting, flags waving, and the occasional pop of a camera flash trying to catch a glimpse of the royals’ arrival.

Kade steps out first, effortlessly poised, her navy blue shirt highlighting her body, no less of an athlete, as she scans the scene with a practiced air of control. The subtle nod she gives to the security team sends them into motion, forming a barrier between the media frenzy and the entrance. Then, she turns, her hand extending toward you.

You hesitate for the briefest moment before taking it, stepping out of the car into the flurry of noise and motion. The sharp click of cameras follows every step as Kade’s grip tightens, guiding you close to her side. You glance up at the towering stadium, its massive LED screens broadcasting highlights of the match ahead.

“Smile,” she murmurs under her breath, her lips barely moving. “You’ll thank me later.”

You offer a faint smile, though it feels more like a reflex than anything genuine. The cameras don’t miss it, their flashes bright and relentless. Kade glances down at you briefly, her hazel eyes scrutinizing your expression before she turns back to the path ahead.

The two of you make your way inside, the stadium’s interior a mix of opulence and raw excitement. Polished marble floors gleam underfoot, contrasting with the distant roar of the crowd echoing from the arena. A dedicated royal lounge awaits on one of the upper levels, offering a panoramic view of the pitch and a degree of separation from the public chaos below.

As you ascend the private elevator, the silence between you and Kade feels almost suffocating. Her hand remains on your lower back, as in hips, firm. You glance at her out of the corner of your eye, catching the faint furrow of her brow as she stares straight ahead.

"You’re tense." You slide of her arm swiftly irritated internally which she expected anyway.

"I’m not," she replies curtly, though her clipped tone suggests otherwise.

The elevator doors slide open, revealing the lavishly furnished lounge. Plush seating surrounds a sleek glass coffee table, and a catering team stands ready with an array of refreshments. The large windows offer an unobstructed view of the stadium, the green pitch vivid under the midday sun.

Kade steps aside to let you enter first, her gaze briefly scanning the space before she gestures for one of the staff to leave. “Make yourself comfortable, love.” she says, her voice more controlled now, though the edge hasn’t entirely faded.

You wander toward the windows, hands slipping into your jeans’ pockets as you watch the players warming up on the field below. The roar of the crowd swells, and for a moment, you lose yourself in the sheer scale of it all. The pitch looks pristine, the kind of field you used to dream of playing on when you were in high school, the sheer scale of it all.

Ah, what a sport it is. The sight pulls you in, stirring a memory of those carefree days when cricket was more than a hobby; it was a rush, an escape. At the palace, it’s still an escape, albeit in a different way. Stealing moments to play on the manicured lawn when it gets too...overwhelming, with whoever you can drag into a game, is one of the few times you feel like yourself. But now...it leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, even seeing others play it, and even the ones cheering. They are there in the open enjoying it, freely, and the ones playing are free and here you are encaged, because of this sport.

Behind you, Kade moves with the same deliberate grace as always, though her eyes drift to you, your posture, your outfit.

"Kade, we will go down there once the match is over right?"

"Yes...we will. Why?"

"Nothing. Just wanted to."

"Course we will. To greet the players and...whatnot." there was a slight grimace in her voice which you caught on but didn't give flying fucks about but you knew why she was starting to get riled up.

Reece.

════∘◦❁◦∘════

The match ends with a triumphant roar from the crowd, a thunderous applause shaking the stadium as the women’s team gathers in a celebratory huddle. The energy is infectious, even for you. Now time for you both to meet the players. As the royal party is escorted down to the field, you find yourself smiling despite everything, a genuine smile, not the polite one plastered on your face during public appearances.

Kade walks a step ahead of you, her greetings leading yours. She watches as you step forward, seamlessly charming your way into the circle of victorious athletes. You extend your hand to one of the players, your posture relaxed but poised.

"Congratulations," you say warmly, and the player beams as she shakes your hand. "You were incredible out there. That second boundary? Textbook perfection."

The woman chuckles, rubbing the back of her neck. “Thank you, Your Highness. That means a lot coming from you.”

"You’d make an excellent coach," another player from the rival team teased, stepping forward to greet you. She’s tall, broad-shouldered, and carrying the kind of confident air Kade recognizes all too well. But what stings more is the way the player’s attention seems entirely focused on you.

"Me?! Oh, I wouldn’t dare," you laugh, shaking her hand with the same easy charm. "But I might steal a few of your techniques if you don’t mind, Briar."

The group laughs, and Kade stands back, observing. She’s hyper-aware of every movement, every smile you offer, every smile you receive. You’re relaxed, at ease, and for a moment, she wonders if she’s ever seen you like this in her presence. You’re glowing, bright, unguarded, and it draws people to you like a moth to a flame. It’s infuriating and captivating all at once.

"That’s quite the compliment, princess," the same player says, her tone just a touch flirtatious.

The fuck she------relax it's just a title. Kade’s jaw tightens imperceptibly, but she keeps her face composed, her hands clasped behind her back.

“Only if it’s deserved,” you reply lightly, turning to the captain. “You’ve done an amazing job leading the team. It’s not just skill, it’s discipline and teamwork. Really, it’s inspiring.”

The captain, whose jersey said, Lennon , added in smiling. “Coming from you, Your Highness, that’s high praise. We’ve heard you were a player yourself?”

You nod, modestly brushing off the attention. “High school days, nothing like this. But I know how much work goes into what you’ve achieved here.”

As you converse with the team, Kade chips in, offering her comments about the game, her presence commanding as always. The conversation shifts as they turn their attention to her, the weight of her status palpable even in this informal setting. Yet, her responses are brief, her smile tight, her eyes always drifting back to you.

You’re still smiling, still engaging effortlessly, and Kade feels a knot tightening in her chest. She knows it’s ridiculous, irrational even, but seeing the ease with which others bask in your warmth makes her chest burn. The possessive edge she tries to keep buried starts to creep to the surface.

As the players begin to disperse, one of them, Nadia, definition of macho, as in sharp jawline and tanned skin with soft hazel curls stepped forward with a teasing glint in her eyes. “We’ll have to invite you to join us for a game sometime, Your Highness. Bet you’d give us a run for our money.”

Before Kade can interject, you brighten instantly, your eyes lighting up. “Absolutely! Can we do it now?!” you say, your enthusiasm spilling out before you can temper it. "I’d love to."

"Is that so?"

Here she comes.

"Kade, my girl. How are you?" The two embrace, and then Reece turns to you. "Deni-I mean, Your Royal Highness. What an honor to meet you."

You were seething inside, but you smiled back. If Kade’s a bit pissed, then who are you to not enjoy being the center of attention from a horde of hotties? Reece, however, isn’t on that list anymore. She could never be the same for you and you don't want her to be anyway. Disgusting women both of them.

"I’m great," you replied smoothly, a flicker of something sly passing through your expression. "So Nadia here was challenging me. Guess I shouldn’t keep them waiting."

“I remember you being quite the bowler back in the day.”

You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you. “Oh, come on, Reece. That was high school.”

“Still. Girls, Princess Deniz here was one of the best,” Reece says, her smile genuine. "Let’s see if you’ve still got it."

"I never lost it."

With that, the girls led you to the field, while Kade and Reece stood off to the side.

Nadia practically drags you to the field while Kade stays rooted, her arms crossing tightly over her chest as Reece steps up beside her.

“You alright, Kade?” Reece asks casually, though her tone is slightly pointed.

“Perfectly,” Kade replies, her voice clipped. Her eyes don’t leave you as you take the ball, rolling your shoulders before lining up your first bowl.

Those motherfucking jeans.

Okay now she really wants you to drag you away or stay long enough to take you raw on the pitch-

"So uh-

"Hm?"

Reece gave Kade a confused stare before continuing, her voice light but curious. "I was saying, has she been practicing? Still has the form, doesn’t she?"

Kade nodded stiffly. "Yeah, she plays from time to time." Her eyes wandered to the batswoman hitting a four.

Reece smirked, her eyes glinting mischievously. "Guess you’re keeping her plenty active then."

Kade’s head tilted sharply toward her, a thin veil of calm masking her irritation. The words hit too close to home, it seemed. "I’d appreciate it if you kept your innuendos to yourself."

Reece laughed, nudging her playfully. "Oh, come on. That wasn’t even that bad. Touchy as always, aren’t ya?" For Reece, Kade's princess language and tone will forever be funny.

Kade’s jaw tightened, her words clipped but deliberate. "It was different before but now she has my name attached to her now, and that name demands respect."

Reece raised her hands in mock surrender, though her grin stayed firmly in place. "Alright, alright. No need to bite my head off, Your Royal Highness. I get it. You win. I am happy for you though , sis."

"Anyway, how's yours. Girlfriend or is it more now?."

"Engaged yes, wedding gonna be soon. Would love for you to attend. Also...a kid on along the way."

Of course.

Another couple basking in their perfect little fairytale. Their fucking breeding stage. Meanwhile, here she was, with a wife who could barely stand to look at her. No sign of consummation. No sign of progress.

Just fucking great.

"Congrats," Kade forced out, her tone clipped but polite. "She not here? I thought it’d be good for them to meet. Seems… fitting."

"Thanks," Reece said, her lips quirking into a faint smile. "But no, I don’t bring her to too many matches unless it’s something really big. She’s not much for the crowds or the noise. Besides," she added with a nonchalant shrug, "home’s where she belongs anyway. Get what I mean?"

"Mhm. Must be nice. Happy for you."

"Oh, looks like they waiting for you now. Go on, show her who's the real player."

Kade scoffed internally and made way with her ever charming smile plastered.

Amy: "Oh! What's this? Looks like a battle is about to unfold between the royal couple! How sweet! Let’s see how well Princess Kade plays against her own wife. I reckon this is going to be another one of those moments that's going to be captured for sure, just like that iconic shot at the airport, huh?"

James: "Absolutely! It’s going to be a spectacle, Amy. And speaking of the Princess, did you know that Milford was the captain of the team back in high school? Princess Deniz was in the same squad. The trio, Kade, Deniz, and Reece, are incredibly close, and I’d wager that with Reece as her mentor, the new Princess has more than a few tricks up her sleeve."

Amy: "Oh, for sure! But, I don’t know, James, I think Princess Deniz is more of a baller, if you ask me. She’s got that fierce edge. But let’s not jump to conclusions. Let’s see if she’s the new star of the field, or if Kade’s gonna steal the show today!"

The players exchanged quick words as Kade strode onto the field, her imposing figure drawing immediate attention. She adjusted her grip on the bat, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips as she glanced at you from the crease. The look in her hazel eyes was almost a challenge, as if daring you to bring your best.

You rolled the ball in your hand, your jaw set and your mind focused. Alright, Kade, you thought to yourself. First ball. You're out.

She stood ready, confident, her stance solid and self-assured. The crowd’s distant hum faded as you took your position. You drew in a deep breath, spun the ball one last time, and then sprinted forward, your arm swinging with precision as you delivered the ball.

The delivery was sharp, aimed just outside off-stump, with a deceptive spin. Kade’s eyes narrowed as she stepped forward, her bat swinging to meet it. But the spin was faster, sharper than she’d anticipated. It clipped the edge of her bat, shooting straight into the waiting hands of the fielder at slip.

"OUT!" the umpire, too enjoying it, called, raising a finger.

The field erupted into cheers, the players clapping and hooting on the side. You let out a triumphant laugh, unable to stop the wide grin spreading across your face. The other players were laughing and clapping, clearly enjoying the spectacle of her rare defeat, but Kade played along as if it didn’t bother her.

"Well, that was something," Reece chuckled, slapping Kade on the back. "Guess you can’t underestimate your wife, huh?"

Kade tilted her head, her smile widening. "Never doubted her for a second," she said smoothly, her voice loud enough for everyone to hear. She glanced at you, standing with the ball in hand and a triumphant glint in your eyes. "She’s just full of surprises, isn’t she?"

The team laughed, some of the players teasingly ribbing Kade about her dismissal. "She’s ruthless!" one of them, Aria, joked, grinning your way. "Bet she’s been waiting for this moment!"

"Oh, absolutely," Kade replied, chuckling along, though her fingers tightened ever so slightly on the bat’s handle. She exuded pride on the surface, clapping when someone else praised your skills and even joining in on a few compliments of her own. "That’s my wife," she added, her tone affectionate and warm enough to convince everyone in earshot.

But inside? Inside, Kade was raging.

The sheer audacity. Out on the first ball? Really? The thought looped in her head, her irritation simmering beneath the calm mask she wore. She’d never admit it, but watching you celebrate your victory, watching the way the players gathered around you, grinning and singing your praises, made her blood boil.

She folded her arms, leaning casually against the railing beside Reece. "She really showed you up," Reece teased, clearly enjoying herself.

"You just taught her so well, didn't you?"

As you sauntered with a grin towards them, she paused, leaning in close enough that only you could hear her words. "You really had to do that, huh?" Her tone was low, almost amused but undeniably annoyed.

"Every single time," you replied with a shrug. "Howzat huh?"

"Well done, darling. You’ve officially become my biggest rival."

But you weren’t finished yet.

"Hey, Reece, you not playing?" you asked, tossing a glance her way.

"Uh-"

"Yeah, Reece, c’mon," Kade cut in, as she stuffed the bat into Reece’s hands. The aggressiveness that didn't go unnoticed by you. "Here. Show us what you’ve got."

Reece raised an amused brow but took the bat, adjusting her grip as she nodded. "Suurrrreee, why not, Kade."

As you and Reece walked back toward the pitch, she broke the silence with a casual question. "You not going to bat?"

You smirked, tossing her a sideways glance. "I’ll stick to what I’m good at."

"Aye, but don’t get too cocky. Unlike your wife, I’m not going to lose on purpose."

"She didn’t lose on purpose," you shot back, your tone sharper than you intended. "Kade never likes losing. As her best friend, I thought you’d know better."

Reece paused, her gaze flicking to you with a faint smirk. "Hm... sure, Deniz."

Oh, so that’s how it is, huh? Both of these arrogant fucking assholes.

"Take your place, Milford," you snapped, cutting off the conversation as you strode to your spot. Mentally, you were already plotting her downfall.

Doubting my skills? I’ll show you, you smug motherfu-

Amy: "OH! Reece takes one run. Perfect yorker by Princess Deniz, by the way. Neat. I almost feel like I'm watching a professional here."

James: "Right with you on that one, Amy. Oh, looks like she’s ready to roll again, and oh-"

YEAH! RIGHT UP YOUR ASS!

You couldn't help the wild, triumphant grin that spread across your face as Reece's wicket fell. You laughed, trying to keep your composure, but there was a rush of satisfaction coursing through you.

The team gathered around, congratulating you, but your eyes stayed on Reece for just a moment longer. That smirk she wore so confidently? Gone. In its place was a genuine smile one you knew would mean a lot more than any victory.

Oh, what a day. Even if it was just on the second ball, it was so... so fucking beautiful.

"You are on fire today, Deniz." Reece’s voice had a mix of admiration and disbelief, but you weren’t in the mood to let that go easily.

"Can't say the same about you."

Just as you were about to bask in your moment, you felt a familiar presence, Kade’s hand slipping around your waist, a subtle reminder of her ever-watchful nature. A low murmur of bodyguards filtered through the crowd, and Kade’s voice cut through, smooth but commanding.

"Enough playing. Time to go, darling. Girls! We’ll be sure to attend the finals, and I hope you make it to it."

"You can count on me pal." Reece patted her back. "And Deniz, proud of you as always."

"Not more than me."

She ended the exchange with that, her tone final, as photographers snapped a few quick pictures. Some of the players tried to pull out their phones for selfies, but of course, you weren't...allowed to. Guess the reason...

Sigh.

The management ushered everyone together for a quick group photo. You stood next to her, the team gathered around, and you couldn’t help but notice the way the others shot you playful glances, their admiration almost palpable. It was almost surreal, the spotlight shifting between Kade and you, and yet, the feeling was... oddly satisfying.

With the photo taken and a few more rushed pictures clicked, Kade immediately moved on, already guiding you away from the crowd.

"Alright, let's go. There's no time to linger." Her voice was sharp but carried a sense of finality.

Yeah, yeah... wallow in your embarrassment, Emsworth. You earned it.

════∘◦❁◦∘════

Back in the familiarity of the grand walls, you sigh softly, letting the tension of the day melt away. Kade walks a step behind you, her sour mood softened just slightly, perhaps a subtle acknowledgment of your exhaustion.

The staff greets you both with a quiet efficiency as you head upstairs. The moment you enter the bedroom, you don’t bother exchanging words. Instead, you head straight for the en-suite bathroom, already peeling off the layers of the day. Kade watches you go, her hazel eyes following your figure until you disappear behind the door.

Alone now, Kade exhales deeply, rolling her shoulders back as she sinks onto the edge of the bed, the plush mattress dipping under her weight. Her gaze flickers to the tray brought in moments earlier, your favorite tea steaming gently in its porcelain cup. She doesn't reach for it, though. Instead, her hand instinctively finds her phone, pulling it out as if to distract herself from the lingering restlessness clinging to her.

She scrolls for a moment, absently brushing her hair behind her ear, until a headline catches her eye.

“Royal Couple Turns Cricket Match into a Spectacle of Love and Rivalry.”

Kade snorts under her breath, opening the article. Her lips press into a thin line as she scans the accompanying photograph a candid shot of you mid-laugh with Lennon, the fucking captain, ball in hand, with Kade in the background, arms crossed, her expression somewhere between amused and exasperated.

The article gushes about your chemistry on the field, painting the day as a perfect display of royal charm and relatability. "A modern fairytale," it calls you.

“Modern fairytale, my ass,” Kade mutters, her tone dripping with sarcasm. Yet, she doesn’t stop reading.

The writer goes on to describe how your banter during the match was a "testament to their undeniable bond" and how the two of you seemed to balance each other perfectly with your playful competitiveness against her poised demeanor.

Kade’s lips twitch, torn between a scoff and a smile. All they captured was your skills, charm, and your personality. The new energetic and affable darling princess. What they didn’t see was the fire bubbling beneath her skin, the irritation from watching Reece’s familiarity with you, or the way her jaw clenched every time someone got too close. And the way you seem to really, really enjoy the attention.

She glances toward the bathroom door, half-expecting you to walk out any moment. Instead, a soft knock at the door draws her attention.

"Your Highness, your tea," a servant murmurs politely.

“It’s already here!” she calls back, her voice curt. She hears the faint shuffle of retreating footsteps and lets out a long sigh.

What a fucking day.

It wasn’t even the fact that she lost it was the fact that you had gone easy on everyone else. The others managed to hit fours, even ones. Reece too. But her? Not a single damn run. Out for a duck.

Kade’s jaw tightened as the scene replayed in her head. It wasn’t even a real match! Stop acting like such a child, Kade. Losing to your wife isn’t the end of the world-

Her fingers drummed against the edge of the phone, lips pressing into a thin line.

Hm...

A sudden thought struck her. She unlocked her phone, her fingers flying across the screen as she quickly typed out a message to her private journalist.

“Purposeful loss, always a loyal royal, Princess Kade.”

She reread the words, smirking to herself before hitting send.

"You better make it a good one, Jarek," she murmured under her breath, already imagining the headline. She needs to keep the public version of her, the composed royal, the perfect chivalrous spouse, a permanent thing. If she was going to lose, at least she’d control the narrative. Her pathetic fangirls would eat it up.

'Princess Kade is such a green flag! *insert squealing*'

Pft.

You came out in your comfort clothes, the soft cotton of your pajamas brushing against your skin. Kade’s gaze lifted from her phone, her lips curving into a faint smile as she spoke. "It's good that you changed into... pajamas. I thought we could spend the evening here and just not go downstairs-"

"Not even for dinner?"

"No."

You shrugged, sipping your tea as you plopped onto the bed. "Mhm, not hungry anyway."

Her hazel eyes trailed over you, lingering reverently as you scrolled on your phone.

"Enjoyed yourself today, I see..."

"Very."

"You still are, aren’t you?" she remarked, her tone tinged with dry amusement. "Reading those articles. I’m sure Julian will have a laugh tomorrow morning with this one."

You looked up briefly, smirking. "I didn’t ask you to lose. You just... did. I guess you were never good at cricket anyway-"

Kade’s lips twitched, her composure threatening to crack. "Well, perhaps because I play other sports. Or maybe because I don’t give a shit-"

Deep breaths, Kade. Deep breaths.

She swallowed the sharp retort sitting on her tongue, her jaw tightening ever so slightly. It’s not like you’ve ever asked me what I like or played anyway. Fine. It’s fine. Just tolerate it, Kade... like you always do.

"Sorry," she finally murmured, her tone clipped but steady. She stood, brushing invisible lint off her pants. "I’m going to freshen up, love."

Slam.

The sound of the bathroom door closing echoed through the room. You snorted, shaking your head. "Geez... what a drama queen." You settled deeper into the pillows, the soft warmth of the bed wrapping around you like a cocoon.

Grinning, you opened the match highlights again, the rush of satisfaction washing over you as you watched the video for what had to be the tenth time. God, that shot was gorgeous. Your smirk only grew as you replayed the moment Kade lost, the flush of frustration on her face burned into your memory.

"Royal Rivalry: Princess Kade Bowled Over by Her Wife’s Stunning Performance."

Your quiet giggles bubbled up again, uncontrollable this time. Oh, this is too good. Kade is going to combust. Did she already read it? Probably yes since how self-obsessed she is not to mention obsessed with your guys' relationship. You tapped the article open, the opening line already dripping with playful mockery.

You couldn’t believe it a faux, playful match had made you smile. A genuine smile, the first in days. Is this your bare minimum now? Giggling over headlines and the illusion of defiance? A bitter laugh escaped your lips as you scrolled back to the article, the warmth in your chest mingling with an ache you couldn’t quite shake.

God.

Which reminds you....

You still aren't done.

AN: Asks r open if u guys didn't notice :/

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menaiprowrestling · 8 months ago

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San Francisco 1960-1985. Part 2

The Lion Lounge was the worlds longest running all male strip club. It was in SF, open seven days a week, and between 1960 and 1985 was owned and run by partners Eddie Jones and Raymond O'Hare.

Eddie and Ray were huge pro wrestling nerds and actually met at a pro show in 1950, so when they bought the Lion Lounge they knew they wanted to feature live underground pro wrestling shows. There was an underserved market of pro fans who preferred their wrestling more 'intimate', and they planned to serve it. And then some.

In the main bar upstairs is where the strippers would work, however it was downstairs where the best action happened, if you were a pro wrestling fan. Only accessible by 'downstairs' club members, the basement was a dark, cozy affair, with room for around 40 members. There was a small bar at the back of the room and a pro wrestling ring in the middle of the room.

Things started off slow, as they gradually introduced the wrestling shows. The lounge had always been a strip joint, so that element kept the dollars coming in. They put on some small invite only shows, hoping to build up a following through word of mouth. It worked, and within six months there were wrestling shows every night, with a waiting list for membership. They also built up a network of wrestlers of all sizes, ages and styles, who'd come and wrestle every week. Other wrestlers who were in town for a few days or weeks would come down and wrestle too. It was a great way to make some extra cash, especially if you caught the eye of wealthy member. SF was a destination for a lot of people escaping their shitty small towns/relationships/lives etc, who wanted a new start. If they could wrestle they could try out. Eddie and Ray really looked after all their wrestlers, particularly the younger ones, or the ones down on their luck. Helping them find places to stay or get jobs, or medical attention and provide them with wrestling gear. Younger wrestlers who didn't cut it in the ring were often employed as bar/waiting staff or busboys etc. The older wrestlers would often be employed as bouncers. Some wrestlers came and went, others stayed over 20 years, in various roles. Lifelong friendships were made, tag teams formed, relationships blossomed along with flings, rivalries, fall outs, affairs and jealousies.

Friday and Saturday nights were dedicated to sex wrestling, featuring more defined, clean cut looking types. The wrestling was real, but the sex/gimmick was the focus on these nights, with oil, rip and strip, mud wrestling etc. Sometimes the guys would just wrestle naked.

The 'proper' pro action happened on the other nights. There was usually 3 matches per night, with a sex round after each bout, where the winner fucked the loser. If the match was a draw then the audience would decide who topped who.

Mondays was always the newcomers night, where the younger wrestlers would face off. It was vital to do well here to try and bump yourself up the card, get yourself more matches in the coming weeks and months, and most importantly gain fans, who'd want to come and see you every time you wrestled.

Tuesdays was for the more established younger wrestlers, while Wednesdays was the night for the members who liked to watch a mix of older vs younger fights (bear vs cub was popular) and dad/son vs dad/son tag matches.

Thursdays and Sundays were the nights for the popular big boys and Lion Lounge championship title holders. These were the nights to see some really incredible singles and tag matches with the most popular men. Always a mix of tough technical matches and all out bloody brutal brawls. There would always be at least one chain match on a Sunday. V popular with the leather/S&M crowd.

Outside, the venue would have photos in display cases (taken in a small studio at the top of the building by Eddie) showing that weeks performers. On one side of the entrance would be the strippers, the other side would be the wrestlers.

The images here are of some of the wrestlers over the years.

#beefy muscle #pro wrestling #gay wrestling #vintage pro wrestling #wrestling singlet #beefy daddy #big beefy bears

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holbrookswifey · 2 months ago

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Tag you're it

CM Punk (2024) x fem!reader

Summary: You're in a mixed tag team match against two of the Judgment Day members and after celebrating the win, you and CM Punk have a bit of fun backstage

Warnings: Smut MDNI 18+, unprotected sex, oral (M receiving), masturbation, public sex, slight name calling, major amounts of swearing

A/N: Any CM Punk girlies out there? I need more CM Punk mutuals 😅 He's starting to become one of my obsessions so I'm going to start writing for him too. Don't be afraid to send some requests in about anyone you'd like me to write about! I want to shout out my friend @metallicames because this poor woman has seen this obsession of mine more than anyone else and it's only been a week of this so bless her heart 😂___________________________________________

You and CM Punk are in a mixed tag team match against Dominik Mysterio and Liv Morgan due to their challenge so you and Punk couldn't resist nor back out. The Judgment Day have tried to attack both you and CM Punk but you both took all of them down and most of them have ran off, leaving you still fighting with Liv and Dominik.

Liv manages to land a few moves on you, causing you to tag Punk in and Dom comes in and fights him. As both men gather multiple hits on one another, Liv tries to attack Punk from behind before you intervene, landing a superman kick on her. The crowd roars in cheers as both of you manage to overpower Dom and Liv and gain the advantage.

You sling Liv over your shoulders as well as CM Punk doing the same with Dominik, both if you looking at each other with tired but determined faces, nodding to one another as you perform Punk's signature move on both of the JD members.

"GTS!!!" Michael Cole the commentator yells into his microphone, the crowd cheering louder than you've ever heard in your life. "CM Punk and Y/s/n just performed Go To Sleep on Dominik Mysterio and Liv Morgan!!" Pat McAfee also yells into his microphone.

Both you and Punk are panting heavily, sweat running down your bodies like both of you have ran a marathon without stopping. As quick as you can, both you and CM Punk pin down Liv and Dom, the referee slamming his hand down rhythmically to start the countdown. "1...2...3!!!" The crowd shouts and the bell rings to signal the fight is over. Your heart is racing and your breathing has elevated as the thrill of winning the match hits you like a tonne of bricks, the situation clicking into your head. You just won...

As you and Punk find the strength to stand up, you do a quick dap and although you aren't the hugging type, you both hug as well for a short while. You both look down to see Dom and Liv still on the ground, haven't recovered from the GTS you and Punk performed on them both, but the two of you head out of the ring and up the entrance ramp, heading back into backstage to recover from the match.

As the next matches commence for other wrestlers, you're sitting backstage and taking big mouthfuls from your water bottle to stay hydrated. Punk is doing the same thing, but he's only a few feet away from you, pouring the occasional streams of water onto his face and hair to cool himself down. You can't help but watch him do that when he's not looking, but sometimes he looks at you too from time to time, the strong but subtle tension forms between you two.

"That was quite the fight." Punk comments as he massages the water into his hair to cool his warm hot body temperature. "Those assholes know how to fight." You look at him as he keeps chatting to you, somehow breaking your quietness as you seem to be interested. "By cheating." You reply, a bit annoyed at the fact that the Judgment Day tried to interfere.

"That's how they are unfortunately." Punk replies as he unwraps the tape from off his hands and wrists, curling them to loosen the tightness inside his wrists. You stand up, groaning quietly as you stand up and stretch your back, a few small cracks coming from your spine to loosen the tension.

"I gotta admit seeing you pull off my finisher was kinda badass." Punk says full of confidence, almost trying to flirt. "Gotta keep the crowd entertained." You reply, attempting to stop your lips from turning into a smirk as you walk over to the water cooler and fill up your water bottle.

CM Punk walks up beside you, waiting to refill his bottle too. "Is that a complaint, Punk?" You can't help but tease him with words, causing him to chuckle and have his turn at the cooler, the soft sound of water filling his bottle can be heard in the background of your conversation. "No complaints here. We might have to team up more often." He says with a somewhat straight face, winking as he screws the lid back onto his water bottle.

You feel your body burn from something that you can't comprehend, but you straight away assume it's from arousal. You can tell he knows how you're feeling due to how much you two would sometimes unharmfully tease each other while waiting for separate matches without anyone seeing.

As Punk sees you holding your water bottle loosely, he decides to toy with you a little bit and grab it out of your hands, making your face show surprise but then a pout forms on your lips. "Hey! Give it back." You whine in fake annoyance but he decides to hold it up in the air as far as his arms can stretch, making you even more annoyed. While you're pouting, he's smirking, even laughing a little at your struggle.

Your small 5'6 stature is clearly too small for his 6'1 height and not to mention his long and strongly built arms. As you try and jump to grab your water bottle, Punk stands on the tips of his toes, still chuckling and smiling as he sees how desperate you are for the bottle. He keeps up the act, even running around with it until he opens the cap of the lid and squirts you with a small stream of water, making you squeal a little and makes him laugh even harder.

As you wipe your face off, you catch him off guard and grab the bottle from his hands, squirting him with the water too. His mouth is agape and he pants a little as the freezing cold water splashes onto his face and tank top, making you laugh and he laughs too, taking off his top and wiping his face. He then starts to chase you around until you're in an isolated area in the arena, grabbing you by the waist and also grabbing the bottle out of your hand.

As you try and reach for it while the both of you are still in a fit of laughter, he gently holds you against the wall, smirking as he douses you with the water again making the both of you laugh even more as you're stuck under the cold water. "Stop!" You try and say through fits of giggles, but of course living up to his name, CM Punk does not stop until he sees you're almost soaked from the water.

He shoots a toothy grin at you as he walks over to the nearest table and sets your water bottle down onto it with a soft thud, walking back to you, but when you know he's getting playful again, you try to escape but prives to be unsuccessful as he gently sets his hand on your stomach and makes sure you're against the wall. He keeps moving closer and kicks off his shoes until he's very close to you, the playfulness slowly changing into something more...sexually charged.

"You may be quick and strong, but you need a few more inches of height to reach that high." Punk teases as he cups your chin with his hand, the words he chose makes the both of you chuckle.

Before you know it, Punk leans in and gently presses his lips onto yours, catching you off guard before your eyes flutter closed and kiss him back. He encircles one of his strong arms around your waist, gently tugging you closer to his shirtless body. As soon as you wrap your arms around his neck, he hoists you up by your thighs, making sure they wrap around his waist. As the kiss starts to escalate, he lets his tongue slowly push into your mouth. You can't help but let a small moan out, using your own tongue as well as the kiss continues to heat up.

Punk lets one of his hands slide up your exposed stomach and under the exercise bra you're wearing, his hand finding your breasts and slowly kneads it, making you moan softly again. You run your fingers through his water and sweat covered hair, making his grip on your thighs tighten. He pulls away from the kiss, kissing straight down to your neck as he moves both of his hands down to your tight shorts, slowly pulling them down to expose your underwear.

He moves himself closer, the erection encased inside of his wrestling trunks is now very prominent as he grinds his erection against your clothed pussy. You let your head rest back against the white painted brick wall as he grinds himself against your throbbing pussy, groaning softly as his cock aches to be inside you. "Can you feel that? I'm so fucking hard."

You take off the bra, giving Punk a view to remember as his eyes immediately landing on your tits. "Looking sexy there, Y/n." Punk comments as he goes back to sucking and kissing your neck, his hands slowly tugging down your underwear and pooling with the rest of your clothes. Your breath hitches as you feel the cold air nip at your womanhood and the arousal between your folds isn't making much of a difference.

Punk pulls down his trunks, his cock slips out as his trunks fall with the rest of your clothes. He grabs his cock into his hand, slowly teasing your folds to get more of a reaction from you until he decides the teasing is over and puts his tip against your opening and pushes into you with one swift thrust. Both of you mean softly at the exact same time, his hard dick immediately stretching your walls to help you accommodate him with ease and comfortableness.

"Ohh fuckkkk." You groan as you hold on as tight as you can, the feeling of his cock buried deep making you feel like you might lose all of your strength. "Yeah. I bet you can feel me even more now, can't you?" Punk purrs into your ear as he grabs your thighs even harder and begins to pump into you with a slow but slightly rough pace, your mouth agape and your eyes closed as the moans slipping from your lips become music to his ears.

"Fuck your moans are so hot. If we weren't in public, I'd make sure everyone could hear you." Punk praises as he softly talks into your ear in a seductive way as he keeps moving his hips back and forth, the roughness beginning to amplify. As the roughness grows more and more over time, Punk's eyes are closed but his grunts and occasional moans ring through your ears and into your brain like a wave, encouraging your sounds too.

"Mmmh....goddamn...."CM Punk grunts into your ear, the sound of his voice so sexual that it makes the walls inside of you clench around his cock before they unclench, earning a rare whimper from him and a moan from yourself. "I'm so fucking close, baby..."He speaks as another moan follows after it. "I'm not gonna cum in you though, pretty girl." Punk says again as he keeps thrusting at a very strong pace.

"Want me on my knees?" You whimper into his ear, causing his grip on your thighs to tighten even more that they might become marks. "Not til you cum on my dick." He replies, his voice becoming deeper due to how horny he is. As he keeps going, he whispers words of encouragement and dirty things that drag your orgasm closer. You can't hold yourself back as your walls clench around his cock and you feel yourself cum, Punk's cock immediately soaked from it.

"Now...on your knees." He whines as he pulls out quickly. You immediately follow his command, almost falling onto your knees from how fast you climb onto them. Punk wraps his hand around his swollen cock, immediately pumping himself at a quick pace. His eyes squeeze closed again as his hand moves at almost lightning speed on himself, his head tilting back from how sensitive his cut head is every time his thumb or his palm makes contact with it.

You feel an overwhelming urge to help out, so while he's pumping himself, you slide your mouth onto his tip, making him seethe through his teeth. The sounds of desperation are now gone and are back to his manly grunts as both his hand and your mouth are working themselves on his swollen pink tip. "Fucking dirty girl." He rasps out, his voice now croaky as his cock hardens, ready to release.

As you pull away, Punk moans as his hot seed spurts out of his cock and onto your chest and runs down to your stomach, the warmth of his cum makes your body shiver. He lets his softening cock go, his hand leaning against the wall as he inhales air into his lungs.

As Punk's breath comes back, he feels proud of the scene in front of him. He helps you clean up as he uses baby wipes to clean his seed off of you, making sure there was no evidence left behind as you now get dressed as well as himself. He rests his hand back onto the wall next to you, his eyes landing on yours." You're crazy." Punk says in a serious tone but you know he's messing with you.

"Yeah?" You ask, making the both of you smile as he leans in and says in a low voice. "I dig crazy chicks."

#cm punk #fanfic #fanfiction #cm punk fanfiction #wwe fanfiction #phil brooks #latest obsession #cm punk girlie

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writingsoftarnishedsilver · 5 months ago

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Prefect's Bathroom | Sebastian Sallow x OC #38

hehehehehehe

Summary: Sebastian wins a bet against Ominis after he breaks into the Prefect's Bathroom without the password. Only complication is that Evangeline is also in the Prefect's Bathroom.

Words: ~7,300

Tags: Smut Adjacent, Idiots in Love, Trope-y, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Mutual Pining, Friends To Lovers, Slow Burn, Longing, Unspoken Feelings, Romance,

Timeline: Early February

Read more stories about Sebastian and Evangeline

Read on AO3

Sebastian still sat on one of the benches near the pitch, his gaze fixed on the empty field where Gryffindor had just secured a narrow victory over Hufflepuff. The roar of the crowd still echoed faintly in his ears, though the stands had long since emptied. He smirked to himself, pride swelling in his chest as he replayed Evangeline’s fearless moves on the broom.

She’d been brilliant. And even though she'd taken more hits than anyone else on the pitch, Evie had held her own with her signature mix of precision and stubborn determination. He could still see her last-minute dive to deflect a Bludger aimed squarely at Garreth, her bat meeting the ball with a resounding crack. She’d spun midair, regained her balance like it was nothing, and grinned at the chaos she’d caused as the Bludger ricocheted toward the opposing team.

“That’s my girl,” Sebastian had muttered under his breath without thinking, hoping nobody on the stands had heard him.

After the game, Evangeline had barely paused to catch her breath before making her way to him, her face flushed and her hair sticking to her forehead.

She was still buzzing with adrenaline, and despite the bruise already forming on her cheekbone, she greeted him with that lopsided smile he couldn’t seem to get enough of.

“Rough match,” she’d said, brushing a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. Her voice had been hoarse from shouting, but she looked undeniably pleased with herself.

“Rough’s an understatement,” Sebastian had replied, his tone light, though he couldn’t keep the worry from creeping into his gaze. “I thought you were going to get yourself killed when you went for that Bludger near the hoops.”

“And miss the chance to take out their Chaser?” she’d teased, wincing slightly as she stretched her shoulder. “Never.”

He’d chuckled, shaking his head. “Reckless as always.”

“Reckless wins games,” she’d shot back with a wink.

They’d chatted for a few minutes longer, Sebastian making a half-hearted attempt to convince her to head straight to the Hospital Wing for a checkup. Predictably, she’d refused, insisting she was fine and wanted to at least make an appearance at the Gryffindor common room to celebrate with her teammates.

“Besides,” she’d added, her smile softening, “I’ll see you in the Undercroft later.”

Sebastian had nodded, watching her retreating figure as she made her way toward the castle with the rest of her team.

Now, with a few hours to kill before their usual meeting, Sebastian found himself wandering aimlessly through the corridors of the castle. He was eager to see her again—just the thought of their quiet moments together in the Undercroft made his heart race. But for now, he needed a distraction.

Which was how he found himself standing outside the Prefects’ Bathroom, a smug grin tugging at his lips as he stared at the ornate door.

Ominis had been so sure he couldn’t get in without the password, and Sebastian, never one to back down from a challenge, had decided to prove him wrong. The stakes were trivial—something about Ominis doing his Potions assignment next week—but the principle of the matter was far more important. He wasn’t about to let Ominis win this one.

Crouched in the alcove near the entrance to the bathroom, Sebastian’s fingers were steady as he manipulated his wand, muttering a series of carefully practiced incantations. This particular door had an unusually thick charm guarding it—one that made the lock feel heavier, more stubborn than others. But that didn’t faze him.

He’d cracked tougher protections on far less important doors.

“Almost there,” he muttered, his voice low and focused as he adjusted the angle of his wand, coaxing the lock to respond.

The enchanted mechanism gave a soft, satisfying click. The grin on Sebastian’s face widened, a mix of triumph and mischief lighting his features as he straightened. He had half a mind to gloat about this to Ominis later—though, knowing his friend, he’d probably just call him an idiot for breaking into a bathroom of all places.

Still, a win was a win.

Sebastian pushed the door open with a flourish, slipping inside and shutting it quietly behind him. His first impression was the warmth that greeted him, a stark contrast to the cool stone corridors outside. The air was thick with steam, perfumed with something faintly floral and sweet, and the flickering glow of enchanted candles bathed the entire room in a soft, golden light.

The space was massive, its high ceiling stretching far above, adorned with elegant mosaics of swimming mermaids and sea creatures that seemed to dance in the flickering candlelight. Columns of pristine white marble framed the room, their bases wrapped in golden ivy that shimmered faintly in the steam. Towels softer than any he’d ever seen were folded neatly on shelves, and a row of colored bottles containing what he assumed were bath potions lined one side of the bath.

He shrugged off his cloak, draping it over a nearby bench, and quickly pulled his top off before reaching to unbutton his trousers. If he was going to go to the trouble of sneaking in here, he might as well enjoy it.

But just as he hooked his thumbs into his pants, the sound of rippling water reached his ears.

He froze.

For a moment, he thought he’d imagined it, the faint sound barely audible over the bubbling of the bath. But then he heard it again—a soft, deliberate splash that sent his heart racing.

Slowly, Sebastian turned, his shirt still clutched in his hands. His eyes darted to the bath, scanning the surface of the water for any sign of movement. At first, he saw nothing but the thick layer of bubbles and the soft glow of the candles reflected on the water. But then—

A figure rose from beneath the surface, dark hair slicked back, water cascading down her shoulders.

Evangeline.

She wiped a hand over her face then blinked her eyes open.

"OH MY GOD!"

Sebastian, for once in his life, was utterly speechless.

His brain scrambled to catch up with what his eyes were seeing. Evangeline. She was in the bath. The bath. And the soft glow of the candles highlighted every angle of her face, her dark hair clinging to her wet skin. She was beautiful—breathtaking, even—and completely, devastatingly unaware that she’d just broken his ability to form coherent thoughts.

“I—uh—” Sebastian stammered, his face heating as he finally managed to avert his gaze. He took a half-step back, unsure what to do with his hands. “I didn’t—Merlin’s beard, Evie, I didn’t know you were in here!”

"Sebastian!" she sputtered, "What the bloody hell are you doing here?!"

Sebastian's mouth opened, but nothing came out. He was still processing the sight of her—her dark hair slicked back, the unobstructed view of her shoulders, her collarbones, and the soft curve of her neck.

“I—uh, long story,” he managed, his voice cracking slightly. He gestured vaguely toward the door, as if that would explain everything. “I was just trying to win a bet.”

“A bet?” Evangeline’s voice rose slightly, her eyes narrowing despite the flush spreading across her cheeks.

Sebastian winced, running a hand through his already-mussed hair. “With Ominis! I swear, I didn’t know you’d be in here!”

Evangeline groaned, sinking lower into the bubbles. “Of all the times—Sebastian, this is the Prefects’ Bathroom! You’re not supposed to be here!”

“Neither are you!” he shot back, his tone defensive before softening. “Wait... are you supposed to be here?”

She hesitated, her expression shifting slightly, and Sebastian couldn’t help the smirk that crept onto his face. “Thought so,” he muttered.

She scoffed, trying to push her hair back from her face, clearly trying to regain some control over the situation. "That's not the point." Her eyes narrowed, though there was something about the way she spoke that hinted she wasn’t completely angry. More... flustered than anything else.

“I—look, I’ll just go. I didn’t mean to intrude. You’ve got a good thing going here,” Sebastian stammered, dragging his gaze to the wall behind her, though his thoughts stubbornly refused to follow. His mind had already betrayed him, lingering on the tantalizing idea of what lay beneath the water and the thick cover of bubbles.

It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t every day he found himself in a situation like this—so close, so impossibly close, to the mystery that was Evangeline, with all her soft curves and pleasant fullness and—Merlin help him, the thought was maddening, and no matter how much he tried to banish it, it stayed.

Evangeline’s expression shifted, her initial embarrassment melting into something softer, though her cheeks remained pink. “You don’t have to leave,” she said, surprising both of them with the words.

Sebastian’s head snapped back toward her, his eyes wide. “I don’t?”

Evangeline waved a hand at the bath, her tone a mix of flustered and forced casualness. “It’s not like you can see anything with all these bubbles, right?

Sebastian blinked. He should say something. He should definitely respond with one of his usual quips—something clever, charming, and completely unbothered. But the words caught in his throat, and for a horrifying moment, he realized he couldn’t think of anything at all.

The very suggestion of being here, with Evangeline, surrounded by the steam and candlelight, and worse, the fleeting notion of joining her in the bath was wreaking absolute havoc on his nerves. His heart was pounding too loudly, his skin prickling, heat pooling quite unhelpfully deep in his abdomen.

Sebastian shifted his weight, crossing his arms in what he hoped was a casual gesture but really just a desperate attempt to ground himself. He clenched his jaw, forcing his gaze to the ceiling, as if staring hard enough at the enchanted tiles would magically cure the way his blood was running south.

“You, uh…” he finally managed, his voice a little hoarse. He cleared his throat, trying again. “You’re sure? I mean, I wouldn’t want to… you know, ruin your relaxation.”

She sighed then, a heavy, resigned sigh as she ran her hands down her face. Sebastian immediately found his gaze drawn to the way her breasts lifted with the movement, the water rippling gently around her.

"It's fine. You’re already here, aren’t you?" she murmured, "Might as well make yourself comfortable. Just... don't peek."

“You’re right,” he managed to croak. “It’s—um, yeah. I won't peek. It's fine."

Liar.

Evangeline gave him a sidelong glance. "Alright well... are you coming in?

This was a terrible idea and Sebastian knew it. He was already struggling enough just sleeping beside her every night. How was he supposed to function knowing he'd gotten naked in the same damn room as her? Only feet apart?! He should leave. He should turn and walk out, as fast as he could, before things escalated further.

Except he wasn't going to do that. He was already plastering his cocky grin onto his face, faking nonchalance. "Alright," he said, "But you’re going to need to turn around so I can get into the water."

Evangeline's eyes widened, her cheeks flushed as though she hadn't actually expected him to say yes. "Oh, um, right."

"No peeking," he said smoothly, though internally, his heart was hammering in his chest. This was the last thing he should be doing. But the temptation, the way she looked with the steam rising around her and the warmth of the room wrapping them both in an almost intoxicating haze—he couldn’t help himself.

He watched her turn away, and he allowed himself just a moment to stare at her, at the smooth skin of her back he'd never seen, the way her—

Hold yourself together.

With a sharp breath, he refocused on unbuckling his trousers, pulling them off as quickly as he could and tossing them aside before wading into the water, his body becoming obscured by the bubbles.

“Alright,” he said after a moment, "I'm... decent. Now you can—uh, you know, go back to… whatever."

Evangeline turned back slowly, her eyes avoiding Sebastian entirely. He, on the other hand, couldn’t help the way his gaze raked over her. She was standing with her chin barely above the water’s surface, her long dark hair cascading like a waterfall down her back. Her shoulders and collarbones were exposed to the steam, but the bubbles did a good job of concealing most of her form.

Sebastian cleared his throat, trying to break the silence and distract himself. "I have to say," he forced a smirk, leaning back slightly, "you’ve got a very... modest chin-to-water ratio there. How does it feel to be practically drowning in bubbles?"

Evangeline, caught off-guard by the shift in his tone, let out a small chuckle despite herself. She finally looked up, but only briefly—the flush on her face still very much present.

"I think this is optimal," she muttered, trying to match his teasing tone, but her voice sounded strained. "You’re the one who’s practically halfway out of the water."

Sebastian laughed, the sound light, but he couldn’t quite hide the nervousness that accompanied it. "I mean, it’s not exactly my fault I'm tall," he said, his grin widening as he stood a little straighter, feeling the water retreating from his chest, his broad frame casting a shadow over her.

"I—well, I can’t stand at full height without scandalizing myself," she muttered in response, lowering her voice as though the mere mention of the topic was something of a delicate subject. "Unlike you, I have more to hide than just..." Her words trailed off awkwardly.

Sebastian blinked, her words registering slowly, as though his brain was deliberately sabotaging him by processing them at half speed. His grin faltered, the corners of his mouth twitching as he caught the implication, his mind lurching into dangerous territory.

If she stood up straight...

The thought hit him like a Bludger to the chest, entirely unbidden and absolutely traitorous. His imagination, ever the overachiever, conjured an image vivid enough to make heat rise sharply to his face. It wasn’t just the idea of her standing, of water cascading down her skin, but the way his mind filled in the details he’d never actually seen—her soft, full breasts, every line of her figure outlined by the faintest sheen of water.

He had to physically hold in a groan. This was torturous. He was so hard and she was so achingly close and if he just swiped at those bubbles he could see everything. All those curves and soft spots he'd endlessly imagined but could never actually see or feel.

"Well um. Don't worry, the bubbles are doing a great job... covering everything." he said, his voice lighter than he felt.

Evangeline’s hazel eyes narrowed at him, her brows knitting together. “You wouldn't know that if you hadn't checked,” she shot back, her arms crossing over her chest in a defensive motion.

Sebastian’s smirk faltered, his composure threatening to shatter as his gaze betrayed him for the briefest moment. Because, Merlin help him, crossing her arms did absolutely nothing to help his predicament. In fact, it made things infinitely worse.

The motion pressed her very large and very unmissable breasts together, creating a tantalizing curve that rose just above the line of bubbles.

He cleared his throat and turned his gaze to the ceiling, to the enchanted tiles reflecting the gentle glow of the water, but the image of her lingered, burned into the back of his eyelids.

"What?" Evangeline demanded, her tone sharp but colored with curiosity and just a hint of self-consciousness.

"Nothing," he said too quickly, his voice a strained mess of embarrassment and panic.

Evangeline tilted her head, clearly unconvinced. Her eyes stayed narrowed, flicking briefly to the ceiling as if to see what was so fascinating about the enchanted tiles that he couldn’t seem to stop staring at.

“Fine,” she said at last. “If you say so. Now,” she continued, shifting in the water so that the bubbles swirled lazily around her. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to my routine.”

Her words pulled him out of his spiraling thoughts, and his brow furrowed as he glanced at her. “Your routine?”

“You know,” she said, gesturing vaguely. “Washing my hair, scrubbing the Quidditch grime off my skin, the usual.”

Right. Washing her hair. Scrubbing. His mind quickly supplied a vivid image of her lathering up her long, dark hair, water cascading down smooth, bare shoulders, soap clinging to soft curves—

Merlin’s beard, stop it.

“Of course. Obviously. Carry on. Don’t let me, uh, interrupt.” His voice was a little too fast, a little too high, and he winced at how transparent he sounded.

Evangeline arched a brow at him but didn’t comment. Instead, she reached for a small glass bottle perched on the edge of the tub. The motion caused her to shift forward, sending ripples through the water, and Sebastian turned his head away so quickly he nearly wrenched his neck.

Desperate for a distraction, he latched onto the first topic that came to mind. “So, Quidditch,” he said, his tone deliberately casual. “That was a brutal match. Should’ve guessed you’d need a bath after taking that many hits.”

Evangeline chuckled softly, the sound warm and unguarded. “It wasn’t that bad,” she said, pouring a generous amount of shampoo into her hands. “Hufflepuff plays rough, but they’re nothing compared to Slytherin”

Sebastian snorted, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye before quickly looking back at the wall. “Evie, you’ve got a bruise the size of Scotland on your cheek, and I’m pretty sure I saw you deflect a Bludger with your ribs at one point.”

She laughed at that, the sound light and genuine, as she worked the shampoo into her hair. “You exaggerate,” she said, though her smile was evident in her voice. “I deflected it with my bat. Mostly.”

“Mostly,” he echoed dryly. “You’re lucky you didn’t crack a rib. Again.”

Evangeline shrugged, tilting her head back as she began to work the lather through her hair. “It’s part of the game. You take the hits, you score the points, and you win.”

“You know,” he said, his voice strained but steady, “most people would consider ‘not dying’ a critical part of the game.”

“Not dying is overrated,” she said breezily.

“Clearly,” he muttered. Because it's killing me to just stand here.

Evangeline glanced at him then, her expression softening as she caught the tension in his posture, the way his gaze was fixed on the ceiling. “Sebastian,” she said gently, "You're going to break your neck if you keep staring up like that."

He scoffed, finally daring to look at her—at her face, specifically, though it took a concerted effort. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said, his voice tight. “Feels safer than… literally anywhere else.”

Evangeline tilted her head, her brow furrowing in thought. “Sebastian,” she began, her tone gentle but teasing, “you really don’t have to act so... proper. It’s me. Hell, you’ve seen me covered in dirt, blood, and Merlin knows what else.”

Sebastian blinked, thrown by her words, though he managed to keep his expression neutral. If only you knew what I was actually thinking, he mused, his pulse quickening again.

Evangeline leaned back slightly, sinking deeper into the water so that only her head and shoulders remained visible. “Look,” she continued, gesturing vaguely toward the bubbles. “This bath is basically a fortress of foam. You couldn’t see anything even if you tried. Not that you would,” she added quickly, a faint blush coloring her cheeks.

Sebastian clenched his jaw, unsure how to respond without giving himself away. Because the truth was that he absolutely would look, and yet she trusted him so implicitly, so easily, and that only made things harder. Literally and figuratively.

Evangeline went on, oblivious to his internal struggle, “So as long as you’re not sneaking a peek...” She smirked, her hazel eyes gleaming with mischief. “We’re fine, right?”

Sebastian exhaled slowly, squeezing his eyes shut. "Evie, you... have to admit, this is a little different. You're... for Merlin's sake, you're naked."

“I—” she started, her voice faltering slightly before she straightened, her tone shifting to something more defensive. “Yes, that’s generally how baths work.”

Sebastian groaned quietly, dragging a hand down his face. “That’s not what I—” He clenched his fists beneath the water, struggling for words that wouldn’t reveal exactly how much this situation was affecting him. “It’s different,” he said finally, his voice low and rough, “because this is not exactly the kind of situation we usually find ourselves in, alright?"

Evangeline’s gaze flickered with something—nervousness, perhaps, but also determination. He could tell she was fighting hard to make this feel normal, to force a casualness into the situation that simply didn’t exist. Her fingers toyed absently with the bubbles, her hazel eyes carefully avoiding his, though the faint pink on her cheeks betrayed her own awareness of how charged the moment was.

“You’ve told me you’ve seen girls naked before, and you’re—you know—experienced," she said, her tone breezy but faltering just enough to reveal the cracks in her confidence. “Surely you can handle female anatomy without combusting, especially when it’s covered by all these bubbles.” She gestured to the foam as if that would drive her point home.

Sebastian opened his mouth to respond but quickly shut it again when she continued, her voice gaining steam like she was psyching herself up. “And besides, this bath tub is basically a swimming pool if you think about it. People share those all the time, right?”

Was she seriously suggesting that this was no different from a casual swim? Did she really believe that this could be normal between them?

“And,” she added, her voice lighter, teasing, “it’s not like you even see me that way, so it shouldn’t matter. Right? It's not like I'm... you know, one of those girls you’re usually with,” Evangeline continued, her voice softening slightly, though she kept her eyes fixed on the bubbles in front of her. “All tiny and ethereal, with their perfect hair and… and their dainty little everything.”

Sebastian stared at her, stunned into silence. He hadn’t expected that—not the words, not the vulnerability laced beneath them, and certainly not the way they twisted something sharp and protective in his chest. Tiny and ethereal? Dainty? Was that really what she thought he wanted?

“Evie…” he began, but the words caught in his throat. What could he even say to that? That she was wrong? That those girls didn’t mean anything? That he’d never looked at them the way he looked at her? That she was—

He swallowed hard, his grip tightening on the edge of the bath to ground himself.

Evangeline shrugged, her smile small but brittle, the forced casualness in her tone grating against the quiet tension in the room. “It’s fine, really. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. It’s just—well, I’m not your type.”

Sebastian blinked, her words slamming into him and knocking the air from his lungs. “What... what's supposed to mean?”

Evangeline shrugged. "I’ve seen the girls you go for, Sebastian. They’re… well, they’re not exactly like me, are they?”

His mind reeled, scrambling to piece together what she’d just said. He couldn’t decide what infuriated him more—that she’d drawn such a conclusion about his 'type' or that she said it like it was an irrefutable fact. The absurdity of it was enough to make him want to laugh—if it didn’t sting so much. She couldn’t be more wrong. Evangeline was everything.

His gaze flicked to her, lingering for a moment longer than he should have. Her hazel eyes glimmered in the candlelight, their hues shifting between green and gold, framed by dark lashes. And her lips—Merlin, her lips—were full and inviting, the kind he’d spent far too much time imagining pressed against his.

Her dark hair, thick and cascading like silk, framing her flushed face and accentuating the soft curve of her cheek. The candlelight danced across her shoulders, highlighting the gentle slope of her collarbone and the tantalizing expanse of skin above the bubbles.

And Merlin, her body. The fullness of her curves—the soft swell of her breasts hidden beneath the foam, the dip of her waist, the roundness of her hips—left no space for the notion of fragility. Evangeline wasn’t fragile, and that’s what made her so maddeningly captivating. She was solid, real, and entirely captivating.

Sebastian’s thoughts wandered further, unbidden but relentless, bringing to mind every detail that had lodged itself in his head over the years. The way her thighs pressed together when she sat in class, soft and steady. The curve of her belly beneath fitted clothes, perfectly plush in a way that always made his gaze linger longer than it should. He loved the way her shoulders curved, the slope leading into arms that weren’t thin or dainty but perfectly hers—arms that had slammed Bludgers, hauled books, and wrapped around him more times than he could count.

She wasn’t just different from the girls he’d been with before—she was the opposite of them in every way that mattered. Those fleeting encounters with other girls had been just that: fleeting, shallow, and ultimately forgettable. But Evangeline? She wasn’t just his type—she was the type.

Merlin, did she really not see it? Did she not know that he couldn’t look at her without his heart speeding up, without feeling like every other girl in the world had been some bland prelude to the real thing?

“You’re wrong,” Sebastian said suddenly, the words spilling out before he could think to stop them.

Evangeline blinked, startled by the intensity in his voice. “What?”

He hadn’t meant to say that—Merlin, of all the times for his mouth to outrun his brain, why now? The words hung between them, heavy and unrelenting. This was not the moment to unpack every complicated, aching feeling he’d buried about her. Not when he was standing here, naked, a traitorous flush crawling up his neck, and every ounce of his focus was split between calming his erratic pulse and not letting his gaze wander too far south.

But Evangeline was staring at him, wide-eyed and expectant, her vulnerability still hanging in the air between them. He couldn’t take it back.

“Evie,” he began, his voice lower and rougher than he intended. He cleared his throat, trying again. "You’re wrong about you. About what I—about what anyone should see when they look at you.”

She blinked, her lips parting slightly in surprise. “I… I don’t understand.”

Sebastian exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair as he tried to find the right words. “Just because you’re not... thin or tiny or whatever ridiculous standard you’ve convinced yourself is important, doesn't mean you aren't... aren't beautiful.”

Evangeline’s lips pressed together, her brows furrowing as she regarded him cautiously. “You don’t have to say that,” she said softly, her voice tinged with disbelief. “I know what I am, Sebastian.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” he snapped, the frustration bubbling over before he could rein it in. “You think I’m saying this just to make you feel better? Do you really think I’d waste my breath if I didn’t mean it?”

Evangeline flinched slightly at his tone, and guilt stabbed at him. He forced himself to take a steadying breath, softening his expression as he moved closer, lowering himself into the water so he was closer to her eye level.

“Evie,” he said, his voice quieter now, gentler but no less firm. “You’re not some afterthought. You’re not some… alternative to whatever you think people expect. You’re..." he huffed a laugh, "You're enough to drive a man insane. Merlin knows I hear about it all the bloody time from every boy in Hogwarts."

Evangeline stared at him, her hazel eyes wide and disbelieving. After a beat, she opened her mouth to say something, but Sebastian cut her off, his voice softer now, trying to steer the conversation back to safer waters before the weight of his confession crushed them both.

“Look,” he began, rubbing the back of his neck and forcing a wry smile. “I didn’t come here to, uh, pour my heart out, alright? I came here to win a stupid bet with Ominis. So let’s just… focus on the fact that I’m clearly capable of handling this whole shared-bath situation."

Evangeline stared at him for a moment, clearly thrown off by the sudden change in topic, but eventually, her lips twitched into the beginnings of a smirk. “Clearly,” she echoed.

Sebastian shot her a pointed look, though he couldn’t quite hide the amused glint in his eyes. “I am! I’m perfectly capable of sitting here like a civilized human being and not making this any weirder than it already is.”

“Right,” she said, her smirk growing as she settled back against the edge of the tub. “Because you’ve been the picture of composure so far.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward despite himself. “I’m here, aren’t I? And I’m not running for the door, so I’d say that’s a win.”

“Hmm,” Evangeline mused, tilting her head as though considering his words. “I don’t know… your ears are pretty red. Are you sure you’re not seconds away from bolting?”

He groaned, crossing his arms. “For Merlin’s sake, Evie, give me some credit. If I were going to run, I would’ve done it the second I realized you were—” He gestured vaguely at the water, his face heating again. “You know.”

“Naked?” she offered innocently, the glimmer of mischief in her eyes making him want to throttle her and kiss her in equal measure.

“Yes,” he muttered, scowling at the wall to avoid meeting her gaze.

Seemingly unaware of his internal struggle, Evangeline moved to the edge of the tub again, reaching for the shampoo. The motion caused ripples to fan out across the surface, drawing Sebastian’s eyes despite his best intention, watching as the motion made her shoulders and collarbones shift so her chest hovered just slightly above the bubbles.

“Hair’s gone dry,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. “With all this chatter, I’ll have to start over.”

Sebastian let out a short laugh, the sound half-nervous and half-relieved to have something innocuous to latch onto. “Can’t have that,” he quipped.

Evangeline straightened, bottle in hand, but when she turned back toward him, her movement stilled, her hazel eyes locking onto his. Her expression faltered for a moment as if she’d only just realized how much closer he was now.

Sebastian noticed the shift in her demeanor immediately. For someone as bold and unflinching as Evie, she suddenly looked… timid.

She cleared her throat softly, glancing down at the bottle in her hands before looking back at him, her voice quieter than he’d ever heard it. “Would you... would you like to help me?”

For a moment, the words didn’t register. When they finally did, Sebastian blinked, his thoughts scattering in a dozen different directions. “Help you?”

Evangeline nodded, her cheeks tinged with pink as she fiddled with the bottle, the motion uncharacteristically shy. “With my hair,” she clarified.

“Help you with your hair,” he repeated dumbly, as though he needed to confirm he’d heard her correctly.

Evangeline nodded again, the blush deepening on her cheeks as she looked away. “It’s just... it’s so long, it's a lot to deal with sometimes,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “And you’ve got… strong hands.”

His breath caught. Strong hands. Merlin help him, this was going to kill him.

“It’s fine if you don’t want to,” she added quickly, her words tumbling out in a rush. “I mean, you probably—”

“Alright,” he said, cutting her off before she could spiral further. The word left him before he’d even fully processed what he was agreeing to.

Her eyes snapped back to his, wide and searching. “Alright?”

Sebastian nodded, forcing himself to sound more confident than he felt. “Yeah, alright. Give me the shampoo.”

Evangeline hesitated for a moment before handing him the glass bottle, their fingers brushing in the exchange. The contact sent a jolt of warmth up his arm, but he forced himself to focus as he poured the lavender-scented liquid into his palm, working it into a lather.

She turned around slowly, her back to him now, her hair spilling over her shoulders like a dark curtain.

The strands were impossibly soft, like silk beneath Sebastian's touch, and he took his time, working the shampoo into her scalp with slow, deliberate motions. She let out a soft sigh, her shoulders relaxing under his hands, and the sound nearly undid him.

“Is this alright?” he asked, his voice lower than he intended.

She hummed in response, her head tilting slightly to give him better access. “Yes."

As he worked his fingers through her hair, his gaze wandered against his will. The curve of her neck, the faint dip between her shoulder blades, the way the candlelight played across her skin—it was too much and not enough all at once.

“You know,” he said finally, desperate to fill the silence, “I think I missed my calling. Maybe I should’ve gone into hairdressing.”

Evangeline let out a quiet laugh, the sound warming the space between them. “Don’t let Ominis hear you say that. He’ll never let you live it down.”

Sebastian smirked, his hands still moving through her hair. “Ominis already thinks I’m hopeless."

“You’re not hopeless,” she said softly, almost as though she hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

His hands stilled for a moment, her words hitting him harder than they should have. “Thanks,” he said quietly.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. It was peaceful, almost domestic, and Sebastian couldn’t help but wonder if this was what it would feel like to be with her—to have her.

He shook the thought away. “Alright,” he said, his voice light despite the weight in his chest. “You’re all set to rinse.”

Sebastian watched as Evangeline dunked her head under the water. Her dark hair floated momentarily in the water before she emerged, gasping softly and slicking her hands over her face to clear the stray droplets.

She combed her fingers through her hair, wringing out the excess water, before reaching for the conditioner. But her hand paused mid-motion, and she turned back to him, her expression thoughtful.

“You know,” she said, her tone deceptively casual, “I could return the favor. If you want.”

Sebastian blinked, caught completely off guard. “What?”

“Your hair,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward him. “I could shampoo it for you. I mean, we’re already here.”

Sebastian swallowed hard. "Oh, yeah. Sure, if you want."

Her smirk softened into something almost coaxing, "Okay. But you're gonna need to sit by the edge. You’re too tall for me to reach properly otherwise.”

Sebastian muttered something under his breath about bossy Gryffindors but obliged, sinking deeper into the water and positioning himself with his back against the smooth, tiled edge of the tub. The heat of the bath was a poor match for the fire creeping up his neck, and he folded his arms over his chest, doing his best to look calm and unbothered.

“Alright,” Evangeline said, her voice light but tinged with a hint of mischief. “Now… close your eyes for a second.”

He frowned, tilting his head slightly toward her. “Wait, what—”

“Just do it,” she insisted, cutting him off with a tone that brooked no argument.

Sebastian huffed, closing his eyes with exaggerated reluctance, though the flicker of nervousness in his chest betrayed him. He could hear her moving beside him, the faint splash of water as she shifted, followed by the creak of tiles as she climbed out of the bath.

And that’s when his brain decided to betray him.

Evangeline—wet, bare, water streaming down her skin—was standing just behind him. The mental image slammed into him with a force that left him struggling to think straight. He tightened his grip on his arms, fighting the urge to glance over his shoulder and failing miserably to dispel the thoughts running rampant in his head.

The sound of her moving closer only made things worse. The quiet padding of her feet against the slick tiles, the faint drip of water as it rolled off her skin—it was infuriating. He tensed further when he felt her presence above him, warm and impossibly close. Her legs dipped into the water on either side of his shoulders, brushing against his arms as she adjusted herself. She was right there, perched on the edge of the tiles behind him, her plush thighs just inches from his ears.

“Alright,” she said softly, her voice steady but quieter now, more intimate. “You can open them.”

Sebastian hesitated, his pulse thundering in his ears. When he finally cracked his eyes open, he was greeted by the sight of her bare legs on either side of him, smooth and glistening in the candlelight. Her skin was warm where it brushed against him, and the closeness made his breath hitch.

“Evie,” he said, his voice low and a little rough, “What exactly is the plan here?”

"You said you’d let me shampoo your hair, didn’t you?”

Sebastian let out a strained laugh, turning back toward the water as if that would help ground him. “...Like this?”

“Well, I can’t exactly reach from where I was sitting in the tub, can I?” she replied, “This is just practical.”

Practical. Right. That was one word for it.

Sebastian shifted slightly, his muscles tensing as he tried—and failed—not to think about what would happen if he turned around. Her legs, warm and soft, framed his vision on either side, and the thought of what lay between them made his head spin.

Her hands threaded into his hair then, gentle but insistent, and Sebastian swore his heart skipped a beat. The sensation was utterly disarming—the warmth of her fingers against his scalp, the rhythmic motion as she worked the shampoo through his hair. He tensed at first, every nerve on edge, but the careful, deliberate way she touched him quickly unraveled his resolve.

“Relax,” Evangeline murmured, her tone soft, almost teasing.

Relax. As if that were possible.

Her fingers brushed the back of his neck, and his breath hitched. He wasn’t prepared for how much that small touch would affect him—wasn’t prepared for how easy it would be to imagine her hands lingering there, sliding lower, pulling him closer.

Merlin, he was doomed.

“You’ve got a lot of hair,” she said after a moment, breaking the silence. “I didn’t expect it to be this soft.”

Sebastian huffed a laugh, desperate for the distraction. “What, did you think I didn’t take care of it?”

“Well,” she teased, “I’ve seen how you treat your broomstick, so I had my doubts.”

Evangeline’s hands slowed as she worked in the last of the shampoo, her fingers kneading gently at his scalp. Meanwhile, Sebastian bit the inside of his cheek, trying to focus on anything other than the fact that her thighs were warm and soft against his shoulders.

“There,” she said finally, her voice light and casual, as if she wasn’t driving him absolutely insane. “That should do it. Now dunk.”

“Dunk?” he repeated, turning his head slightly, though the movement brought his cheek dangerously close to brushing her thigh.

“Yes,” she said, nudging his shoulder lightly with her knee. “Under the water. You’ve got to rinse it out.”

With a quiet sigh, he pushed himself forward and dipped under the surface. The warm water rushed over him, muffling the sounds of the room and giving him a brief reprieve from the onslaught of sensory overload. He resurfaced after a moment, shaking the water from his hair like a dog.

Evangeline huffed, "Charming. Now, sit still. We’re not done yet.”

“Not done? I thought we were washing, not renovating.”

“Conditioner,” she said simply, twisting the cap off the bottle.

“Conditioner,” he echoed, the word foreign in his mouth. “Can’t say I’ve ever used it.”

“Then I guess you’re getting the deluxe treatment,” she said innocently, though the glint in her eyes told a different story. “Now lean back.”

He immediately obeyed. Sebastian wasn't about to argue, not when he had the chance to prolong his stay between her legs and have her hands in his hair.

This time, somehow, he managed to relax, the tension in his shoulders easing as her fingers worked his hair. The scent of the conditioner was subtle and floral, and he found himself melting into the moment, the steady pressure of her touch lulling him into an almost trance-like state.

That is, until his head tilted back just a fraction too far, and he felt it—the soft press of her stomach against the crown of his head.

He stiffened instantly, his entire body going rigid as if he’d been struck by lightning. His immediate instinct was to open his eyes, but logic slammed into him just as quickly. He couldn’t do that. Not when she was perched just behind him, naked and utterly unguarded. If he opened his eyes now, he’d be looking straight up at—

Sebastian swallowed hard, every muscle in his body locked in place. He fully expected Evangeline to shove him away and demand he move back into the tub properly. Instead, she froze for only a moment before letting out the softest of breaths. And then, to his utter shock, her hands stilled in his hair before sliding downward, her fingers brushing along his temples until they cupped his cheeks.

His breath caught. His mind reeled. This was new.

“...Relaxed?” she asked softly, her voice tentative, almost shy

Sebastian was too stunned to respond immediately. Her touch was impossibly light, her thumbs grazing his cheekbones as if she was afraid of overstepping. But she wasn’t pulling away, and that fact alone sent his thoughts spiraling in a hundred different directions.

“I—” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat hastily, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “I… was.”

“...Was?"

“Well, you know,” he said, struggling to keep his voice steady as his heart thundered in his chest. “It’s a little hard to stay relaxed when someone’s holding your face like they’re about to—I don’t know—strangle you or kiss you.”

His words slipped out before he could stop them, and he immediately regretted it. He risked a small, nervous laugh, hoping she’d brush it off with one of her sharp remarks or teasing jabs.

But she didn’t. She stayed quiet, her hands still on his cheeks, her fingers twitching slightly as if she wanted to say—or do—something but was holding herself back.

“You think I’d strangle you?” she asked finally, her voice soft.

“I think you might be tempted,” he quipped, though his throat felt tight and his mouth impossibly dry.

Evangeline didn’t respond immediately, her silence stretching just long enough to make him squirm. Her hands moved then, her fingers brushing down his jaw before retreating completely. The absence of her touch left his skin tingling, and he fought the urge to turn and look at her.

“I guess you’ll just have to trust me,” she said finally, her voice low but laced with that familiar teasing edge. “I promise I won’t strangle you… unless you deserve it.”

Sebastian exhaled a laugh, though it came out shakier than he intended. “Good to know.”

She slid her hands back into his hair then, resuming her work as if nothing had happened. But the press of her stomach against the back of his head was impossible to ignore now, and the lingering memory of her touch on his face burned brighter than ever.

Merlin, he was so, so doomed.

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