#unfinished boss x reader | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

acheronsociety · 17 days ago

Text

✶ BLOODY CRAWLING BACK TO YOU, AGAIN

in which... you thought you absolutely hated your co-worker, the insufferable Jeon Jungkook. but then you slept together, you avoided him—and now he's at your door. -—ᯓ✶ read part one ( here ) or not, this can also be a standalone !

pairing: jungkook x f!reader ✶ ( secret agents au ) word count: 9.5k content warning: smut ( mdni ) ✶ angst ✶ mentions of blood, cuts, bruises, fights, sex, and lots of cursing. a/n: if the first part was inspired by "do I wanna know", this one's all lana's version of "you can be the boss". I'd also like to sincerely thank everybody who read it, and especially the ones who took the time to leave such amazing feedback—this would still be a single oneshot if not for you. hope you like this one as much !

⋆ 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒒𝒖𝒐𝒓 𝒐𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒊𝒑𝒔 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒔. 𝑰 𝒌𝒏𝒆𝒘 𝒊𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒘𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒈, 𝑰’𝒎 𝒃𝒆𝒚𝒐𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒕, 𝑰 𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝑰 𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒊𝒕...

𝒀𝒐𝒖’𝒅 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒕 Jungkook to be pissed about it. And if he was, you’d have to admit he had a shred of right.

After all, you’d started it. Kissed him like you meant it, touched him like you owned him. Let him touch you like you were fragile and ruin you like you’d begged for it.

And then you left.

Crept out of his bed with first light spilling like confession over your bare skin. Not like a street cat, no—more like a coward. A traitor to your own hunger.

Because the truth? You were scared.

That night, you thought you were scratching an itch—one born from years of tension, of mission-night adrenaline, of too-close brushes and unspoken dares. You told yourself it wasn’t lust. That it wasn’t him.

But the lie collapsed the moment he slid into you, and your world sharpened to the shape of him. This wasn’t just hate, wasn’t just need—it was a burn, a bind. A dangerous craving with teeth. A tether you didn’t want, not with him.

Because if you stayed, if you let that moment become more than heat and fury, it might become something else entirely.

And that? That was terrifying.

Because how the hell could it work between you and Jungkook? You were field agents, ghosts in the night. Partners whose existence hinged on silence and steel. There was no room for this—not when death stalked you like a shadow, not when one blink could mean gone.

Or worse, it had meant nothing to him. Just a night. Just a slip. A mistake he'd wipe clean without a second thought.

You knew his reputation. The smirks in the breakroom. The trail of wreckage with red-lipped grins.

Before you could spiral further into that hellscape of doubt, a knock shattered your thoughts.

You blinked. Shit. Yoongi.

Your neighbor-slash-informant. Supposed to stop by with intel. Beer and greasy wings—your agreed-upon cover for the handoff. One you were supposed to go through with Jungkook. Supposed being the operable word.

You’d dodged every attempt he made to meet. Ghosted him. Not out of spite. Not out of professionalism.

But because being near him now? It felt like dancing barefoot on broken glass—beautiful and brutal and destined to bleed.

No way in hell you’d sit beside him in some surveillance van with his knee brushing yours. Or worse—straddle his bike again, chest to his back, arms tight around his waist like you had some right.

Besides, it had been reckless going to him that night. The remaining ghosts from the hard drive job were your cross to bear, not his. You couldn’t risk dragging your partner into your unfinished business. So you used the time to hunt, to try and rewind your thoughts to a time when your hatred was clean and easy.

You weren’t counting on Revenant assigning a new job three days later—blowing your cover and your plans. Recon was easy to duck, but you’d eventually have to face him. You knew that. You just needed time. Time to build armor again.

You yanked the door open. “Yoongi, I—”

And stopped breathing.

Jungkook.

Leaning against the frame like the devil come to collect, his black hair a mess, frustration stitched into every strand, mouth carved into a blade.

A sleeveless black t-shirt clung to him, flashing the edge of ribs and the brutal lines of his ink-laced arm. Heat shimmered at his throat. Those baggy jeans—anchored by a punk belt, the kind that made you think of things you shouldn’t.

His eyes—glazed and wild, sharp enough to slit open every lie you’d wrapped around your heart.

And you—idiot that you were—stepped right into it.

“Not Yoongi—whoever that is,” he rasped, voice rough and scorched, like he’d been yelling or drinking. Or both.

He shifted, revealing the beer pack in his hand. Bottles clinked like accusations. He didn’t wait for permission. Just brushed past you—his arm grazing yours like a dare. Like a scar reopening.

And gods, you hated the part of you that ached at the sight. That stupid, traitorous ache that whispered he fit here.

You shut the door slowly, as if trying to cage a hurricane. “Are you… are you okay?”

There were a dozen better things to say. Like How the hell do you know where I live?

But of course Jungkook knew. You were Revenant’s best tracker—but he came close second. Only best when it came to haunting you.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he shot back, eyes glinting like broken mirrors.

You gestured at the bottles, pathetic.

He scoffed. “I can hold my liquor just fine, thanks.” But his gaze didn’t linger on you—it prowled your space like he was hunting ghosts. Like he was searching for signs you'd moved on.

You were suddenly, viciously aware of the worn band t-shirt clinging to your frame and the male boxer shorts riding up your thighs, rolled at your hips. No makeup. You looked like you would if he was coming back home to you. Which he wasn’t.

And he—he was a wrecking ball made of ink and silence.

“Why are you here, Jungkook?” Your voice was a whisper already bracing for pain.

This had to be it. His confrontation. His judgement. You running. You fucking him and leaving. Cowardice with a kiss. Like the stitches down your side, a reminder carved into you like art. Like consequence.

Or—worse and somehow better—he was here on Revenant’s orders. You’d been dancing on the edge these past two weeks, and you doubted he’d covered for you on callback day.

You were becoming a stray. And strays didn’t get mercy. They got leashes—or bullets.

But instead of a knife, he dropped the beers on your coffee table with a thud and turned.

“To work,” he said. “Thought I’d show up instead of waiting for you to.”

The guilt slithered up your throat like smoke. You took the hit without flinching.

Maybe you were being paranoid. A cocktail of no sleep and the weight of those men still hunting you. Of too many hours spent remembering the shape of Jungkook in your hands.

You weren’t being unprofessional, you inhaled as you reminded yourself.

You were still doing your job—tracking, reporting, filing notes. You just… needed space, while the field work wasn’t necessary. Distance. Needed to breathe. To exist in a room without drowning in him.

Without unraveling.

Jungkook reached into the six-pack and popped the cap off with a flick of his thumb, muscle memory smooth as murder. “Might as well drink while we sort this crap out,” he said, nodding to the files sprawled like landmines across your coffee table.

He called it crap. You could’ve laughed.

Revenant missions were never casual. They were shadows with knives, cover stories written in ash, warfare so deniable even your heartbeat lied. Blood-on-your-hands kind of work, buried intel with bodies. And the files between you now? They were preludes. Invitations to the next disaster.

You eyed the bottle like it was a loaded gun.

One rule left unbroken.

Don’t drink with him.

Because when walls thinned, and eventually came down—you knew what followed. Chaos. Heat. Want that left bruises.

And you were barely holding.

“Fine,” you muttered, grabbing one like it didn’t spell your undoing.

Another line blurred. The last one.

You ended up on the floor beside him, backs against the couch, knees brushing in the kind of proximity that shouldn't feel like drowning. Between you—snapshots of death, scribbled intel, faces frozen mid-breath. Your handwriting scratched across the margins like shrapnel.

War lived in your pen. Jungkook had always said that. Like he knew you wrote in rage.

The beer dulled the razor-edge of your posture, but not your perception. Not around him.

Jungkook wore calm like a disguise—like a bomb under a silk napkin. He exhaled cool detachment, but you could smell the lie on him along with the bourbon lurking on his breath. He was trying to be casual, but the effort showed in the curve of his jaw, in every brush of his leg against yours that never pulled back.

Every move was a push.

And you were breaking.

The tension between you snapped tighter, breath by breath. The air was too thick. Too still. One glance too long and you'd combust.

You reached for a grainy photo—light blown out, figure indistinct—and his fingers brushed yours. Featherlight. Incidental.

But it detonated something in your chest.

He didn’t look at you. Just took a swig like he hadn’t set you ablaze.

And you hated him for that. Hated the flex of his throat, the stark line of his jaw, the way his veins caught the light. That fucking light scar on his cheekbone. Hated the heat pooling in your palms, the part of you that screamed to crawl into his lap and burn all over again.

He was still Jungkook.

And you were still hopelessly tangled in the memory of that night.

His mouth on your throat, hands in your hair, breath whispering your name like a curse—those were not ghosts you could outrun.

Silence wrapped around you like a noose. He didn’t speak. Didn’t touch.

But he was there.

A shadow that never left.

Focus, goddammit.

You forced your eyes to the files, to the pattern you could solve with one hand tied behind your back. Easier than untangling the way his fingers tapped that bottle, like they ached for something else to press into.

He leaned forward, pulled a folder closer. Bit at the metal glint of his lip ring.

You seized the moment to snap yourself out of it. Your voice—measured, steady. Barely.

“That shot was taken two days before the drop. The guy in the background—you recognize him?”

“Mhm,” he said. “One of Choi’s henchmen. Shows up like mold. Slimier, too.”

You huffed, dry. “Perfect. Another one to track.”

He slid a page your way, fingers grazing your wrist longer than necessary. “This spot—see it?”

You did. The pattern was clear. The message clearer. “They’re circling back.”

“Exactly.” He leaned in, voice lower. “You’d think they’d learn. But rats don’t stop running into traps, do they?”

Your spine stiffened. You weren’t sure if he meant the target.

You weren’t sure he didn’t.

The space between you quivered. A standoff without a gun. It was a fragile balance—this cold war between you. The space where hate blurred into want. Where loyalty slipped its collar and curled up next to need.

You were staring at his eyes, trying hard not to dip them to his lips like he was watching yours.

But you cracked first—anything to break this spell he had you under. “Thought the superiors sent you to keep me in line, not drink and share a slumber party.”

His mouth twitched, slow and wicked. But there was heat behind it—undeniable.

He didn’t even look up. Just murmured, “Pretty sure you were supposed to leash me. But hey, who’s counting casualties?”

The words hit like a bullet—subtext woven through every syllable.

You didn’t answer.

Because you didn’t trust what would come out of your mouth.

Then—ding.

The doorbell split the air like a blade.

You stiffened. Instantaneous. A tripwire pulled in your spine.

Jungkook’s head snapped up at the same moment. His gaze cut from the door to you—catching everything. The flicker. The twitch you hadn’t meant to let show.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t need to.

He was already rising, fluid and dangerous, moving like the door was his to shield. Like you were.

And that—

That was what you couldn’t fucking stand.

You weren’t a damsel. Not a kept thing.

You didn’t need saving. You were his partner for fucks sake!

You moved fast. Intercepted him. Your palm met his chest—not harsh, but hard enough to stop.

Hard enough to remind him.

His body didn’t yield, but something behind his eyes shifted. That burn—low and dark—ignited again. The kind you didn’t dare name.

“You’re not my bodyguard,” you snapped, blade-edged, jaw locked.

His jaw clenched. The muscle under your hand tensed like it wanted to defy you. “No… I’m not.”

And there it was. That weightless second where neither of you moved, both too proud, too furious, too wired.

You knew his tells. He knew yours.

You pushed him just enough to block the door from his view, then yanked it open.

And there was Yoongi.

Leaning against the frame like the world owed him something and he planned to collect in charm. Hoodie half-zipped, eyes glittering with unbothered precision. A smirk pulled at his mouth like he knew he could get away with anything.

“Damn,” he said, low and deliberate, amusement bleeding into every syllable. “If I knew you were answering doors looking like that, I’d have brought dessert.”

His gaze trailed over you—lazy, unapologetic. From the defiance in your stare to the shirt clinging too well and the heat blooming in your throat. He drank it all in.

And for once, you didn’t bite back. Didn’t spit your usual venom. Because you felt Jungkook before you saw him.

His presence unfurled behind you like a stormcloud. Heavy. Electric. Half of his chest brushed your spine, his breath grazing your neck—hot and possessive. Not touching, but near enough to feel the warning in it.

Mine, it seemed to say.

Yoongi’s smirk faltered. Just a little. Just enough.

“And who’s this?” he asked, head tilting like it mattered.

You answered too fast, too sharp. “My partner. And you’re late.”

Yoongi’s brows ticked up, but he didn’t push. He just held out the chicken wings delivery bag, fingers loose, like he wasn’t dropping dynamite between two unstable elements. “Got the intel. Movement patterns. You’ll want to check the second location listed. It’s all inside, like always.” he pointed the packaging with his chin.

You reached for it, but Jungkook was faster.

He moved around you, body encaging yours like a wall of heat and intent, hand closing over the bag strap—over Yoongi’s fingers. Not hard. But pointed. Held it a beat too long.

A message without words: Back off.

Yoongi didn’t blink. Just arched a brow, amused. “Didn’t know you’d been having company.”

“Didn’t know I needed to check in with you about that,” you said, slicing your voice thin and cold. Ice over a fire.

Behind you, Jungkook went still.

Like you’d just lit a match and dropped it in gasoline.

Yoongi chuckled, stepping back, unbothered. But his gaze lingered—bouncing between you like he could read the unsaid. And maybe he could.

“Guess I’ll let you get back to… whatever this is,” he said, voice wry.

He lingered just long enough to grind his heel in it.

“I’ll be up in my apartment if you need me.”

The weight in his stare as he said it was intentional. You gave a small, polite smile—sharp-edged. Dismissive.

But Jungkook—through your periphery you saw the way his tongue pressed into his cheek like it was trying not to bite through.

Yoongi vanished into the hall.

The door shut behind him with a snap.

And then you turned.

You were on him before he could breathe.

A weapon unsheathed.

Your movement cut through the silence, quick and decisive, and just like that your chest was brushing his. Standing on the tip of your toes so your faces were just inches apart, eyes locked on the black pools in front of you. You could see everything—every flicker, every fracture.

“Do not make me check you.”

Jungkook’s eyes flared wide. But it wasn’t fear. No—what lived there was something hungrier. Darker. His breath shivered. His fists clenched.

He wanted to break something.

Or take you apart.

He was vibrating with restraint. With that desperate, wild thing that had clawed its way loose the moment you slipped out of his bed like a thief. He hadn’t gotten to chase you. To claim what you took with you.

Now? He was seconds from snapping.

“You had me once,” you whispered, venom-laced velvet. “Once. Not even long enough to piss and mark territory. Don’t forget that.”

Then you turned.

Cold. Precise. Beautifully cruel.

Like you hadn’t just sliced him open with your teeth.

You walked away with purpose, spine straight, blood roaring beneath still skin. Left him there in the ruins.

He didn’t follow.

Didn’t speak.

But you could feel him—rage coiled tight in his gut, heat rising like a fever. When you sank into the couch, you didn’t have to look to know he was gripping the air like it betrayed him.

“I shouldn't have come,” he muttered finally. “It was a mistake.”

His voice—low, scraped raw—crackled through the room like static. He stalked toward the table, dropped the delivery bag and snatched up his keys. His stride was all anger and ache.

But before he reached the door, your body moved without thought catching up.

“Wait—Just wait.”

Your hands lifted to your hair, dragging through with frustration. “We should talk about this. We’re partners, Jungkook. We can’t let one night get in the way of our work.”

He stopped like you’d shot him.

Tension rippled through his frame. When he turned to face you, it was slow. Dangerous.

“One night…” he repeated.

Voice like gravel. Like regret. As if it tasted like blood in his mouth.

“God, you must really hate me…” he huffed, the dimples appearing as he gnawed at his bottom lip. “Is that what it was for you? Just one night?”

And there it was.

The air between you thickened. Dense. Combustible.

Every breath you shared was a threat.

A challenge.

A lie neither of you could keep telling much longer.

Then—

Clang.

A metallic thud slammed through the stillness.

The fire stairwell.

Adrenaline sliced through the haze like a blade to the jugular.

The heat between you evaporated—consumed by instinct. No words, no delay. Just the clean, brutal snap of motion as both of you shifted gears like twin chambers firing. He pivoted. You dropped to the shoe bench near the front door, lifted it with practiced efficiency. Underneath—your weapon. And the spare you always kept, just in case. Just for him.

You tossed the Glock in his direction.

He caught it without looking—like your hand and his were parts of the same weapon, forged to work in tandem. His keys hit the ground, but neither of you so much as flinched.

This wasn’t chaos. This was code.

You and Jungkook moved like a language only your bodies remembered. Poetry written in violence. He stepped left as you went right. Breaths synced. Limbs mirrored.

Partners indeed. But not just that.

The stairwell door creaked again.

You moved into the hallway, silent as ghosts.

“One. Downstairs,” you murmured, voice razor-thin.

Jungkook nodded, just once. “They’re running scared.”

Then the chase detonated.

You sprinted down the concrete steps, the cold biting into your bare feet like punishment. Jungkook’s boots struck beside you, each step deliberate, brutal. Every movement between you practiced, precise, deadly.

You hit the garage’s lower level. Shadows clung to the corners like predators watching from the dark.

Jungkook’s hand snapped to your lower belly, half his fingers grazing bare skin beneath your t-shirt as he halted you. The touch seared, more dangerous than anything else in the room. Your breath hitched, traitorous.

Focus.

Ahead—a figure, caught mid-motion. The guy turned—saw you.

Recognition flared in Jungkook’s voice. “Guy from the photo. Snake tattoo.”

The man bolted.

Jungkook fired. The shot rang clean, ruthless. The SUV’s tire exploded before the target’s foot even left the ground. Rubber shrieked against pavement.

But it wasn’t over.

Two—no, three—more.

Armed. Unafraid.

Professionals.

“Split,” Jungkook muttered, low and lethal.

You peeled right, vanishing behind a beam. Gun raised. Heart hammering. Jungkook ghosted left—faster than light, heavier than wrath.

First one came at you with a crowbar, the arc whistling death.

You ducked the blow and fired—right into his thigh. His scream echoed off concrete. Another came behind him, bulletproof vest thick on his chest. Your second shot knocked him back but didn’t drop him.

You barely adjusted before Jungkook slammed into the guy, body to body, sheer force. The man hit a car hood with a sickening crunch.

You turned—

Too slow.

Another came in low, fast. Trained.

Fuck.

Your arm lifted, but his hand was already there, wrenching your wrist wide. Pain sparked. You fought back—knee snapping up, breath a growl—but his grip held.

And then you felt him.

Sudden, fierce. Jungkook’s hands on your waist, lifting, flipping you back over his hip. Your body hit the ground—hard.

But his body cushioned it.

Your breath stuttered.

He was under you. Hot and solid. Every muscle taut, every breath ragged. His fingers lingered too long just below your ribs, brushing over skin no one should be touching. Heat bloomed.

Time stopped.

“Show off,” you muttered, lifting your arm. You fired. The man dropped, clean.

“I like dramatic entrances,” he replied, his voice low and a promise, his eyes all flame.

Another guy emerged from the shadows, slipping behind a van with his gun already raised.

Jungkook moved instantly.

No hesitation, no question—just his body between yours and the threat, shielding you like instinct. The shot rang out, ricocheting off metal, too close. Jungkook didn’t flinch. He grabbed you and rolled you both behind the SUV’s bumper, one fluid movement, his arms tight around you.

Your hand clutched his bicep. His thigh wedged between your legs. His arm beneath your head. The concrete should have been cold, but all you felt was him—hot, tense, grounding.

Your heart thundered. His echoed it.

“Close one,” you breathed, shaken, eyes locking with his.

His breath washed over your lips. “You okay?”

“You’re on top of me.”

A slow grin tugged at his mouth. Dangerous. “Yeah. Not complaining.”

You shoved at him—but it lacked force. Like you needed to push him away before you did something worse.

Jesus. You were still on the clock.

You rolled to a crouch, nodded toward the final attacker. The heat in his gaze vanished. The smirk? Gone. He snapped back into mission mode like it was a second skin.

The last man bolted.

Jungkook pursued.

You followed.

Your heels slammed the concrete. Pain screamed up your legs, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Your blood roared in your ears. Jungkook closed in first, tackled the guy without mercy, slamming him into a pillar so hard the echo cracked down the garage like thunder.

The man fought hard—rage in every limb, desperation in every move. Jungkook was still buzzed from the alcohol, still bleeding—but still stronger. You reached them in a blur. Drove your elbow into the guy’s spine. He dropped like a felled beast. Motionless.

You stood over the body, breath jagged. Heart roaring. Body trembling with more than just adrenaline.

Jungkook leaned against the pillar, bruised and split-lipped. Blood painted a line down the side of his face—sharp, bright, and brutal. It caught the light like a vow. He looked like a tornado just barely held in place.

“You’re bleeding,” you said, voice tighter than you meant.

“I’m fine.”

“You always say that.”

He looked at you. And for a beat—under the flickering garage lights—he wasn’t your enemy. Or a mistake made in a night, the one you’d run from. Or even just your partner.

He was everything you feared you wanted.

His chest heaved. Yours mirrored it.

And then he stepped closer.

You didn’t move.

“You hesitated,” he said quietly.

You blinked, thrown by the shift. “When?”

“When that cameo scumbag came at you. You looked at me first.”

Your jaw locked. “So?”

His gaze didn’t waver. He stepped closer until you could taste the bourbon on his breath. Blood and sweat clung to the air between you like incense in a burning church.

“So don’t,” he murmured. “Next time, just take the damn shot.”

Your spine stiffened. “You saying I can’t handle myself?”

That dangerous smirk flickered again. But this time, softer. Less weapon, more wound. He reached out—and his fingers brushed your jawline. Just barely. Just the edge of it—slow. Intentional. Reverent. As if memorizing the shape of your defiance.

“I’m saying I notice everything you do,” he rasped. “Especially when it’s for me.”

Your breath caught mid-throat. The confession gutted you more than his touch.

But before you could speak—

A grunt. Wet and gurgled.

One of the bodies on the ground wasn’t quite done dying. He writhed, breath rattling like a broken instrument.

You both turned.

Jungkook stepped back.

Not far. Not enough for the space to cool. Just enough to draw his pistol. Calm and quiet, his fingers wrapping around the grip like it belonged to him, like it knew the shape of him.

And he fired.

One shot. Final.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—It throbbed.

It hit harder than the bullet. Not because of what he did. You’d both done worse. God knows you were past redemption.

But you stared. Not at the body. At him.

Because this?

This was different.

This was standing in the middle of the fire. Not running. Not denying. Just… burning.

“We—we need to deal with the bodies,” you said, but your voice sounded mechanical, hollow. You could feel the revelation of your feelings sending your body into shock. “If they trace this back here... I can't—The ones from the hard drive job, they’re still out there. I can’t risk—”

“Shut up.”

The words hit like a whip and you froze.

The bastard knew it. Knew your body, your mind like it was his.

“I got this,” Jungkook said, eyes gentle, steady, locking onto yours. “Take the guns. Check on your informant. I’ll be up in a few.”

Your mouth was dry. You couldn’t leave him, you needed—

“You’re hurt. Not to say drunk,” you bit out, more afraid than angry.

He gave a short laugh—lacking energy, his body was betraying him too. “I’ve had worse.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And yet.”

“I have contacts too, you know. I’ll burn the mess before anyone smells it. Go upstairs.” Then he looked at you again—really looked. And everything in you fractured.

“Trust me.”

And you did. You fucking did.

That was the real problem.

It wasn’t the blood or the mess or the ghosts that haunted you.

It was that.

You trusted him more than you feared what your feelings for him could do.

You’d checked on Yoongi.

Safe. No tail. Still smirking like the devil had given him his lines personally.

By the time you returned to the apartment, the sky had bled into ink—thick, suffocating. One of those nights that clings to your skin, whispers against your pulse. The kind that knows your secrets. The kind that feels sentient.

You’d been pacing ever since. Barefoot. Restless. Your heartbeat ticking like a landmine.

You kept glancing at the window without realizing. At the door. At your phone. Not checking it. Just… listening. As if some part of you knew the kind of mess Jungkook possibly walked into and hadn’t come back from. As if your body was betraying the fear your mouth refused to voice.

Then—

Three knocks.

Soft. Deliberate. One pause. Then two more.

His rhythm.

Always his.

You opened the door before your mind caught up. Like instinct had already laid out the red carpet for your ruin.

And there he was.

Relief hit you like a sharp exhale. Not loud. Not visible. But it bloomed in your chest like pain. You didn’t let it reach your face—didn’t dare. You still hadn’t decided what scared you more: the idea that something had happened to him… or the fact that you cared that deeply if it had.

Bruised. Bloodstained. Sweaty strands of dark hair plastered to his temple like shadows, eyes heavy-lidded and shining too dark in the hallway light. He looked like the aftermath of a war—and yet, you couldn’t look away.

“It’s sorted,” he said. “I identified two of them as Choi’s underdogs, but it’ll take a while to—”

You didn’t let him finish.

“Let me check that cut on your brow,” you said, already grabbing his wrist and pulling him inside. The door shut behind him with a quiet finality.

If something serious had happened, he would’ve led with it. Jungkook was nothing if not brutally efficient—he didn’t bury the lede. Which is exactly why, despite the wreckage on his skin, your focus stayed on him. Not the mission. Not yet.

He followed wordlessly. Heavy-footed. Letting you lead him toward the bathroom like he was tied to you by something ancient and binding.

You rummaged through the cabinet, refusing to look at his face too long, refusing to feel that heat that still hadn’t left your skin from earlier.

Behind you, he laughed—a lazy, low, lopsided sound. The kind that always came with trouble. The kind that curled into your belly and settled there, warm and invasive.

“Baby, it’s a tiny cut,” he drawled, voice syrupy and wrapped in alcohol. His eyes edged something like endearment through the mirror. “I just need a shower. Don’t worry about it.”

Baby.

That nickname again, cutting like a silk against bare skin. A reminder from that night together. A trigger. A temptation.

You turned.

Just in time to catch the sway in his stance. One shoulder slumped against the doorframe. His pupils were dilated. Lips slightly parted. And God, he looked feral—like want was eating him alive from the inside out.

“You’re too drunk,” you said, your voice low and clipped. “How much did you drink before coming here on your fucking bike like a lunatic—before continuing to drink?”

You glared at him, jaw tight. “And don’t even deny it. I saw the damn thing parked out there.”

He grinned, all teeth and danger—boyish and wicked. “Just a bit.”

You let out a short, bitter laugh. “You fucking—”

You moved before the thought even formed, your hand going straight to the exposed skin above his belt—where his shirt had ridden up. Palm flat. Skin too warm. Muscles tight beneath.

You shoved him back. A push that lingered too low. Too intimate.

He stiffened. But didn’t stop you, kept walking back.

His breath grew shallow. His eyes dropped—to your mouth. The air around you turned charged, electric.

“I told you I can hold my liquor,” he murmured, voice fraying at the edges. “I am holding it. Barely. I’ll admit that. But God, you—”

His hand hovered near your throat, clawed fingers curling just short of contact. Not grabbing. Just wanting.

But didn’t.

“You’re— Fuck.” he struggled.

Your knees nearly buckled. That memory—his hands on your throat, mouth on your skin—flared so bright you could taste it.

“You look at me like you want to kill me,” he said. Voice cracking on something too real. His hand dropped. A surrender. But not defeat.

“And maybe I do,” you snapped, though your hand stayed where it was—gripping his side like you needed the anchor. Like you didn’t want to let go. Your nails curled slightly between his belt and his V line. He shivered beneath the pressure.

His pupils dilated further, eyes locking on yours as if remembering everything you too were failing miserably to forget.

And then—he reached.

His hand slid behind your neck, fingers threading into your hair. Not yanking. Not dragging.

Just there. Claiming without question.

Breath warm against your lips.

Your heart stuttered.

Then you reached behind him—found the faucet—and yanked.

Water exploded over both of you, steam rising instantly, curling around your limbs like smoke from a fire you couldn’t put out.

He gasped, startled. His shirt clung to him instantly, outlining every line, every inch, water running in rivulets down the slopes of his body.

“What the—?” he started.

“You said you needed a shower. I agree,” you cut him off, hissing. Stepping into the spray with him, heat crawling down your spine. “You need to sober the hell up.”

He stared at you for a breath, stunned.

Then that look flickered into place.

Dark. Amused. Dangerous.

Water traced a slow path down his jaw, dripping from the cut above his brow. Down his throat. His chest. His voice came low and rough, barely more than a growl.

“Careful,” he murmured. “Or I’ll begin thinking the secret to have you under me is getting you wet.”

You pressed your finger to his cut meaning to hurt—to shut his mouth—, hovering close enough to feel his pulse beneath the skin. Your own shirt was soaked through, clinging to your curves like a dare, and you were suddenly too aware.

He grunted but didn’t pull away. Instead, he smiled. That insufferable, knowing smirk that said he could read every inch of your skin. Worse, that he could get under it.

“You wish,” you snapped, pulling your hand away.

His laugh was low and rough, soaked in sin. “I did,” he said, leaning in until the mist between you was all but gone. “And look at you now. Drenched. Again.”

Silence collapsed over the bathroom like a loaded gun.

You stared at each other like it was war. Like one word, one twitch of muscle, would set the whole damn room on fire.

His gaze locked with yours, dark and searing. Possessive. Like he’d never stopped seeing you as his. Like he knew every thought crashing through your mind in that moment.

And you wanted him.

God, you wanted him.

But the wanting didn’t make it less dangerous.

It made it worse.

You wanted his hands on you. His mouth. His body pinning you to the wall so hard you forgot your name. You wanted him to ruin you—devour every inch, mark every part, leave nothing untouched, nothing sacred. Just like he did that night.

You wanted him because you weren’t supposed to.

Because it would burn everything you’d built—every wall, every rule, every lie. And still, you’d do it again.

His voice broke the silence, rough and low, like a sandpiper doing his best to lure you in.

“I killed them.”

The words crashed into you like thunder.

He didn’t blink, didn’t flinch. Just stared, soaked and still, letting the truth settle slowly in your lungs like you were taking a drag from one of his cigarettes.

“The rest of the guys from when I…stitched you,” he said, voice hoarse, eyes hollow and burning. “Every last one of them. You don’t have to worry about that anymore.”

Your breath caught—snagged hard in your throat.

“What? When?” The whisper barely passed your lips.

His jaw flexed, twitching like he was chewing on the weight of it. “I had a lot of time on my hands the past two weeks,” his chest kept rising and falling, eyes unrelenting. “A lot of anger to burn.”

You lost yourself in the black pool of them, able to catch your reflection, thinking that the better question would be why, but you knew the answer. And it wasn’t because Jungkook would always have your back, because you were partners. It was the something more.

Whatever thin, frayed thread had been holding you back—snapped.

For a second you had to remind yourself—it’s okay to want something that might ruin you. To crave what cuts. And maybe you were already bleeding.

Your hand reached his collar, tugging. He let himself be pulled, leaning down like a storm bending toward you, moving slow, steady, devastating—giving you time to run. But you didn’t.

Because you wanted him to kiss you.

The moment his lips caught yours, everything burned off like fog meeting sun. The ache. The exhaustion. The war.

The kiss was slow at first—sinful, soaked in longing. The kind that studied every edge of you. Then your teeth caught his bottom lip, dragged with just the right pressure. He moaned—a dark, low sound that made your insides twist.

Jungkook leaned his forehead against yours, breathing heavy through the water falling over your heads.

“This is a bad idea,” you whispered, eyes closed as he teased your lips.

He trailed a hot path toward your ear, fingers curling around your hips. “Since when do we follow good ones?”

A bite on your lobe, soft. You lost control.

You pressed into him harder, hand locked in his jaw, seizing his lips completely. He shuddered, fingers coming to slide from your temples through your damp hair. Clutching, desperate. Your bodies taut with desire, tension razor-thin.

You moved, hands falling on his shoulders, then a push—you climbed him without mercy. His hands immediately under your thighs, squeezing. You were dizzy—drenched in him—just like that night, feeling feverish. Each kiss made your thoughts blurrier, your skin tighter, your breath more ragged.

Jungkook slammed you against the tile wall like he could read your mind, his hips grinding against yours. God, he was so fucking hard. You moaned, he grunted. Water rained down, steaming over your flushed skin, making every nerve feel electric.

You gasped with another roll of his hips, body trembling with every throb of want.

Fuck, you needed out of your clothes.

Needed them gone—

One leg came down, then the other. You shoved him back, his raven eyes searched for yours, dizzy. Almost supplicant.

Your lips parted, clit throbbing as you stripped the soaked t-shirt clinging to you. It peeled away slow, like silk over embers, baring you to the heat of his stare.

Jungkook froze.

Breathing heavy. Watching.

His gaze licked your chest, then fell to the stitches still holding on your side, right underneath your ribs.

“You should’ve taken those out,” his was voice low, raspy, “Now it’ll leave a scar,” and you caught the way his teeth found his lip, that damned dimple deepening—like he was already claiming it. His name etched in flesh.

Good, that had been your intention.

“No shit…Sherlock,” your lips curled into a knowing smirk. A laughter almost fell from your lips when you saw the realization befalling his eyes. His knuckles whitnening, balled in fists.

That fuelled you.

Your fingers fell to strip the boxer shorts next, leaving you only in your black lace panties. You stood bare before him, water sliding down your curves like an offering.

He stared in a daze, gulped.

Like you were a sin too beautiful to resist.

And he was ready to confess the only way he knew how—with worship and destruction.

Jungkook’s inked fingers found the back collar of his shirt, pulling it off in one fluid motion—water trailed down his chest like a whisper. Boots thudded to the tile, cast aside like fallen armor. Still, his gaze never left yours.

Your thighs pressed together as you took him in.

He was bare but for drenched jeans, dangerous and unguarded. The belt fell next, with a splash, and then his fingers found the button—until you closed the distance, taking over. You dragged his zipper down, slow, eyes piercing his.

His breath hitched.

Not even blood had undone Jeon Jungkook like this. This wasn’t vulnerability. It was exposure. Raw. His chest rose hard; pierced lips parted, begging for that final push—like if you did so, he’d come undone right there.

And you liked the feeling.

You liked the power humming beneath your fingers. The way he vibrated with the effort of not losing it.

Just to test him, to twist the wire tighter, you dropped your hand after unzipping him, let the distance stretch—mocking a retreat. Your steps pulled back, every line of your body begging to be chased.

“Don’t—Come here. Now,” Jungkook snarled, one step faltering.

You chuckled, slow and dangerous, stopping. Your eyes stayed on his, playful and defiant.

Jungkook could twist your mind into knots. Wreck your logic with a look.

But two could play.

And you had fire in your lungs now.

You stalked back toward him, eyes never dropping, and slid to your knees with the kind of poise that could unravel a man.

Tilting your head, biting your lip, you murmured, “Is this what you wished for? When you kept thinking to yourself I’d crawl back to you? That I was yours to keep?”

His breath was wrecked. His jaw flexed.

“Yes,” he said, the word broken with need. “That—and so much more.”

The confession hit the air like a lit fuse on dry kindling.

You smiled—slow and knowing, like a promise draped in danger. “Really?” you whispered. “And what else did you wish I’d do?”

Your hand slid up his thigh—slow, commanding—knuckles brushing soaked denim, the heat of his skin bleeding through. You felt the muscle tense beneath your palm, a quiet shudder betraying his restraint.

Jungkook’s eyes flared—black, volatile, molten. Then he moved. Fast.

He surged forward, seized your waist with fingers that dug into flesh like he was claiming a victory he hadn’t yet earned. He yanked you upright, effortless, like your body weighed nothing to him—like control was already his.

You barely had time to blink.

With a grunt, he flipped you over his shoulder, and the air rushed from your lungs. Your wet hair clung to your back, your cheek pressed to the plane of his spine. A yelp caught behind your teeth.

Then—smack.His palm fell to your ass like a whip, loud and ruthless.

You gasped, startled and electric, the sound swallowed by the hiss of steam and the wet splash of water against tile. The sting bloomed through your skin and burrowed down into heat.

"You're a fucking menace," he muttered, voice rough and thick with something darker than amusement—like each word had been dragged over gravel, heavy with the battle he was losing against himself.

Your laugh came out breathless. Aroused. Dangerous. "Funny, you seem to like it."

He growled—actually growled—and the sound lit up your nerves like dynamite. With one hand steady at your thigh, he reached out and turned off the shower, then walked you out like a man done pretending.

He carried you down the hall like a stolen prize, like something sacred and savage he’d fought to win. No hesitation. No falter. His gait was confident, practiced—and yet you’d never walked this route together before. He still knew exactly where your bedroom was.

The door creaked open and shadows welcomed you. Moonlight spilled across the sheets like it, too, had been waiting.

The room pulsed.

He didn’t lower you gently. He tossed you down like a challenge, like he was daring you to run again so he could catch you all over.

You landed with a bounce, limbs splaying, hair a halo across the bedding, lips parted. The moment held, thick with the throb of everything unsaid.

Then he was over you.

Jungkook’s body came down like a waterfall—damp denim scraping over lace, his weight pressing you into the mattress, heat bleeding through every inch. His arms caged your head. His breath ghosted over your cheek.

He was everywhere.

You arched into him, chasing friction like it might answer the ache inside you. His skin was slick with water, warm and wild. His jeans rubbed with exquisite cruelty between your thighs.

And his eyes—God, his eyes were flame.

He dipped his head, brushing lips to your throat—once, soft enough to almost hurt. Then he bit. A sharp press of teeth that said mine, that said run again and I’ll follow.

“You left, you ghosted me,” he pulled the soft skin beneath your ear between his teeth, like it was penance.

“Ah,” you moaned, your head tipping back, hair plastered to your face, his heat bleeding into you as steam still clung to your skin. One of his hands slid to your breast, bold, hungry, and you could barely think around it.

“I—I’m…”

But the words died in your throat. Thought scattered.

Jungkook’s breath stuttered against your mouth. Hot. Shaking. And then—

He moved.

Devastating.

One hand wrapped around his cock, dragging it out of his jeans with a groan that sounded broken. The kind of sound that could tear open ribcages. The kind that made your breath catch, knees press inward, thighs shake.

The other—

He hooked rough fingers into the lace clinging to your soaked skin, yanking your panties aside like they’d offended him by existing. No finesse. No delay.

You spread your legs before you realized you had. The want in your chest curled like claws—sharp, urgent, feral.

Then he thrust.

Hard. Deep.

You cried out. His name caught on your tongue like a spell gone wrong. He filled you—inch by inch—with a slowness that wasn’t mercy, but control. You arched. He didn’t stop. Buried to the hilt, the stretch a brand, a claim.

He felt perfect. Like he’d been made to wreck you.

You remembered—fuck.

The condom. It hit you mid-moan, a flash of ice through the heat. You weren’t on the shot—you never were. Not with how it messed with your body, your reflexes. Not in your line of work.

Your hands flew to his hips, trembling as you tried to stall his rhythm, tried to choke out words through the haze.

“JK—ah, fuck—Stop. Wait—”

He started to pull back, the motion sudden, his breath sharp, panicked. His eyes found yours and they pleaded.

“No. No, please. Baby, please—”

A breathless laugh fell from your lips. You couldn’t help it. His desperation—it was fucking adorable. You dragged your nails down his back, slow, soothing. “We forgot the condom.”

Relief transformed him, but he didn’t waste a second. He slipped out cursing under his breath, and was on his feet in an instant, already moving.

“Bathroom,” you said, still catching your breath. “Second drawer.”

He came back fast, foil in hand, eyes locked on you like a man starved.

You were already on your knees, waiting for him at the edge of the bed, panties gone. One hand curled around the back of his neck, pulling him in. The kiss was slow, deep. Sin-drenched. You toyed with the damp strands at his nape, shivering at how they curled against your fingers.

Jungkook pushed his soaked jeans off. Finally. Your mouth watered. The white boxers clung, transparent, and left nothing to the imagination. You licked your lips.

You helped take them off too. Then his inked hand found your chest, pressing you back into the mattress. A smirk playing on his lips. The condom hit the sheets a second after. You chuckled, low, breathless.

And then he was on you.

His weight pressed into yours, lips at your ear, voice low.

“Tell me again what you said that night.”

“What?” you breathed. You could barely remember your own name.

“That you hate me,” he bit your jaw. “Lie to me again, and tell me that you hate me.”

“I hate you,” you said—except it came out soft. Like a kiss. Like a confession.

His mouth traveled down. Kisses trailed heat. You whispered it again. He sucked one nipple.

“Fuck, I hate you.” and again.

His chest rumbled, a dark chuckle as he closed his eyes and trailed down. He dragged his teeth through your lower belly. It coiled. You fisted the sheets.

“Mhm, I hate you.” you kept chanting like a shield.

He reached between your legs and moaned into you.

“Ah— I fucking hate you,” you gasped, back arching, fingers clawing at his hair, desperate to keep him there.

“I hate your mouth…Those goddamned hands,” and as if on command he squeezed your thighs, his tongue circled, teased, playing with your rationale. “I hate— I—” you started losing yourself, hips undulating, trying to meet his pace.

Jungkook groaned—devouring you like he’d never tasted anything real before. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Just moaned, begged, burned.

“Don’t stop,” you panted. “Jungkook—”

He didn’t. He ate like a man dying. Sucked and swirled and bit until your body broke, splintered into light, your orgasm ripping through you like it had claws. You cried out, one hand fisting the sheets, the other holding him there.

“Oh, God— Fuck!”

He looked at you from between your legs, licking you through it, slow.

Then he rose with one last long lick, grinning like a feline, crawling back up, mouth crashing into yours—letting you taste yourself on his tongue. You kissed him back hard, wild, lips swollen, mind reeling.

He groaned into it, and the condom was in his hand in a second. He ripped the foil and rolled it on. His eyes—blown and wild—never left yours.

His hands found the back of your knees, and he pulled, fast. Like he couldn’t bear to wait a second longer.

He dropped.

And thrust into you—no warning, just heat and pressure and that tight, perfect stretch.

Your mouths clashed. You kissed like addicts, like two people who had tried everything else but nothing ever came close to this.

Your nails sank into his shoulders, searching for something to hold as he drove into you. Over and over.

Jungkook moaned. Deep and raspy. Feral. One arm braced beside your head. The other—he slid under you, gripping your ass, dragging your hips up to meet every punishing thrust.

He fucked you like he was possessed. Like he wanted to possess you.

Your orgasm started building again—fast, feral. He felt it. The way you clawed at his back, your moans climbing in pitch against his neck.

“You thought we were done?” He wrapped that hellish inked hand around your throat—not tight, just there, a tether. His pace slowed. Unbearably slow. His eyes dark, locked to yours. “I’m not done. Understand?”

You barely had time to gasp before he slid out, flipped you like you weighed nothing.

A whimper escaped your lips, thighs clenching.

He reached out, his hand gripped your jaw, angling your head back to him. His breath came hot over your lips. “Head down. Ass up.”

You stared at him, defiant—because you could. Then, slowly, you leaned even more toward him, let your tongue flick his lip piercing. A challenge.

“I’ll let you be the boss tonight, then.”

You caught how his tongue poked his cheek. How rage and lust twined in his eyes, before going on all fours and sinking your head further into the mattress, tauting him.

“You—” he shook his head, jaw tight. He gripped your waist with one hand, the other guiding him to your entrance. “I swear you’ll be so spent you won’t be able to run. Not tonight.”

Then he slammed into you.

The sheets muffled your moan. Your clit throbbed as he forced your knee out and drove in again—Hard, fast, vicious.

“JK…” you cried out.

His hand fisted in your hair, tugging, arching you flush against his chest. Mouth to your ear. “Ngh, fuck, baby—it keeps getting better–”

He pounded into you. You could barely breathe. Barely think.

“Yeah,” was all you managed, and you squeezed your eyes shut, taking it.

Your walls clenched. Hands pressed into the sheets, rocking back into him, chasing every stroke.

You arched again, his hands pulled, squeezed—slick skin on his thighs, water still clinging to both of you, and all you could think about was that you could be doing this for two weeks had you not been such a coward.

He hit deep. Again. And again.

“Harder,” you whimpered. “Ah, right there—!”

He grunted and gave it to you.

“Jungkook, I— Mhm–” You shattered. Your orgasm burst white-hot and ruined you.

He kept going, chasing his own end. His hand closed around your breast as he came, groaning against your back, filling the condom with that sexy, throaty moan of his. It echoed deep in your core.

You both collapsed—sweat and steam and aftermath.

“Fuck,” he panted against your shoulder blades.

A second passed, just your breaths filling the bedroom, then—

“JK… You’re crushing me.” You chuckled against the sheets, and he pulled out, breath ragged, rolling onto his back beside you.

You stretched out your legs, sore and blissed out. Watched as he rolled the condom off, tossed it toward the bin.

Then he dragged you to his chest. Lazy grin. Warm eyes.

You kissed him—lazy, honey-slow. His throat rumbled with a sound that made your stomach flip.

“Stay with me,” he breathed against your lips. “Just—”

“I missed you,” you whispered, fingers sinking into his damp hair.

You felt more exposed than when you were beneath him, neck bare and exposed.

“I missed this.”

He went still. Eyes finding yours. Then—he kissed you again, deeper, longer. You wondered if it would ever stop being this… head-spinning.

When he pulled back, he nuzzled your nose. “I fucking missed you too.”

You lay there. Still breathing. Still burning. Still tangled.

“They can’t know. No one can.” your voice was barely a whisper.

You didn’t say why. You didn’t need to. Jungkook knew.

If your superiors caught wiff of it—worse, if whoever was your enemy next did… You’d both have a grave marked with your names.

“I know,” he said. Then added—grumbling, “But that informant of yours should. The nerve on that guy!”

You snorted. Rolled your eyes. One hand untangled from his hair to cover his face, pushing gently.

He bit your palm with eyes closed. Dragging the flesh there. The vision did something stupid to you.

In a swift motion, you straddled him.

And he looked up at you like you were everything. Just laid there beneath you, round eyes ravaging on the shape of your body on top of his.

Your hands slid to the space between his chest and abs, feeling him, pinning him. He started to breathe hard, slowly hardening under you again.

Holy fuck.

His grip returned—your hips in his rough palms. Fingers curling.

You arched, dipping towards his mouth. Brushing, featherlight, teasing.

“You should know by now I’m not the most patient guy,” he grunted, fingers running along the expanse of your legs. You laughed against his mouth, low, satisfied.

Then you bit. His lip. His jaw. His throat.

When you returned to his mouth and he tried to kiss you—eager, barely in check—you stopped him. Smiled. Your lips just hovering, his breath rough.

You held him there, hand on his jaw.

Then you rolled your hips on his cock, slow, hard.

Jungkook moaned, head tipping back.

“My turn,” you clashed your mouth against his.

A faint rustle broke the silence.

Cold air kissed your bare skin—an empty space beside you where warmth used to be. Your arm instinctively reached out, fingers curling into the mattress before you stirred, eyelashes fluttering against your cheeks.

Jungkook…?

You blinked awake. He was sitting at the edge of the bed, lit only by the soft morning sun sneaking in through the curtains. His back was to you, spine a canvas of light and shadow. He bent forward, pulling something from his jeans. The screen of his phone lit up once, a low buzz vibrating through the silence.

Shit. You’d soaked his phone the night before. Please be working—

He answered it with a rough, still-sleep-heavy “Yeah?”

You moved before your thoughts could catch up—sliding across the sheets like you were weightless, drawn by the scent of him, the pull of him. Your body folded around his, forehead pressing to his shoulder, your mouth tucked into the space just beneath his jaw, breathing him in. He smelled like sweat, like cotton, like you.

He shifted, pulling you closer.

Jungkook was so deliciously warm it hurt.

“You owe me, you know,” a voice crackled through the line—male, lazy drawl layered with something sharp underneath. “You dropped a bomb on me last night. Took me four hours to cover it. I want answers.”

The contact.

You hadn’t known a name, hadn’t needed to. But Jungkook had mentioned someone last night. Someone who could clean up a mess. Now, the puzzle was whole.

Jungkook’s fingers found your thigh, skimming over your skin like it was habit. Like he didn’t need to look to know where you were.

“You’ll get them, Taehyung,” he muttered, mouth brushing your hair as he spoke. “Got anything for me?”

A pause. “Yeah. I have what you wanted. Meet me in thirty.”

He turned, lips catching yours—barely there, like he couldn’t not kiss you. Then his hand slid lower, slipping between your legs, teasing, slow and confident.

“Make it two and a half hours,” he said into the phone, voice quieter now, voice that always made you ache.

“Two and a half? What the hell are you—”

“I’m busy.” A smirk tugged at his mouth. “Send the address.”

He ended the call without waiting, phone thunking softly onto the nightstand. His body turned fully, slow and heavy with sleep and want. He looked at you like you were the only thing that had ever made sense.

“Morning,” his lips found your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “Where were we?”

You laughed into his skin, teeth grazing the scar on his shoulder—the one you’d given him that first mission, when you didn’t trust him and he’d called you reckless.

“You were just about to take off my stitches and then make me breakfast.”

Jungkook grinned, unrelenting. “Then round three in the shower?”

You groaned, but you were already folding, fingers running through the soft and haparzed strands of his hair again, lips catching his.

“Regroup. Round three now, everything else later.”

And he was already on top of the situation. Already on top of you.

#jungkook smut #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook angst #jungkook fanfic #jungkook #jungkook oneshot #bts smut #jungkook ff #bts jungkook #bts fanfic #jeon jungkook

1K notes · View notes

atomicami · 1 month ago

Text

while my heart heals…

ceo!sevika x fem!reader

- summary: you’re in a whirlwind when you and your boss catch your boyfriend with her fiancée in the act together. the heartbreak starts to affect your performance at work, and as a result, you decide to take a leave of absence so you can heal properly. but when your boss catches you handing the letter onto her desk, she ends up giving you some unexpected comfort—followed by a proper farewell.

- content: smut MDNI, modern au, corporate setting, NYC living (for now), reader works in sales, reader is dating jayce (only in the beginning), mel and sevika are engaged, age gap (reader is early-mid 20s, sevika is early-mid 40s), secret love affairs, infidelity/cheating followed by breaking up, hurt/comfort, porn with plot, fingering (r!receiving), semi-public sex (they do it in the office!), sevika being a tease and talking you through it, cockblocking, and also everyone is filthy rich in this

- author’s note: can’t stop thinking about getting with rich ceo sevika so i decided to write this out. i hope y’all like it!

“sometimes i don’t even know where i’m going but i’ll never forget where i come from i know who i am and who i will be and that’s why i have faith in myself”

(this fic is crossposted on ao3)

The rain hasn’t let up all day.

Thick, gray clouds spread across the sky, the city being consumed by the downpour. You barely notice it, though—your mind is still at the office, stuck between unfinished paperwork and the weight of another long day.

You’d expect to be home after your shift, and you did…only to end up getting ready to leave the house again later that evening.

It was for some corporate event. A birthday celebration for an executive, or was it a fundraiser? You hadn’t paid much attention to it when it was brought up in last week’s meeting. Frankly, it was the last thing you’d want to be doing after a long workday like this.

And yet, here you are—back home, standing in front of the mirror, completely unaware of what the night has in store.

You’ve lost count of the outfit changes you’ve given yourself in the past hour. No one really specified what the dress code was for the event—so in the end, you simply resorted to a crimson piece that hung in your closet, blended in with the rest of your outfits.

The dress hugs your figure beautifully. It was sleek and elegant, but you barely feel like yourself in it. It’s not like you don’t like dressing up—on the contrary, you actually enjoy it, especially given that your clothes have now taken up space on your boyfriend’s side of the closet as well. But with the weight of today and this entire week overall, the exhaustion consuming you was making it harder to pretend that you want to be at this party at all.

Your phone buzzes beside you, the text message from Jayce lighting up the screen indicating that he was here.

You exhale through your nose, finishing the touches on your makeup before smoothing down the fabric of your dress. It’s not that anything’s wrong. Jayce has been nothing but kind and thoughtful to you. He’s said all the right things and treated you like royalty for the past two years of your relationship with him. But lately, there’s been something…off. Something you can’t quite put your finger on.

You shake the thought of it away, grabbing your coat and clutch before heading out the door. It’s just one night, right?

˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧ ˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧ ˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧ ˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧ ˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚˚ ༘

It was only a ten minute ride to the hotel, but for some reason you felt like the ride dragged out longer. Maybe it was because of the downpour of rain, or the evening traffic, as it always is in New York—or maybe it was just your lingering anxieties about showing up to an event like this. As the top saleswoman in Hexcorp, and now the girlfriend to one of the CEOs, you can’t help but feel the pressure of having to make the best impression all the time.

Upon arriving at the hotel, the valet opens the car door for you, and Jayce steps out first, immediately offering you his hand as if he’s effortlessly playing the part of a perfect gentleman. You force a small smile and take his hand, stepping carefully onto the slick pavement as the two of you walk through the revolving door.

The inside of the hotel is a stark contrast to the gloom outside. It was elegant, with warm golden lights, crystal chandeliers, and the soft hum of music on the piano surrounding you the moment you entered. The air is thick with chatter and laughter as well dressed attendees mingle around with cocktails in hand.

Jayce keeps a steady hand on the small of your back as you both make your way deeper into the crowd, guiding you toward familiar faces. His touch is warm, but something about it feels…off. Too careful. Too practiced.

“Should we grab a drink?” he asks, yet he is already steering you towards the bar. You nod at his offer anyway, but your eyes wander.

And then you see her—your other boss.

Sevika.

Tall, broad, and impossible to miss, even in a room full of elites. She’s right across the bar, her suit tailored to perfection—coincidentally, it also was crimson, the same shade as your dress. The deep red fabric molds to her muscular frame, sharp lines hugging her body in all the right places. The top button of her shirt is undone, just enough to tease what lies underneath, and her posture is relaxed as ever, radiating effortless control. Her prosthetic arm gleams under the soft light, the intricate metal plating a sharp contrast to the rich fabric of her suit.

But she’s not alone.

Standing beside her is her fiancée, Mel Medarda.

But she doesn’t just stand there—she owns the space around her. A beautiful vision draped in a sleek, skin tight white gown that hugs her curves as if it were painted on. Gold jewelry glitters around her neck, and her perfectly manicured fingers rest lightly on Sevika’s arm in primal possession. And she sure doesn’t fail to show off the ring—a massive, dazzling marquise cut diamond perched proudly on her ring finger, glistening under the lights. Her skin glows alongside it, her rich brown complexion flawless, and her signature smirk tugs at the corners of her lips as if she knows every single person in the room is looking at her. As if she knows you’re looking at her.

That’s Mel Medarda for you. International supermodel. A walking fantasy who managed to get engaged with Sevika.

Your stomach twists, and you force yourself to look away before either of them can catch you staring. But your eyes betray you.

Because they find their way back to Sevika and Mel.

And Sevika?

She’s already looking at you.

You’re quick to pull your gaze away from Sevika’s, heart pounding a little harder than it should be. You’re not sure how long you’ve been staring, but the tension lingers in the air long after you look away.

A familiar hand wraps around yours, fully pulling you out of your thoughts as you look back up to see Jayce nudging a glass of champagne into your hand. “Come on, let’s make the rounds.” he urges gently.

You nod with a distracted smile as you take the glass of champagne and follow alongside him, but the memory of Sevika’s striking gray eyes on you stays in the back of your mind.

An hour passes, but you feel like you’ve been here for an eternity already. You’re forcing yourself to smile as one of your coworkers goes on about the latest sales report. You’ve been hearing about it for the past hour, but you’re barely listening. Your mind keeps drifting back to when you first saw Sevika and Mel at the bar. Something about the way Sevika’s eyes lingered on you still makes your heart race.

“Great numbers this quarter,” your coworker continues, pulling you back to reality. “You’ve really outdone yourself with the new client investment. They’re already asking about you by name.”

You nod absently, pretending to care as your eyes scan the around room for any sign of Jayce. He’d been glued to your side all evening, but now you can’t seem to find him at all.

“Thank you,” you say, shaking them off politely. “I’ll follow up with the clients about it tomorrow.”

They simply smile back before walking off to engage with another coworker. You take another sip of your champagne as your eyes continue to search the room. Your attention shifts as you overhear another conversation between two other coworkers near the bar, talking about next quarter’s sales targets. As the company’s top saleswoman, you’re used to these conversations being centered around you. They look over at you with admiration, always taking mental notes on your strategies and approach.

“She really knows how to close a deal.” one of them says. “She’s a shark.”

The compliment barely registers in your head. All you could do was smile, too distracted by the fact that Jayce was nowhere to be seen.

“Excuse me,” you murmur, sliding past them as you start to brush through the crowd.

The search feels longer than it actually is. You weave through the crowd, giving polite smiles and dodging conversations as you slip through groups of colleagues and executives. The music and laughter fill the air, but none of it gets to you. Your mind is fixated on one thing—finding where the hell your boyfriend is.

You try to be in denial about it, telling yourself that you’re just overreacting. Maybe Jayce just stepped outside to take a call or grabbed another drink at the bar. But deep down, that unsettling feeling refuses to leave your system. You finally reach the bar, but there’s no sign of him there.

“Have you seen Jayce?” you ask over to the coworker who sat there.

They blink, looking around before shaking their head. “Uh, no…not for a while. Maybe he stepped out?”

You give them a quick nod, muttering a quiet thanks before moving on, the knot in your stomach tightening even more. Your heels click faster against the marble floor as you move toward the quieter area of the venue, the noise and chatter slowly fading away with each step you take. Down the hall, a row of private rooms stretches ahead, each of them closed except for the very last one at the end of the hallway. You walk slower now, feeling the air get thicker with each step. You shouldn’t be anxious about this.

And yet…you are.

Your fingers brush against the smooth surface of the champagne glass in your hand, your grip tightening instinctively around the flute. You tell yourself to relax, but the words do nothing to alleviate you from the uneasiness that was settling into your bones.

And that’s when you hear it—muffled voices in a low and urgent tone. At first, you think it’s just another couple hidden away in the room for privacy. But something about these voices feels…familiar. Too familiar.

You take another step forward, your pulse pounding louder in your ears with each beat. Your stomach twists once more when you see the familiar head of jet black hair in your eyeline. The door is slightly ajar, and a warm light spills into the hallway. You hesitate, your grip getting tighter on the glass as you listen.

“We can’t keep doing this,” Jayce mutters, his voice rough and raw. His head moves slightly, just enough for you to see a glimpse of her—a glimpse of Mel.

“And yet…” Mel replies, her voice soft and sultry as she pauses. “You keep coming back.”

A breathy chuckle escapes him, followed by his hand shifting through the open slit on Mel’s dress as he moves closer to her. “I can’t help myself,” Jayce murmurs, his voice lower now, filled with a kind of desire you’ve never heard from him. “You drive me fucking crazy.”

“Is that so?” Mel muses back, her voice laced with pure seduction. “Then why do you keep wasting time?”

Your heart sinks down to your stomach, body going rigid as the pieces fall into place. The way Jayce had been acting around you, all those ‘late nights’ he’d spend in the office—it all made sense now.

“Because I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Jayce’s confession lingers in the air, his voice filled with desperation. “Even when I’m with her…all I think about is you.”

Your eyes widen in shock, your heart shattering as the champagne class trembles in your hand. It wasn’t just what Jayce had said, it was how he said it—straightforward, no hesitation whatsoever. There was no guilt. Just raw, unfiltered honesty, spoken so easily it feels like the knife was plunging deeper into your chest.

Like he never even cared.

You feel your fingers going numb on the glass as the wave of realization crashes over you. The love, the trust, the loyalty—it makes you wonder if it had meant anything to him.

Or were you just convenient?

The thought burns in your brain, leaving an ache so deep that it makes it hard to breathe.

And yet, he doesn’t even notice.

“Jayce…we really shouldn’t…” Mel reminds him, her voice softer now.

He simply scoffs at that, shaking his head in disbelief. “Come on, Mel…you want this just as bad as I do.” he breathes out, and you hear the rustle of fabric between them—their clothes shifting as their bodies press closer.

And then—the kiss hits between them. It was slow, deep and desperate. Your vision blurs at the corners of your eyes, and you don’t even register the champagne flute slipping from your fingers, hitting the marble floor with a loud shatter that echoes throughout the hallway. Tiny shards of glass surround your stiletto-covered feet, but you’re too frozen, too numb to even notice.

However, the shatter startles them both, causing them to freeze instantly, their lips pulling apart as the sharp echo rang through the room. Their bodies go rigid as they slowly turn their heads toward the doorway. Mel’s eyes widen, a panicked expression crossing her face. Jayce’s breathing quickens, his heart rate rising once he sees you. His hands, which had been all over Mel just moments ago, twitch slightly at his sides as he steps back, his eyes still not taking off of you.

“Jayce?”

Your voice was soft and shaky as his name escaped your lips, but it was enough to make them freeze as the realization hit them. His lips part, but no words come out at first. Mel’s eyes flicker between the two of you, her body shifting towards Jayce in hopes of hiding away.

“It’s…it’s not what it looks like,” he finally breathes out, his voice barely above a whisper, panic and guilt filling his tone. The words hang in the air, completely meaningless to you—but you don’t respond, you just can’t.

Because even as he said it—you know he’s clearly lying.

Mel hasn’t said a word. She’s too busy avoiding your gaze, her lips slightly parted as if she’s trying to think of something to say, but nothing comes out. For a woman who’s career relies on confidence, she’s sure failing to show it at this exact moment.

You don’t move. Don’t blink. In fact, your mind doesn’t register anything else besides the scene that had unfolded in front of you. You don’t even notice the door now fully swung open beside you, or the sudden warmth that lingered right behind you. But you do see the shift in their faces—especially Mel’s—as the panic flashes deeper in her eyes.

“Mel?”

The name cuts through the air like a blade, and your stomach drops. That voice—deep, low, and now laced with pure fury—comes from behind you. Slowly, you turn around.

Sevika stands in the doorway now, her broad frame blocking out most of the light coming from the hall. Her expression is unreadable at first, but you can see how tightly her jaw is clenched as she tries, but fails to stay calm.

“Sevika…” Mel’s voice trembles, almost at the same level as Jayce.

But Sevika doesn’t respond. Not at first. Her eyes don’t leave Mel, dark with rage—as if she were a storm on the verge of breaking. Her presence looms behind you, grounding you in the chaos swarming around.

“What the fuck is this?” Sevika growls, her voice low and cold. Her eyes flicker between Mel and Jayce, taking in the way their bodies are still too close to each other. The way Mel’s hand lingered on Jayce’s chest before dropping down only heated the anger inside her even more.

It was her fiancée and her colleague—together, behind her back.

The room suddenly feels smaller to you now, almost suffocating. Your hands tremble at your sides, fingers curling into fists as an emotional mix of heartbreak and rage bubbles inside you. But your eyes stay locked on Jayce.

“How long?”

Your voice is barely above a whisper, yet it was loud enough to cut through the tension. Jayce’s jaw clenches anxiously. His eyes are widened in a mix of desperation and cowardice, pleading silently for your mercy. “Babe…” he murmurs softly, as if that name could fix what was already beyond repair.

“How long, Jayce?” you repeat. Your voice is louder the second time, more stern and forceful. Jayce’s mouth opens again, but nothing comes out. He hesitates, his eyes flickering over to Mel for a split second. Big mistake.

You see it, and so did Sevika.

“Answer her fucking question, Jayce.” Sevika growls behind you, her tone low, almost threatening. “Don’t make her ask again.”

Jayce stiffens, swallowing hard, and finally looks back at you, letting out an exhale of defeat before responding. “A…a year.”

Your stomach drops.

You force out a breath, still in shock and disbelief over what you had just heard. “A year?” you shake your head, letting out a humorless laugh. “You’ve been sneaking around with her for a year, and you have the fucking nerve to tell me that it’s not what it looks like?”

The tears start to build in your eyes, and Jayce steps forward, but you take a quick step back. “Don’t.” you snap, your hands shaking. “I don’t want to fucking hear it.”

Sevika exhales sharply beside you, her arms crossed, trying to hold herself back. “This is fucking unbelievable,” she mutters, her eyes not leaving Jayce. “You’ve been lying to her for a year? And you…” her gaze snaps over to Mel. “What do you even have to say for yourself?��

Mel’s lips part, but no words come out.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Sevika lets out a laugh that was just as cold as yours. “I put a damn ring on your finger.”

Mel takes a step closer to her, a weak attempt in trying to redeem herself. “I-I had wanted to tell you—”

“Oh yeah?” Sevika scoffs, shaking her head in disbelief. “And when exactly were you going to tell me? After we got married?”

Mel’s lips part again, but the only sound that comes out is a shaky breath.

“What a fucking joke,” she mutters her gaze shifting between the two. “You’re both pathetic.”

Another shaky breath slips from Mel’s lips. “Sevika, darling please—”

“Save it.”

Sevika takes another step forward, her presence commanding the room. But this time, she doesn’t stop. Mel instinctively moves back, accidentally bumping into Jayce’s chest. His hands instinctively grab her shoulders to steady her, giving her a look of reassurance to make sure she was okay.

And that was the final straw for you.

You let out a sharp breath, shaking your head as the realization crashes down harder. This was never just a mistake.

You glance at Sevika, and when your eyes meet with hers, there’s a newfound connection between you both. Without another word, you turn on your heel, your chest still tight as you pass by the three of them and leave the room. Sevika follows right after, her heavy footsteps matching yours as you step over the shattered glass and out of the room, leaving them both in the mess of their own betrayal.

˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧ ˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧ ˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧ ˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧ ˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚˚ ༘

The days that followed from the incident felt like a blur.

You throw yourself into work, burying yourself in reports, emails, and endless meetings. You figured it’d be easier that way—keeping busy. If your mind is constantly occupied, then there wouldn’t be any time to think about him, right?

But regardless, it was impossible to ignore.

Jayce keeps his distance from you, both inside and outside of work. He’s been staying somewhere else in the meantime, you’re not sure if it’s with Mel, or back in his large family estate, but frankly, you couldn’t care less about his whereabouts. As for the office, he doesn’t try to talk to you. No apologies. No explanations. Just…silence.

You didn’t want to admit it, but that alone hurts more than if he had tried.

Of course, you’ve still maintained your position in Hexcorp as top saleswoman, but even that feels empty to you now. Your numbers are still flawless, but the passion, the drive that used to push you forward in your career—it was gone. It honestly even makes you question why you’re still here in this building, or even New York as a whole. Deep down, it makes you wish that you could find yourself an escape from this.

And that sign was given to you just a couple of days ago.

You had broken the news to your parents over the phone. It was quite the shock to them—they’d mostly see you together with Jayce on holidays, but given how he always carried himself and the way he treated you, this was the last thing they ever expected.

But what hurt them the most was hearing just how broken you sounded when you told them.

“I just…I don’t get it,” your voice cracked, and you blinked back tears as your grip tightened on your phone. “How could he do this to me?”

“Oh, mija…I’m so sorry.” your mom’s voice had been soft when you told her, but it had the kind of heaviness that only came from a mother hearing her child in pain. You tried to keep your words to a minimum, tried to hold yourself together, but the more you tried to speak, the harder it was to keep you from breaking.

Your dad was silent for a moment before his voice came through the phone, steady but laced with a subtle hint of anger. “You know, I never liked that Talis boy to begin with.”

You can hear the soft tsk your mom gives to your dad, but you can hear the frustration in her voice too.

“Hey, I’m just saying,” he grumbled, his tone softening after a second. “You deserve better, kid. So much better.”

There’s a quick pause before your mother speaks again. “Why don’t you go stay over at the beach house for a while?” your mom suggested gently, her voice warm and comforting. “Spend some time in Miami, clear your head. “Your relatives are close by if you need anything, and I’m sure your abuela would love to see you too.”

You pause for a moment to think over your mother’s suggestion. The beach house was your childhood escape—sitting along the Miami shore where the sun was always warmer and the waves would effortlessly wash your worries away. It was nothing like New York, where the chilly, heavy atmosphere was harder to breathe in.

However, you couldn’t risk the chances of losing your job for being gone for so long. But deep down, maybe this was what you really needed—a sweet escape, a place where you can truly heal your heart and ground yourself back to your roots.

Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

You take a deep breath, nodding to yourself as your grip now relaxes on your phone. “You’re right,” you murmur softly, the words leaving your lips before you even realize it. “I could really use something like that right now.”

Your mother’s relieved sigh comes through the line, and your father’s quiet agreement follows right after. “I’m so glad to hear that,” she says gently. “You deserve a break from this, mija.”

“Hey, get some rest, alright?” your dad chimes. “And call us as soon as you get there.”

“I will,” you promise, voice barely above a whisper now.

The call ends with quiet goodbyes, leaving you now sitting in the dim, quiet space of the house you once shared with Jayce. The silence feels heavier here—every room still holds traces of the life you built together, yet it all feels so distant now.

You take a deep breath, reaching over for your laptop before bringing it onto your lap, and without a second thought, you book yourself a one-way ticket to Miami—far away from the chaos that was suffocating you in New York.

And once that’s done, there’s only one thing left to do—write out your leave of absence letter and leave it on Sevika’s desk first thing tomorrow morning.

˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧ ˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧ ˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧ ˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧ ˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚˚ ༘

The next morning, the familiar buzz of the office surrounds you, but it all feels like background noise. You’re at your desk, staring blankly at your computer screen as you zone out into the unfinished spreadsheet on the screen. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Jayce and Sevika step out of their shared office and head toward the conference room down the hall. You couldn’t help but keep your gaze on Sevika for a little longer. She looks composed on the outside, but you can see it—the slight tension in her shoulders, the quiet exhaustion in her eyes—she’s holding it together just like you. You look away before she notices you, swallowing down the ache in your chest as they leave.

Once you made sure they were gone, you clutch the letter into your hand as you push back your chair and stand. Your footsteps are quiet as you pass by your busy coworkers and make your way toward their shared office, the door left slightly ajar enough for you to slip inside. Your eyes land on Sevika’s side of the office, the dark wood of her desk reflecting the soft light filtering in through the windows. You take a step toward it, unfolding the letter in front of you to place it on her desk. However, you couldn’t help but notice the soft, navy velvet box quietly sitting on the surface. Your heart skips a beat, knowing exactly what it is without even having to open it.

The engagement ring.

Mel had already given it back.

The box is closed, yet the weight of what it holds feels heavy in the air. Your mind flashes back to that night, to the look on Sevika’s face when she saw Mel with Jayce together. The devastation in her eyes, masked by fury—seeing her hurt you more than when you had seen them. You let out a shaky breath, fingers trembling slightly as they brush against the edge of your letter, but before you can set it down—

“Leaving something for me?”

The deep, unmistakable voice sends a chill down your spine. You freeze, eyes widening as your body goes rigid. Your heart pounds in your chest as panic starts to settle into your bones.

Slowly, you turn around. Sevika stands in the doorway, her tall frame effortlessly filling the space around her. Her expression is unreadable, but her sharp eyes are locked on the letter in your hand.

“Sevika, I-I was just—”

Her brow arches slightly as she shuts the door and steps further into the office, her gaze not leaving yours.

“What’s that?”

Her voice is calm, but you couldn’t ignore the tension behind it. The panic continues to fill up inside you as you instinctively pull the letter closer to your chest, as if that was going to shield it away from her. “It’s…it’s nothing,” you murmur, but the crack in your voice betrays you. Her eyes narrow down to the paper in your hand, and before you can move her hand reaches out, flesh fingers brushing over yours as she gently but firmly takes the letter from your grip.

“Sevika, wait—”

But it’s too late. Her eyes scan the words on the page, her brows furrowing deeper with each passing second as she reads through the letter. You see her jaw tighten, her throat bobbing as she swallows hard. “Leave of absence?” she asks, slowly setting the letter down and bringing her gaze back up to you. “You’re…you’re leaving?”

Your throat tightens, unsure of what else to say. “I was going to tell you,” you murmur softly, looking down at your feet, unable to meet her gaze. “I just…I need some time.”

“Why?”

You can hear the concern in her voice—a hint of vulnerability that you’ve never heard from her before. You finally look up, your eyes meeting hers. “Because I can’t do this anymore.”

Her eyes darken with uncertainty. “Do what?”

You swallow, heart painfully thrumming against your ribs. “Be here. Pretend that everything’s okay when it’s not.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, and you don’t notice Sevika’s gaze softening when you look over to Jayce’s side of the office. “Jayce and I...We built a life together. And now, it’s gone.” Your voice cracks, and you blink rapidly to keep the tears at bay as you look back at her. “Every corner of this place reminds me of what I just lost. I just…I need to get away. To breathe. To heal.”

Her jaw clenches, her eyes flickering away from yours for a moment. “It’s just…” She hesitates, running a hand down her face before exhaling a breath that sounds heavier than it should. “You’re my best saleswoman.” Her voice is quieter now, almost as if she’s trying to convince herself of something. “I can’t afford to lose you.”

But it was never about the numbers. Not when it came to you. You know there’s more to it—something deeper. You can feel it in the way her gaze lingers on you, in the way her body gets just a little too tense, as if she’s holding something back.

“I’m not…” Your voice trails off to a sigh as you shake your head. “I’m not quitting, Sevika. I just need some time. Please.”

For a moment, neither of you speak. The air between you is heavy, the silence in the room stretching longer than it should.

“How long?” she asks softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I don’t know,” you admit, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your blouse. “But I…I need this.”

Sevika doesn’t speak right away. Her expression is unreadable as she looks at you, but before you can process it—before you can say anything else—she moves toward you. Strong arms wrap around you, pulling you into a firm but careful embrace.

Your breath catches in your throat. Sevika has never been the type of person to do gestures like this. She’s never been the comforting, reassuring presence in someone’s life—at least, not in this way. But right now, she holds you close to her like she’s afraid to let you go, like she knows how much you need this more than you do. Your eyes squeeze shut as you clutch the fabric of her suit jacket, your fingers curling into the cotton tightly to keep you grounded.

“I get it,” she murmurs, her voice softer now. “Believe me, I do.”

Her words send another shiver down your spine, because she does get it.

Mel. The woman she was supposed to spend the rest of her life with.

You exhale shakily, pressing your forehead against her shoulder. “Then you of all people should know why I have to go.”

Sevika’s arms tighten around you just for a second before she finally releases you, stepping back just enough to meet your gaze. “Yeah,” she murmurs, her jaw tight as she watches you carefully. “I know.”

But that doesn’t mean that she wants you to go. Her eyes still linger on yours, and something shifts between you. Sevika looks at you like she’s fighting a battle within herself—like she’s trying to hold herself back from doing something that she may—or may not regret.

“Sevika…” you whisper, your voice quiet enough to break the silence between you.

She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. But her eyes—they tell you everything. You feel it before you see it—the way she leans in, her body instinctively drawn to yours like a magnet. It’s slow, almost hesitant, as if she's giving you an open chance to pull away. But you don’t. You can’t.

Instead, your hand drifts up, brushing lightly over her jaw. She tilts her head towards your palm, melting into your touch. Her eyes flutter shut for a brief movement before they open again—darker, filled with something you can’t describe.

And then, the distance between you two disappears. Her lips meet yours, and the world seems to fall away. The kiss is tentative at first, making you both afraid to take too much from each other. But the tension is quick to snap, and suddenly, the kiss deepens. Her flesh hand slides around the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as she pulls you closer. The cool metal of her prosthetic rests against your waist, grounding you in the moment. Your body presses into hers, and you feel like this should be wrong, but it doesn’t. On the contrary, it feels…right. Like this is where you’re meant to be instead. It’s nothing compared to how you’ve felt with Jayce. You absolutely lose yourself in her—her touch, her taste, the way she holds you like you’re something precious. Like you’re exactly where she wants to be."

She finally pulls back, breathless and dazed, her forehead resting gently against yours. “I really don’t want you to go…” Sevika murmurs, the desperation in her voice tugging at your heart. Your thumb brushes along her jaw again, a bittersweet smile spread on your lips. “I know,” you whisper, eyes searching hers. “But I have to.”

“Well, in that case…” Sevika replies, her thumb lightly brushing over your bottom lip as her eyes darken with intent. Her lips curl into a sly smirk, her gaze burning into yours. “Let me give you a proper goodbye.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and before you can even think, her lips crash into yours again. Unlike the last one, this kiss is more desperate, filled with everything the both of you have been holding back for far too long. Her flesh hand grips your waist firmly, pulling you flush against her, while the hard press of her prosthetic along your hip sends a shiver through you. Her lips move with a hunger that makes your knees weak. But you couldn’t give in like this.

“Sevika…” you manage to breathe out her name between heated kisses, your lips barely parting from hers. But she hears it.

And as much as it kills you, you pull back. Your eyes meet hers—her pupils dilated with desire, but there’s hesitation filling in yours. “We…we can’t.” Your voice is shaky and uncertain. “Jayce and Mel…it isn’t right…”

Sevika doesn’t respond right away. Her forehead simply rests against yours, her breath warm against your skin. “No…” she murmurs softly, her voice low but firm. “They’re the ones who threw it all away. It’s their loss, not ours.”

Your eyes widen slightly as her words sink in, but she doesn’t give you a chance to pull away. Her gaze is more intense now, searching yours for any sense of doubt. But there’s something else in her eyes—something raw, vulnerable, and aching for you just as much as you ache for her. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” Her voice is barely above a whisper now, but there’s so much behind her words.

And in that moment, you know she’s right. The weight of the heartbreak, betrayal, and confusion still lingers, but now it all fades away with you being in her arms. Her lips claim yours once more, and the heat inside you ignites all over again. Her hands slide down your back, guiding you as she walks you backward across the room. Your heart pounds in your chest, but you don’t stop her. Not this time.

The edge of the desk presses against the backs of your thighs, and her hands are already pushing everything aside, sending papers and pens scattering to the floor. Sevika lifts you up effortlessly in one smooth motion, placing you on the desk as her lips refuse to leave yours.

However, neither of you realize where you’ve really ended up—Jayce’s desk.

But at this moment, with Sevika’s hands all over you and her lips claiming yours…none of it matters.

Sevika presses her body against yours, pinning you to the desk as she stands between your parted legs. You can feel every hard inch of her muscular frame, the heat of her skin radiating through her suit. Sevika pulls back slightly, her lips trailing kisses along your jawline and down your neck. You tilt your head back to give her better access, and a soft moan slips from your mouth once she nips at your pulse point, her teeth grazing your soft skin before she soothes the sting with her tongue.

You’re barely able to keep your balance on the desk, your breath shallow as her touch stirs something deep inside you. Your eyes dart to the closed blinds, the faint silhouettes of your coworkers just outside, completely unaware of what’s happening behind them. Your heart starts to race—not from desire, but from the undeniable risk of it all. It feels like you’re playing with fire, and yet…you can’t help but take the heat.

“S-Sevika,” you murmur, trying to steady your breathing. “We—someone could see—”

Sevika cuts your sentence off instantly with a hushed, teasing whisper. “Shh…” she breathes, her voice low. “If you stay quiet…then no one will know.”

She leans in, kissing you hard while her hand works quickly to unbutton your slacks, pushing them down to your ankles. “You need this, baby, I know you do.” Her voice is a low rasp, sending shivers down your spine that makes her see right through you. "Stop overthinking, and just let me take care of you.”

To emphasize her point, her flesh hand shifts from your slacks to underneath your blouse, her warm fingertips brushing over your stomach as it moves up north. She cups your breast, her thumb brushing over your nipple through the thin lace of your bra. The sensation makes you gasp, your back arching into her touch. Sevika takes advantage of this and trails kisses down your chest, pushing your blouse up as she goes. She tugs your bra down, freeing your breasts to the cool air of the office. Then, in an instant, she leans down and takes one of your nipples into her mouth, sucking and biting at the sensitive bud, eliciting a whine from your lips over the sensation. Her hand slides back down your stomach, fingers now toying with the waistband of your underwear. She looks up at you, waiting for your permission to continue, to which you nod in approval.

With that, she hooks her fingers and shifts your underwear to the side, exposing your pussy to her. She leans back, using two fingers to part open your puffy folds only to be taken aback by how wet you were. “God, baby…you’re this wet for me already?” she mutters, gently sliding her fingers through your wet slit. You reply to her with a whiny nod, gently rutting your hips against the pads of her fingers for more. She simply chuckles at your desperate pleas, gently inserting a finger into your hole but only to be surprised when she sees how you resist her single finger. “Fuck, you’re so tight…” she pants out, carefully trying to push more of her finger in. “When was the last time someone touched you like this?”

Your breath hitches, and for a moment, you hesitate. But the truth weighs heavier than the silence between you. “Too long…” you finally breathe, your voice barely a whisper. Your eyes trail away from her, a flash of frustration and sadness crossing your face. “Jayce…he hasn’t—” your words falter with a sudden gasp when Sevika pushes her finger farther inside you. She brings her metal hand up to your jaw, the smooth yet unyielding grip making you face her. “His loss,” she mutters, lips brushing against yours again. “How about you let me remind you how it’s supposed to feel, yeah?"

Sevika doesn't falter just yet, she starts to work her finger in and out of your tight cunt, slowly at first but gradually increasing force once you become used to the resistance. Her thumb meets with your clit, rubbing firm circles around the sensitive nub as she continues to pump her finger in and out of your pussy. You whine and begin to squirm and shake at the sensation, but Sevika is quick to slide her prosthetic hand on your waist, keeping you grounded onto the desk as the cool wooden surface presses against your skin. She then adds another finger in, scissoring them inside you as her thumb continues its assault on your clit. You whine at the stretch, unable to take it, but your body starts to betray you by giving the opposite response—sucking Sevika’s fingers further inside rather than resisting. The wet squelching sounds of her fingers plunging into your soaked cunt fill the office, mixing with your restrained whines and the harsh pants of her own breathing.

“S-Sevika,” you whine, trying to wriggle yourself away. “I-I can’t…t-too much…”

“Too much?” Sevika chuckles against your skin, her fingers still working into your cunt. “Then why’s your greedy little cunt begging me for more?” Her gaze drops down to your pussy, admiring at how your desperate hole continues to suck her fingers in while your arousal drips around them. “Needy girl, taking in my fingers like this,” her gaze flickers back up to you. “I’m gonna need these back, you know. Can’t keep them forever, sweetheart.”

All you can do is whine and whimper, your chest and stomach tightening as you try to keep yourself quiet so as to not startle your coworkers outside. But Sevika doesn’t make it any easier for you once she speeds up the pace, the desk shifting slightly beneath you as if it was imitating the consequences of what you’re doing. The thought of Jayce sitting here tomorrow, completely unaware of what happened on his desk today, makes a dangerous thrill pulse through your veins. Jayce might have carried your past, but Sevika was putting herself into your present, claiming you as hers with every deep curl of her fingers, making sure your body never forgets the feeling of her.

She looks back up at you, her eyes darkening as she watches your face twist in pleasure. Your cunt begins to clench tighter around her fingers, along with the coil that's been winding deep in your stomach, you were getting close, and Sevika could tell. Her fingers never stop their relentless pace, pumping in and out of your clenching heat, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. She glances back up at you just to admire the drunk look on your face. “Look at you, so desperate to cum already, yeah?” she muses, her prosthetic shifting from your waist to push down on your lower stomach, only making it worse for you to restrain yourself. “Go on, sweetheart, cum for me. But remember…” she trails off, jerking her head over to the closed blinds. “They don’t need to know what’s going on.”

Her words are filthy, but they only serve to turn you on more, pushing you closer to your impending release. Your hand grips tightly onto the edge of the desk while the other claws at Sevika’s forearm in desperation, which does nothing but spur her on with her words. At this point, she’s practically begging for you to cum now, just so she can see you fall apart for her. “That’s it, baby—don’t hold back. Let me feel it. Come for me, sweetheart.”

Her words, combined with the relentless pace of her fingers, finally push you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you like a tidal wave, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as your cunt clamps down around her fingers like a vice. Your mouth parts open, body giving in as you’re tempted to scream her name, but Sevika is quick to lean in and attach her lips back to yours, muffling your cries of pleasure as your release gushes into her fingers and onto the desk. But she doesn’t let up just yet, working you through your orgasm with her fingers until you’re a shaking, mewling mess beneath her.

Once the aftershocks start to subside, she finally slows down, gently withdrawing her flesh fingers out of your sensitive cunt. She brings her hand up to her lips, making a show of licking your juices from her fingers, her eyes closing in bliss as she savors your taste. “Fuck, you taste even better than I imagined,” she murmurs, a satisfied smirk spreading across her face. “I should’ve used my mouth on you instead if I knew you were going to taste this sweet.”

You chuckle lazily, looking up at her with heavy eyes as you recover from your orgasm. “Well, you can go for seconds if you’d like, Sev.” you tease, kicking off your heels and bunched up slacks from your feet before spreading your legs farther out to her, leaving your fucked out cunt on full display to her gaze. Sevika’s eyes darken at your newfound position, getting nothing but more turned on at the sight of you spread out on her colleague’s desk. She glances down to your cunt, her smirk spreading wider as she sees your release pooling underneath you, darkening the wood of the desk. “You’ve sure made a mess, pretty girl,” she says, her voice almost accusatory as if she wasn’t the one who made you cum like that. “Luckily, I’m willing to clean that up for you.”

In an instant, Sevika drops to her knees in front of you, hooking her flesh arm beneath your thigh while her prosthetic grips the other, pulling you closer. Your breath hitches as Sevika lowers herself in front of you, her hold firm—one soft and warm, the other cold and unrelenting. Her lips tease their way back up to your pussy, ready to satisfy you once more, until—

“Where’s Sevika?”

Jayce’s words echo faintly from the hallway, distant but close enough to send a jolt of panic through your veins. Sevika freezes for just a second before quickly getting back up on her feet. The two of you scramble around—adjusting clothes, fixing hair, cleaning down the surface and scattering papers in your desperate attempt to make it look like nothing happened on this desk.

But Sevika already moves before you can think of a backup plan. With full precision, she snatches up the paperwork she was originally looking for, strides across the office, and yanks the door open right before Jayce can.

“You were supposed to wait in the conference room,” she growls, her tone now back to cold as she shoves the paperwork into his chest.

Jayce blinks, caught off guard by her appearance. “I—I was just—”

“Don’t.” Her jaw clenches, eyes narrowing down at him. “Go. Now.”

Her tone leaves no room for argument. As Jayce turns, footsteps retreating down the hall, Sevika lingers for just a second before glancing back inside—her eyes meeting yours. The heat from moments ago still lingers between you, but with one last knowing smirk, she follows after Jayce before closing the door shut, as if nothing had happened.

And you?

You’re still gripping the edge of his desk, breath unsteady, pulse still racing. Even as you slip your clothes back on, even as you straighten up Jayce’s desk—you can still feel the heat from Sevika on your body. Your lips are still slightly swollen from her kisses, your skin tingling in places that haven’t felt alive in…well, longer than you’d care to admit. You swallow hard, your mind replaying every breathless second. Your cheeks flush again, and your hands tremble slightly as you reposition Jayce’s things—only to realize it’s still out of place.

Get it together.

Your hands work quickly, smoothing out the papers, straightening the chair, making sure there’s no trace of what just happened. The last thing you need is Jayce walking in and sensing something.

No one can know.

Your fingers graze your pulse point, still feeling the phantom pressure of her lips there. You swallow down the feeling, force your hands to stay busy—tidying the last of the evidence, pressing a shaky hand to your chest, forcing a deep breath—before you finally slip out of the office, your head spinning.

And yet, as you settle back at your desk, pretending like nothing happened, you can still feel her on you.

But what’s even worse than feeling her…is wanting it to happen a second time.

˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧ ˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧ ˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧ ˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧ ˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚˚ ༘

The sun barely peeks through your curtains when your alarm blasts through the silence. Your eyes snap open, heart pounding as you fumble to shut it off. You squint over at the time on your phone, only for your eyes to quickly widen in panic. You were supposed to be up an hour ago.

In an instant, you throw off the covers, the chill of the morning air making your skin prickle with goosebumps as you rush to get ready. As you take a quick shower and get dressed, your mind is still foggy from everything that happened yesterday—leaving the office, Sevika, the kiss, and the overwhelming decision to leave. But there’s no time to think about that now.

Your suitcase is already half-packed from last night, so you grab the last of your things and shove them into your bag without thinking twice. You barely glance in the mirror before you’re out the door, heart pounding in your ears. The taxi sits on the curb, waiting for God knows how long—and you rush into it, not even bothering to comfortably put your suitcase in the trunk and squeezing it alongside you instead. The city itself is still waking up as you slide into the backseat.

“Kennedy Airport,” you mumble, barely able to catch your breath as the driver nods and pulls into traffic.

Rain taps lightly against the window as you stare outside, the familiar skyline of New York blurred by streaks of water. This is it. You were getting away from the city that had been your home for years—where you built a career and nurtured a relationship, only to watch it all fall apart in the blink of an eye. You lean back against the seat, your eyes drifting shut for just a moment, trying to calm the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside you. But her face still flashes in your mind.

Sevika.

The memory of her kiss, her touch—heated, desperate, and impossible to forget—continues to linger in your mind. But nonetheless you shake your head, forcing the thought away as you tell yourself that it’s not what you need right now.

By the time you arrive at the airport, it’s nothing but chaos. You navigate through the sea of travelers, heart pounding as you sprint toward your gate. Your boarding pass feels like it’s burning in your hand as you rush through security, your pulse racing with every step.

Until you finally make it to Gate 17, departing to Miami.

You make it just as they begin the final boarding call, breathless and slightly disoriented. The agent barely glances up as they scan your ticket, giving you a quick nod to proceed. Your pace is calmer now as you walk through the ramp, the relief extending into peace the moment you enter the plane. As you set your carry-on into the overhead compartment and settle into your window seat, a shaky exhale slips from your mouth as your body finally relaxes. Your pulse slows, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you finally let yourself breathe.

You’re even blessed to have an empty seat beside you, thank God.

You close your eyes, head resting lightly against the head cushion of the seat. The distant hum of the engines vibrates through you, lulling your body into a sense of calm. A sense of peace. You don’t even register the measured footsteps approaching, growing heavier until they stop beside you. You don’t open your eyes right away, too caught up in the quiet you were finally starting to enjoy. But then—

Your name is called. And the familiar voice makes your heart stop. Your eyes flutter back open, head tilting to your left only for the calm in your body to be replaced by an element of surprise and shock once you see the familiar broad frame that stood in the narrow space alongside you.

“Sevika?”

Her name leaves your lips barely above a breath, but it’s enough to make her eyes darken. Her expression is unreadable, but the subtle flicker of surprise in her gaze says enough.

She didn’t know. You didn’t tell her where you were going.

And yet… she’s here.

And in that moment, as she finally lowers herself into the seat beside you, you know—

This changes everything.

But maybe, just maybe…some change is exactly what you needed.

- a/n: i need to stop making my fics so damn long omg 😭 i’m not sure if y’all fw ceo sevika like i do, but i could try to write out a part 2 if it catches any interest, we’ll see…

1K notes · View notes

kiwriteswords · 3 months ago

Text

Because You're Just a Man [Aaron Hotchner x Reader]

Masterlist (updated!!)|| Ao3||Word Count: 10k|| AN: Who's going to explain to my boss that seeing this prompt caused me to get ZERO work done today. I'm getting more comfortable with writing smut again and this was honestly my favorite piece I have ever written so far! Also! Thank you for the encouragement on my original post @honeypiehotchner @ssamorganhotchner and @hoe4hotchner <3 Tags/Warnings: female reader, mdni, canon typical themes, sexual themes, flirting, hotch and reader pushing each others limits, jealous!Hotch, simp!Hotch, unprotected sex, horny hotch, horny reader, provoking hotch hours. Summary: Based on the prompt from @urfriendlywriter: "You're making it really hard to be a gentleman right now."

The hum of the BAU office felt different at night--quieter, but still charged with the weight of unfinished cases and the scent of stale coffee.

It was late, most of the team had already left, and the bullpen was washed in the dim glow of desk lamps and the occasional flicker of the overhead fluorescents. You sat at your desk, typing halfheartedly on your laptop, stealing occasional glances at the one person still in the office.

Hotch.

He sat in his glass-walled office, posture perfect as ever, his tie loosened just enough to suggest he’d been at this for hours. His jaw was tight, his fingers moving steadily across reports, and even from here, you could see the muscle in his cheek flex every time he clenched it.

God, he was impossible.

You’d been seeing him--or at least talking about the possibility of seeing him--for weeks now. There had been stolen moments, almost-confessions, a tension so thick between you that even the team had started noticing. But Hotch, ever the professional, ever the stoic leader, hadn’t given you much to go on. A lingering glance? A stray touch? A sharp inhale when you got too close? Sure. But he never acted. Never said anything.

Nothing concrete, anyways.

And it was starting to drive you insane.

At first, you thought maybe he was just slow to act. That he wanted to be sure. But the more time passed, the more you started to wonder: Was he even attracted to you?

You knew he cared. You’d seen it in the way his eyes lingered when he thought you weren’t looking. In the way he checked in after cases, always ensuring you were okay. But physically? He was impossible to read. He was so composed, so disciplined, that you couldn’t tell if he was holding himself back or if he simply didn’t feel the way you did.

So you decided to test him.

Nothing outrageous, nothing too obvious--just enough to see if you could shake his composure.

You leaned back in your chair, stretching your arms overhead, the hem of your blouse riding up just a fraction. If he was looking, he didn’t show it.

Fine.

You stood slowly, making a deliberate show of gathering your things. You could feel the soft stretch of your pencil skirt as you shifted, the way your blouse clung just right in the low light. You weren’t normally one to be overly conscious of what you wore to work, but tonight? Tonight, you wanted him to notice.

File in hand, you took your time walking toward his office, letting the faint click of your heels punctuate the silence.

He didn’t look up right away, but you knew he knew you were there.

"Still working?" you asked, voice just a little softer than usual.

Hotch finally glanced up, dark eyes flicking to yours before settling back on the paperwork in front of him. "Looks that way." His voice was smooth, measured. Controlled.

You stepped inside, setting the file down on his desk--closer than necessary. Close enough that you could smell the subtle, clean scent of his cologne, something rich and warm beneath the sharpness of his aftershave.

"You should take a break," you mused, tilting your head slightly.

He exhaled slowly through his nose. "I don’t have time for a break."

"Not even for me?" You rested your hand against the edge of his desk, fingers just barely brushing the wood as you leaned in--just enough to make it impossible for him to ignore the proximity.

That did it.

It was quick, almost imperceptible, but you saw it.

The slight shift of his jaw. The way his fingers tightened around his pen just briefly before setting it down.

A rush of satisfaction curled in your stomach.

So, he does notice.

But the moment passes as quickly as it came. Hotch barely spares you another glance, flipping the page of his report with that same unreadable, impassive expression. If he was affected, he sure as hell wasn’t showing it now.

You narrowed your eyes slightly, watching him.

That’s how you want to play it, Hotchner?

Fine.

You could almost see it--the way his mind worked, the methodical discipline he relied on to keep himself locked up tight. He was compartmentalizing. Shoving down whatever impulse had flickered through him the second he caught your scent, or felt the heat of your body just inches from his desk.

He wasn’t indifferent. He was deliberately refusing to acknowledge it.

That realization sent a slow hum of intrigue through you.

This wasn’t going to be as simple as you thought. If you wanted to get a real reaction out of him, you’d have to be smarter about it. Subtler.

You straightened up, deliberately not lingering the way you had been. Let him think you were backing off.

“Don’t work too hard,” you said lightly, turning toward the door.

You swore you felt his eyes on you as you walked away--but when you glanced back, he was already staring at his paperwork again, jaw tight.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

Back at your desk, you settled into your chair and let your fingers drift over your keyboard, not really typing, not really thinking about work anymore. Instead, your mind was spinning, plotting.

What else would get to him?

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of your lips.

You had all the time in the world to figure that out.

oxoxoxoxoxoxox

The conference room was buzzing with low chatter, the sound of files rustling, and the distant whir of the coffee machine in the bullpen. The team was gathering for a briefing, and you were one of the last to arrive, slipping in just as Hotch stood at the head of the table, setting down the case file.

You slid into the chair across from him, casually smoothing the hem of your skirt as you crossed your legs, slow and deliberate.

His gaze flicked up--so brief, so controlled, that anyone else would have missed it. But you didn’t.

Your stomach hummed with satisfaction.

His eyes dropped immediately to the folder in front of him, fingers adjusting his watch before flipping open the case file. His movements were precise, methodical. A man rebuilding his walls, brick by brick.

Good. You weren’t done testing their strength yet.

Morgan and JJ were still chatting, waiting for Garcia to finish setting up, so you leaned forward, resting your chin on your hand, watching Hotch as if you were actually interested in the file he was reading.

“You didn’t go home last night, did you?” you mused.

Hotch’s jaw tightened just slightly. “I was finishing reports.”

You hummed, tilting your head. “Right. That explains why you’re so grumpy today.”

“I’m not grumpy,” he replied, voice smooth, but the way his grip subtly flexed around his pen told you otherwise.

“You kind of are.” You let the amusement curl in your voice. “At least a little.”

His exhale was barely audible, a long, slow breath through his nose. He still wasn’t looking at you, keeping his attention on the paperwork in front of him, but his fingers tightened around his pen just slightly.

You smiled.

And then, because you wanted to see just how much he was holding back, you stretched--a lazy, innocent stretch, your back arching just enough to accentuate your figure, your blouse shifting ever so slightly.

Hotch froze.

Just for half a second.

But it was there.

The slight pause in the movement of his pen. The subtle way his jaw went even tighter. The fraction of a second where his eyes flicked toward you before snapping back to his papers.

You bit back a smirk.

This was working.

You tapped your fingers against the table, feigning nonchalance. “You know, Hotch, if you ever actually relaxed once in a while, I think the world would keep turning.”

His lips parted slightly, as if he was about to respond--but at that moment, Garcia’s voice burst through the moment, her usual chipper tone filling the room.

You didn’t miss the slight tension in Hotch’s shoulders as he very purposefully turned his full attention to the case.

He was trying so hard.

And it was only making you more determined.

xoxoxoxoooxox

The night air in Quantico was thick with humidity, the kind that settled into your skin and made the inside of the BAU feel heavier than usual. It made you wonder if this is where they decided to save bureaucratic dollars, by turning the air conditioner off when people worked after office hours.

Most of the team had already left, the bullpen dimly lit except for the faint glow of desk lamps and the occasional flicker of the coffee machine cycling through its last brew of the night.

Hotch was still in his office, as always.

And you were still here.

At first, your little experiments had been entertaining--a game to see if you could shake his impossible composure, test the limits of his discipline. And while you had noticed the cracks--those fleeting glances, the small shifts in body language--he never let them grow into something more.

And it was starting to piss you off.

It wasn’t as if you expected him to shove the desk between you aside and kiss you breathless (though the thought was an incredibly tempting one). But you needed something. A sign. A confirmation that this thing--this slow, unbearable push-and-pull--wasn’t just in your head.

Because if he wasn’t interested, if all of this was just a cruel trick of your own imagination, then what the hell were you doing?

You pushed away from your desk, snatching up the case file you’d been pretending to work on, and made your way up the stairs to his office.

His door was open, but he was in his usual state of intense focus--pen in hand, elbow resting on the desk, brows drawn together. His sleeves were rolled up now, exposing the lean muscle of his forearms, and his tie was loosened just enough to be tempting.

You leaned against the doorway, tilting your head. “You do realize the case is over, right?”

Hotch didn’t even look up. “Paperwork isn’t.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping inside. “You work too much.”

“I’ve been told.”

There was something infuriating about his ability to stay perfectly neutral. You stepped closer, rounding his desk slightly, just enough to lean against the edge.

Close enough to be impossible to ignore.

“You ever think about taking a break? Doing something fun?”

His eyes flicked up at that--just for a second--but his expression didn’t change. “I have fun.”

You huffed a laugh, crossing your arms. “No, you don’t.”

His lips pressed into a thin line.

You took it further. “When was the last time you let yourself actually relax?”

“I don’t have the luxury of--”

“Oh, come on, Hotch,” you interrupted, frustration leaking into your tone now. “You’re always like this. So composed, so in control.” You leaned in slightly, voice dipping into something just a little more pointed. “So unaffected.”

Something flickered behind his eyes. A warning. A silent caution that you were pushing too hard.

You ignored it.

You tilted your head, considering him, your frustration bubbling into something sharper.

And then, because you couldn’t stop yourself, because you were tired of second-guessing and waiting for something that might not even be there, you let the words slip:

"You must be the most disciplined man on the planet, Hotchner." You let it sit for a beat before adding, deliberately flippant, "Or maybe I’m just not your type."

That did it.

It was instant.

His pen stilled, fingers tightening around it before setting it down with deliberate care. His jaw tensed, the muscle there flickering under the low light. And then--finally--he looked at you.

Not a glance. Not a fleeting acknowledgment.

A look.

Slow. Measured. And dark in a way that made your breath hitch.

For the first time, you felt something shift in the air between you--something crackling, something dangerous.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he leaned back in his chair, rolling his shoulders, his gaze locked onto yours like he was considering his next move. Like he was deciding.

When he finally spoke, his voice was lower than before. “You really think that?”

Your stomach tightened.

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance even as your pulse picked up. “Well, I don’t see you proving me wrong.”

His exhale was slow, controlled--like he was reining himself in.

And suddenly, you weren’t sure if you were the one poking him--or if you had just walked straight into something you weren’t ready for.

The room felt smaller.

Hotch hadn’t moved--not an inch. He was still leaning back in his chair, arms resting on the desk, posture as composed as ever. And yet, something had shifted.

Maybe it was in the air between you, thick with unsaid things.

Maybe it was in his eyes--still dark, still unreadable, but no longer distant.

Or maybe it was in the silence, the heavy pause after your words had landed, stretching just long enough for doubt to creep in.

Maybe you were right? Maybe you were wrong?

"You really think that?"

He repeated. His voice was low, controlled, but there was something new in it. Something deliberate.

You lifted a shoulder in a shrug, determined to keep your ground, even as your heartbeat knocked against your ribs. “Well, again, I don’t see you proving me wrong.”

Hotch inhaled slowly, tilting his head ever so slightly as he studied you.

And then--he smirked.

It wasn’t full, wasn’t obvious, but it was there. The barest hint of amusement curling at the edges of his lips, just enough to make your stomach tighten.

“You’re impatient,” he murmured.

Your brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”

He tapped his fingers against the desk once--just once--before leaning forward. Not much, but enough that the shift in proximity sent a shiver down your spine.

"You expect me to react on your timeline," he said, voice smooth, steady. "You think if I don’t, it means I don’t feel it." His eyes flickered over your face, slow and deliberate. "That I don’t want to."

Heat licked up your spine.

His words were careful, calculated--but there was something beneath them. A warning.

Your pulse quickened, but you refused to let him see it. You lifted your chin slightly. "Am I wrong?"

Hotch exhaled sharply, the ghost of a laugh under his breath, before shaking his head.

“No,” he admitted. “But you are underestimating me.”

Your stomach flipped.

You felt the weight of those words, how easily they unraveled the confidence you’d built up.

Underestimating him?

Your lips parted slightly, but before you could speak, he continued, voice dropping just slightly:

“If I wanted to give in, I would have already.”

The sheer certainty in his tone sent a thrill down your spine.

You swallowed, throat suddenly dry. "So why haven’t you?"

He held your gaze steady and unwavering.

"Because I'm not going to give you the satisfaction of winning this little game you're playing."

Your breath caught.

So he knew.

He’d known this whole time.

Bastard.

Every shift in your tone. Every touch that lingered just a little too long. Every glance, every tease, every attempt to get a reaction out of him.

He had seen all of it.

And he had been letting you play.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, frustration and thrill curling into one. You had been trying to push him, to get under his skin, but now it was you who felt unsteady, heat pooling low in your stomach.

"You think this is a game?" you challenged.

Hotch’s gaze flickered lower--just briefly, just enough to make your breath hitch--before snapping back to yours.

“I think you’re trying to get a reaction out of me,” he murmured, voice like velvet. “And I think you’re getting frustrated because I won’t give you one.”

You sucked in a breath, hands curling at your sides.

“And that’s why you’re underestimating me.”

Your throat tightened.

He’s turning this on you.

You had walked into this office thinking you were the one in control, that you were the one poking at his restraint.

But now, sitting there, completely composed, unshaken, he was making it clear:

He had never been the one losing control, but you did have an effect on him.

He was letting you think you were winning--letting you push, letting you test, letting you play.

But the second he wanted to break the tension, he would.

And not a moment sooner.

Silence stretched between you, and you realized that if you said anything now, you’d only be proving him right.

So you did the only thing you could.

You stepped back.

Not much. Just enough to put a few inches of space between you. Just enough to breathe.

Hotch’s lips twitched slightly, almost like he knew he had won this round.

"Goodnight," he said, voice as smooth as ever.

Your nails pressed into your palm, heat still simmering low in your stomach, but you forced yourself to stay composed as you turned.

And as you walked out of his office, one thought burned in your mind.

You had severely underestimated Aaron Hotchner.

And now, you were more determined than ever to make him break.

xxoxoxoxoxo

The local precinct smelled like stale coffee and cheap disinfectant, the kind of place that saw too many long nights and not enough successful arrests. The team had been working with the local PD all morning, briefing the officers, pouring over evidence, and establishing a strategy for catching the unsub. The air was thick with tension--case tension, but also something else.

Hotch tension.

You had been careful, playing it safe the last couple of days after your last conversation with him. He had successfully flipped your game back on you, made you second-guess your own approach, and that had annoyed you. But more than that--it had intrigued you.

You had underestimated him.

But that only made you want to try harder.

So now, standing in the middle of the precinct, surrounded by officers, detectives, and your team, you found your next move.

It happened when one of the younger officers--a rookie, maybe mid-twenties--sidled up beside you while you were scanning over a map of the unsub’s hunting ground. He was cocky, too casual for a case like this, but harmless enough.

“You guys always get put on the bad ones, huh?” he asked, shaking his head.

You hummed, glancing at him briefly. “Something like that.”

He smelled like cheap cologne and bad news.

His eyes flicked over you--not in a way that was offensive, but in a way that was obvious. “So, what’s it like working for him?” His gaze drifted past you, and you knew exactly who he was referring to.

You glanced toward the other side of the room, where Hotch was standing with Rossi and Morgan, discussing logistics with the local captain. He was doing what he always did--keeping his tone measured, his posture unwavering, his presence demanding attention even when he wasn’t speaking.

“What do you mean?” you asked, playing dumb.

The rookie smirked. “I mean, he’s kind of intense, right? Seems like the type of guy who doesn’t let his team breathe.”

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. “Oh, he lets us breathe. Just not when we’re wasting time.”

The officer chuckled, leaning slightly closer. “And what about after hours? He loosen up at all then?”

It was an innocent enough comment. It wasn’t inappropriate, wasn’t particularly suggestive, but it was loaded--an implication lingering beneath the surface.

And that’s when you felt it.

The shift.

It wasn’t obvious. No one else in the room would have noticed. But you did.

His energy--you could feel it surrounding you without him even making as much as a subtle eye movement. He was all around you. All at once. Just not physically.

The way Hotch’s posture stiffened, ever so slightly.

The way his conversation faltered for just a fraction of a second before continuing.

The way his fingers twitched, like he had the urge to look over but refused to.

You had just done something dangerous.

And you liked it.

A slow, wicked idea unfurled in your mind.

You didn’t even have to flirt with the rookie. You just had to let him think he had a shot. Let Hotch think that someone else might be in your orbit.

So you smiled--just a small, amused smile--as you said, “Why? You looking for some FBI mentorship?”

The officer grinned. “I wouldn’t say no.”

And then, because you could, because you were feeling reckless, you let your fingers lightly trail over his forearm. A barely there touch. A casual, fleeting thing.

But it wasn’t casual at all.

You felt the shift further before you even looked up.

And when you finally glanced toward Hotch--when you saw the way his gaze was locked onto you now, the sharp, barely restrained tension in his features--you almost lost your own composure.

His expression was unreadable, but his eyes?

His eyes were burning.

A rush of heat surged through your body.

Oh.

You had found something.

But before you could process it, Hotch’s voice cut through the air--calm, too calm.

“Agent,” he said sharply. “A word.”

Your stomach dropped.

And not in the way that made you nervous.

In the way that made your pulse spike.

You turned slowly, heart hammering, as Hotch gestured for you to follow him.

He didn’t wait for you--just walked toward one of the quieter hallways of the precinct, expecting you to keep up.

You did.

His legs were so long--such long strides.

Your mind was racing, trying to figure out if he was mad or if this was something else--if you had finally managed to push too far.

When he finally stopped, he turned abruptly, standing so close that you almost collided into him.

His jaw was tight. His breathing controlled.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, voice low.

You blinked up at him, playing the part of the innocent. “Excuse me?”

His eyes flickered with something unreadable. “The officer.”

Your heart thumped. You knew what this was now.

It wasn’t anger.

It was something else entirely.

A slow, knowing smirk curved your lips. “Oh,” you said, tilting your head. “You were paying attention.”

His nostrils flared slightly.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he murmured, voice even lower now.

Your pulse thrummed in your throat. “Am I?”

Hotch’s gaze locked onto yours, something sharp, something restrained--but this time, barely.

For the first time, you knew you had him.

And now?

Now you were dying to see what happened when Aaron Hotchner stopped holding back.

The hallway was too quiet.

Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was just you, hyperaware of every single breath, every shift in the air between you and Hotch. The precinct buzzed faintly in the distance, but here, in this small, dimly lit corridor, it felt like another world entirely.

Hotch hadn’t moved.

Neither had you.

The space between you was barely a few inches, and yet, the tension crackled like a live wire, sparking in the narrow gap separating you.

His jaw was tight. His shoulders squared. His hands twitched--just slightly, like he was debating what to do with them.

Hotch exhaled through his nose, slow, measured, but there was something off about it--something that told you it wasn’t just an exhale. It was restraint.

Tightly coiled, barely-leashed restraint.

You had never seen him like this.

He was always so careful. So composed. So in control.

But right now? Right now, there was something just beneath the surface, something barely held together by the thread of his discipline.

And it was because of you.

You could feel your pulse hammering against your ribs, heat rising up your spine, but you didn’t step back.

Neither did he.

“I didn’t realize talking to an officer was against BAU protocol,” you mused, letting the words hang in the air between you, testing, pushing.

Hotch’s eyes darkened. “That’s not what this is about.”

Your lips curled slightly, your confidence returning in full force. “No?”

His breath hitched--just a fraction, just enough.

Then, before you could blink, he took a step closer.

It was subtle. Barely there.

But it was deliberate.

You were trained to decipher human behavior, after all. This man--he was one of the hardest shells to crack, but something told you how to put the pieces together now.

Your spine straightened instinctively, the sudden nearness setting off a slow burn low in your stomach.

For the first time, it felt like he was the one testing you.

“You think I don’t see what you’re doing?” he murmured, voice dangerously low.

A shiver trailed down your spine.

You forced yourself to hold his gaze, even as the heat between you thickened. “And what am I doing, Hotch?”

His jaw ticked. “You want a reaction.”

You tilted your head slightly, barely suppressing a smirk. “Do I?”

His exhale was sharp this time, less measured, less composed. His fingers flexed at his sides, like he was physically keeping himself from moving.

Then, before you could process what was happening, he leaned in--just enough that his breath ghosted over your skin, warm, sharp.

“You really want to test me?” he murmured.

Your stomach flipped.

Your lips parted slightly, a retort forming, but nothing came out.

Hotch let the moment hang, suspended, the air thick with something neither of you wanted to name.

Then--just as quickly as he had closed the space--he pulled back, his expression unreadable once more.

His discipline snapped back into place like a steel trap, as if he had never let it slip at all.

But you had seen it.

You had felt it.

And as he straightened, adjusting his tie, clearing his throat, you knew.

He wasn’t unaffected.

Not even close.

“Get back to work,” he said finally, voice smooth, controlled.

But he didn’t look at you when he said it.

And that?

That told you everything you needed to know.

You thought you had won.

You felt the tension, saw the moment Hotch nearly cracked, heard the shift in his breath. You knew now--knew for certain--that you affected him. That you weren’t imagining things.

That Aaron Hotchner wanted you.

And yet, as you walked back into the main room of the precinct, trying to steady your own breathing, trying to refocus on the case, something gnawed at you.

Because when he had pulled back, when he had gathered himself, when he had smoothed his tie and sent you back to work like nothing had happened--there had been something in his expression.

Not regret. Not hesitation.

Something else.

And you realized it too late.

You had just handed him the upper hand.

oxoxoxoxoxxoox

It started small.

You were seated at the long table in the precinct’s war room, reviewing files, mapping out patterns on a whiteboard with Morgan and Prentiss, when you felt it.

A gaze.

Hotch was across the room, engaged in a discussion with Rossi and the lead detective, his voice even, steady. Composed.

But he was watching you.

Not directly. Not obviously.

But you could feel it.

The way his eyes flicked toward you between sentences, the way his attention lingered just a second too long before returning to the conversation at hand.

It shouldn’t have rattled you.

But it did.

Because you had spent so long trying to get a reaction out of him. And now, suddenly, he wasn’t ignoring you. He wasn’t brushing it off.

He was watching you back.

And worse?

He wasn’t hiding it anymore.

Your stomach twisted in a way you weren’t used to.

You forced yourself to refocus, flipping through the files in front of you, but it was impossible to concentrate, not when you could still feel his eyes on you, his presence like a gravitational pull you couldn’t ignore.

And then--he upped the ante.

It was in the small things.

Like the next time you spoke to him--when you handed him a report, expecting him to simply take it like he always did, business as usual.

But instead, his fingers brushed yours as he took the file, slow, deliberate.

The touch was barely there, but it sent an electric jolt up your arm.

You glanced up at him, startled, only to find his gaze already on yours. Steady. Controlled.

Like he knew exactly what he had done.

Your lips parted, but he simply nodded, expression unreadable. “Thank you.”

And then he walked away.

Your breath stuck in your throat.

Oh, he’s good.

It only got worse from there.

During the next strategy meeting, you found yourself seated beside him--not an unusual occurrence, but this time, you felt it.

The space between you was almost nonexistent.

His arm rested along the table, his fingers occasionally brushing the edge of your notepad, each accidental touch sending a slow hum through your body.

But the worst part?

The absolute worst part?

Was when you went to reach for your coffee mug at the same time he reached for his.

Your fingers brushed again, but this time, he didn’t move away.

Not right away.

Instead, his thumb lingered against your skin for a half-second too long.

And when you looked up at him, startled, he just--

Smirked.

It was small. Subtle. So quick that if you hadn’t been looking, you might’ve missed it.

But it was there.

You swallowed hard, gripping your coffee mug like it was your lifeline, because suddenly, the temperature in the room felt ten degrees hotter.

And he just continued on like nothing had happened.

Like he hadn’t just turned the game back on you.

You barely heard a word Morgan was saying, barely processed anything but the way Hotch’s arm remained just close enough that if you moved, even slightly, you would touch again.

He was toying with you now.

Testing you.

And suddenly, you understood.

He had been waiting for this.

Letting you push him. Letting you get bold.

Because he had known the whole time that the moment he pushed back, you wouldn’t be ready for it.

You inhaled sharply, forcing yourself to refocus, forcing yourself to push through the way your stomach twisted, the way your pulse hammered against your ribs.

Fine.

If he wanted to play, you could play.

But you were starting to realize something you hadn’t expected.

Aaron Hotchner was a much more dangerous opponent than you had ever given him credit for.

And now, you weren’t sure if you were winning--or if you were about to completely lose yourself in him.

xoxoxoxoxoxo

The bar was dimly lit, the kind of place the team liked to celebrate in after a case closed--a quiet enough spot to talk, but loud enough that no one paid much attention to a group of FBI agents drinking in the corner.

The case had been a difficult one, drawn out and exhausting, but the unsub was in custody, the victims’ families had answers, and--for tonight at least--you could all breathe a little easier.

You nursed your drink, watching as Morgan and Prentiss laughed at something Garcia said, Rossi swirling his whiskey in his glass as he smirked at whatever banter they were trading.

And then there was Hotch.

Sitting beside you, as always.

Close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence, but still distant in that way only he could manage--always composed, always aware of himself, of his surroundings.

Always in control.

You had spent the entire night testing that control.

At first, it was subtle. A lingering touch when you handed him his drink, a fleeting brush of your fingers against his wrist when you leaned in to speak over the noise of the bar.

Then, bolder.

A teasing remark, the way you laughed just a little softer when he said something dry and sarcastic, the way your hand rested lightly against his thigh just as you shifted in your seat.

You had expected a reaction.

You wanted one.

But instead of pulling away, instead of scolding you, instead of doing what he always did--remaining unaffected, unshaken--Hotch did something worse.

He played along.

He didn’t move your hand. He didn’t shift away.

He let it happen.

And the worst part?

He let you sit with it.

Let you feel the weight of your own actions, the way the tension between you thickened, the way your pulse picked up when his dark eyes flicked toward yours, unreadable but aware.

He was so much better at this game than you were.

And you were losing.

You needed to tip the scales back in your favor.

So you made a choice.

You reached for your drink, fingers brushing the rim, and took a slow sip--letting your lips close around the edge of the glass, letting your tongue flicker just slightly against the rim as you pulled back.

It was innocent enough.

But the moment you placed your glass back down, you shifted in your seat--legs crossing deliberately, brushing against his knee as you tilted your head, looking up at him from beneath your lashes.

And then you said it.

Low. Soft. Just for him.

"You know, Hotch…I don’t think I’ve ever seen you flustered before."

It was a direct challenge.

A blatant, deliberate provocation.

And this time?

He reacted.

The shift was instantaneous.

His fingers tightened hard around his glass, his jaw clenching as his breath hitched--so subtly that no one else would have noticed, but you did.

His lips parted slightly, his tongue flicking against the inside of his cheek like he was considering his next move.

Then, finally--finally--he turned to look at you fully.

And the intensity in his gaze?

It nearly knocked the breath out of you.

His voice was low, rough around the edges, laced with something you had never heard from him before.

"You’re making it very hard to be a gentleman right now."

Your stomach dropped.

Your fingers curled slightly against the table, and you swallowed, suddenly feeling so much smaller beneath the weight of his attention.

You had wanted this.

You had asked for this.

And now?

Now you weren’t sure if you were ready for what happened next.

Because the way Hotch was looking at you?

Like he had been holding back for so long--so painfully long--and was finally, finally reaching the edge of his control?

It sent a shiver down your spine.

And suddenly, for the first time since this little game started…

You realized you might have just gotten in over your head.

Your stomach clenched, heat flooding through your body in waves, but you didn’t move.

You couldn’t.

Not when he was looking at you like that.

Not when his fingers flexed against his glass, his jaw clenched so tightly that you could almost hear the strain in it.

Not when you realized--really realized--that you had finally done it.

You had finally pushed him to his limit.

And now, for the first time, you were the one feeling unsteady.

A slow smirk threatened at the corner of his lips, barely there, his fingers tapping against his whiskey glass before he finally--finally--pulled his gaze away from yours.

But not before he leaned in, just a fraction closer.

Just enough for you to feel his warmth.

Just enough for his breath to ghost against your skin when he murmured, “Finish your drink.”

Your breath hitched.

You forced yourself to swallow, gripping the glass as your pulse pounded in your ears, suddenly hyperaware of the fact that he hadn’t given you an order before.

Not like that.

Not in a way that made your thighs press together beneath the table.

You took a slow sip, the whiskey burning down your throat, but it wasn’t the alcohol that was making your head spin.

It was him.

You were utterly and completely drunk on him.

Hotch leaned back in his chair, as if regaining some of his composure, but you could see it now.

The way his fingers still flexed against the glass.

The way his chest rose and fell just a little deeper than usual.

The way his entire body was coiled tight, like he was waiting.

And the worst part?

The absolute worst part?

You had no idea what he was waiting for.

A few minutes passed, conversation continuing around you, but it felt like background noise now--like nothing else in the room mattered except the heavy weight of whatever this was sitting between you.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, Hotch glanced at his watch and pushed back his chair.

The shift sent a jolt of anticipation through your body.

He leaned down slightly, voice low in your ear.

"Let’s go."

Your stomach flipped.

You set your glass down, fingers slightly shaky as you grabbed your coat, barely managing a quick glance at the team.

Morgan smirked. Rossi raised an eyebrow. Prentiss definitely noticed something.

But you didn’t have time to care.

Because the moment you stepped outside into the cool night air, the second the door shut behind you, you barely had time to turn before Hotch’s voice--low, measured, dangerous--cut through the silence.

"Tell me something."

You looked up, breath catching. “What?”

His gaze burned into yours, dark and unwavering.

"Was this just a game to you?"

Your throat tightened.

You blinked. “What?”

His jaw clenched. “All of it,” he murmured. “The teasing. The touches. The way you looked at me back there.” His eyes flickered to your lips before snapping back to your gaze. “Was it just a game?”

The air between you was electric.

Your stomach churned, your pulse hammering in your chest, because this was it.

This was him--finally, finally dropping the act.

And the rawness in his voice?

The realness in it?

It made you realize exactly what you wanted.

Your lips parted slightly, a shaky breath escaping before you whispered, “No.”

Hotch’s entire body reacted to that word.

A sharp inhale. His fingers twitching like he was holding himself back.

And then--finally--he stopped holding back.

His hand lifted--slow, deliberate--fingers grazing your jaw as he tilted your chin up.

Not demanding. Not rushed.

Just assessing.

Just waiting.

Like he needed you to give him permission.

Like he needed to know you wanted this as much as he did.

And God, did you want this.

Your breath stuttered, but you didn’t look away.

Instead, you leaned into his touch, exhaling softly as your fingers curled against the lapels of his jacket.

That was all it took.

Hotch moved.

His lips were on yours, firm but controlled--measured, like he was still trying to hold back, still trying not to lose himself completely.

But you wanted him to lose it.

So you made a sound--soft, desperate--pressing yourself closer, and that was it.

His restraint snapped.

A sharp inhale against your lips, his hands gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him.

His body was warm, solid, hot, and suddenly you were gripping him, fingers twisting into his shirt as his lips parted, deepening the kiss, letting out a low, gravelly noise that sent a shockwave down your spine.

The street was too open.

The world was too present.

But Hotch--Aaron--was kissing you like it was the only thing that had ever mattered.

And the second his hands tightened around you, the second his teeth grazed your lower lip, you knew.

You had both lost this game.

And you couldn’t wait to see what happened next.

The kiss was heated, sharp, and all consuming, a slow unraveling of every ounce of tension you had been building for weeks.

Hotch’s hands were firm against your waist, fingers flexing like he was still battling the instinct to pull you closer, like he was still trying to cling to the last fragments of control that were slipping through his fingers.

You weren’t making it easy for him.

Your hands fisted into the front of his shirt, tugging him forward, pressing yourself into the solid warmth of his chest, needing more--needing all of him.

And God, the way he reacted--

The sharp inhale against your lips, the way his fingers dug into your waist, the soft, barely-contained groan that rumbled deep in his chest--

It was like nothing you had imagined.

He wasn’t careful.

He wasn’t measured.

He was starved.

Hotch tore his lips from yours, breathing hard, forehead resting against yours, his grip still tight on your hips as if he was physically keeping himself from devouring you completely.

Your own breath was uneven, your hands sliding up his chest, nails scraping lightly against his shirt.

“Aaron--”

His groan was immediate, like hearing his name like that sent a direct current through his body.

Then his hands moved.

He skimmed them up your sides, tracing the curves he had so painstakingly ignored for weeks, months, forever--his fingers ghosting over the fabric of your blouse before one of them slid into your hair, tilting your chin just so before he kissed you again.

Harder.

Rougher.

No restraint now.

It sent a shockwave through your body, heat pooling low in your stomach as his teeth scraped your lower lip, his other hand gripping your waist like he needed you, like he couldn’t stop himself anymore.

And God, you didn’t want him to stop.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you were aware that you were still outside the bar, still in public, still far too exposed for what was rapidly spiraling into something uncontainable.

Hotch must have realized it at the same time because he broke away, breathless, dark eyes burning into yours.

“Come with me.”

You didn’t even hesitate.

The ride to his place was a blur.

You barely remembered getting into the car.

Barely remembered the way his hands tightened on the wheel, the way his jaw ticked as you sat beside him, thighs pressing together, anticipating.

The air in the car was thick, electric with everything unsaid, everything about to happen.

And the second the door to his apartment closed behind you--

It snapped.

Hotch was on you before you could take another breath.

His lips crashed into yours, his hands gripping your hips, backing you against the wall like he needed to feel you, like he was making up for every second he had spent denying this.

Your breath hitched, your arms looping around his neck, nails dragging along the short hairs at the nape of his neck as you kissed him back, tilting your head to let him deepen it, let him take what he wanted.

And God, did he want.

His hands wandered, gripping your waist, sliding up your back, fingers teasing the hem of your blouse before slipping beneath it, palms searing against your skin.

He let out a low groan, his mouth moving to your jaw, down to your neck, hot, open-mouthed kisses trailing lower, sending a pulse straight to your core.

“Aaron--”

Another groan.

His fingers tightened on your hips, his breath warm against your skin.

“You--” He exhaled sharply, voice wrecked. “You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me.”

You shivered, gripping his shoulders. “Then show me.”

Something snapped in him at that.

His hands slid to the back of your thighs, and before you could react, he was lifting you, guiding your legs around his waist, pressing you firmly against the wall, his body pressing flush against yours.

Heat flared through you at the sheer strength of him, the way he held you so effortlessly, the way his lips found yours again, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, owning the kiss in a way that made you dizzy.

He walked you to the bedroom like that, lips never leaving yours, never giving you a moment to breathe.

And when he laid you down, settling between your legs, hands braced beside your head, his breath coming out ragged--

You realized you had been so, so wrong.

You had thought you were in control.

Had thought you were winning this game.

But the way Aaron Hotchner was looking at you now?

Like he owned you?

Like he was done holding back?

You knew.

You had never stood a chance.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

The room was dim, bathed in the soft glow from the city lights spilling through the window. The air was thick--heavy--with heat and want and weeks of barely restrained tension finally snapping apart at the seams.

Hotch hovered above you, one hand braced against the mattress, the other tracing along your jaw, his thumb dragging over your lower lip, teasing.

You exhaled sharply, your chest rising beneath him, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. You had never seen him like this--eyes dark, his breath uneven, his entire body wound so tight, like he was fighting every urge to just take you right then and there.

He was still holding back.

You weren’t having that.

Your fingers tugged at his collar, pulling him down until his lips crashed against yours again, hot and desperate, teeth scraping, tongues meeting, consuming.

A low sound rumbled in his chest--a groan, gravelly and wrecked--as his weight settled between your legs, pressing firm against you, and God, you could feel everything.

Your thighs tightened around his waist, your nails dragging down his back, and that was it.

He broke.

Hotch's mouth moved--leaving your lips, tracing a path down your jaw, to the curve of your throat. He sucked, bit--just enough to make you gasp, his tongue sweeping over the sting.

"Aaron," you breathed, your hands threading into his hair, tugging hard.

His reaction was immediate--a deep groan against your skin, his fingers gripping your waist, his hips pressing flush against yours in a slow, torturous roll.

You gasped, arching up against him, heat flooding through your body as his hands wandered, sliding beneath your blouse, fingers tracing over your stomach, exploring.

“You drive me insane,” he muttered, lips dragging down your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. “You and your games.”

You smirked, gasping as his teeth grazed a particularly sensitive spot. “I think you liked them.”

Hotch exhaled a sharp breath, pressing his forehead to your shoulder for a moment, laughing, but it was low, dark--not amusement, but something else.

Something dangerous.

Then he lifted his head, his fingers tilting your chin just so until your eyes met his.

“I let you play, sweetheart.” His voice was silk and steel, deep and gravelly, thick with desire. “But now?”

He smirked--smirked--and leaned in, lips brushing against yours in a whisper of a kiss.

“Now it’s my turn.”

A shiver ran through you, your pulse pounding, your entire body on fire.

Then, in one swift motion, he sat up, pulling you with him, his fingers tugging at the hem of your blouse. His eyes met yours, giving you one last out.

But there was no hesitation.

Not from you.

Not from him.

Your hands covered his, pushing the fabric up, and then it was gone--tossed aside, forgotten.

His eyes--God, the way he looked at you.

Dark. Devouring. Like he was memorizing every inch.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, voice thick, rough.

Then his hands were on you again--roaming, claiming--his lips pressing, trailing, worshiping.

Your head tipped back, another breathless gasp escaping as his hands found the clasp of your bra, his fingers making quick work of it before sliding the straps down your shoulders, his lips following their path, tongue flicking, teasing.

You arched into him, needing more, your own hands tugging at his shirt, desperate to even the playing field.

Hotch chuckled--deep, dark--before obliging, sitting back just enough to yank the offending fabric over his head.

Your breath hitched.

You had seen him in varying states of undress before--worn-down hotel rooms, bulletproof vests over tight shirts, dress shirts rolled up to his forearms.

But this?

Seeing him like this--the broad lines of his shoulders, the toned muscle of his chest, the faint scar near his ribs--

Your fingers traced over it instinctively, your touch featherlight.

Hotch inhaled sharply.

“That’s not fair,” he muttered, his voice wrecked, a teasing edge beneath the gravel.

You barely had time to process before he was kissing you again--deep and desperate, his hands sliding down, over the curve of your hips, fingers gripping, pulling you closer.

You gasped, hands curling around his biceps, feeling the tension in them, the way he was still holding himself back, still reining himself in.

So you tested him again.

Rolling your hips just so against his.

Hotch groaned, a sharp, wrecked sound against your lips. His fingers dug into your thighs, his control finally fraying--

“Fuck,” he exhaled, forehead pressing to yours.

You smirked, barely able to breathe.

“That’s all it took?” you teased. “I thought you had more self-control than that, Hotchner.”

His breath hitched.

Then--

You barely had a second to react before he had you pinned, his body flush against yours, his lips ghosting over your ear.

His voice was low, dangerous, devastatingly wrecked.

"You're going to regret saying that."

Your breath caught.

Then his hands moved--and you shattered.

Your pulse pounded, every inch of your body burning under Hotch’s touch, under the way he was looking at you now--like he had waited for this, ached for this, and was finally letting himself have it.

You swallowed, fingers tightening against his shoulders, feeling the tension in his muscles, the way he was still holding himself back--even now.

"Then make me," you whispered.

Hotch moved.

His lips crashed against yours, harder this time, rougher, his hands gripping your waist like he needed to touch you, like letting go wasn’t an option anymore.

You moaned into the kiss, arching against him as his hands slid down, fingers tracing the curve of your hips, exploring, learning you.

You were already dizzy, already losing yourself in him, but you didn’t care.

You didn’t want careful.

You wanted him.

You tugged at his belt, fingers fumbling with the buckle, but Hotch caught your wrist, breath ragged, his forehead pressing to yours.

His eyes--dark and burning--searched yours, his fingers tightening around your wrist like he was waiting for something.

"Are you sure?" His voice was rough, strained, but still careful.

Your heart ached at the question, at the way he was still thinking about you, still making sure this was something you wanted.

You lifted your other hand, tracing along his jaw, feeling the tension there, the restraint.

"I've never been more sure of anything in my life," you whispered.

Something in him snapped.

His lips were on yours again, his hands sliding lower, gripping your thighs as he lifted you, guiding your legs around his waist before pressing you firmly against the mattress.

His body was solid, strong, his weight pressing into you in a way that had your breath catching, heat spreading low in your stomach as his mouth wandered--down your jaw, your throat, lips and tongue claiming you inch by inch.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, gasping as his hands explored, learning the shape of you, teasing, tormenting--

"Aaron--"

The groan that ripped from his throat was wrecked, his fingers digging into your skin as his hips pressed flush against yours.

"You love saying my name like that, don’t you?" His voice was low, teasing, but you could hear the strain in it.

You smirked, tilting your head back, offering him more as his lips traced a path down your collarbone. "I like what it does to you."

His breath hitched.

Then his teeth scraped, just enough to make you gasp, his hands finally making quick work of the last barriers between you.

Fabric was pulled away, discarded, forgotten.

And when his gaze lowered--when his hands finally moved where you needed them most--

You shattered.

Hotch devoured every reaction, every gasp, every moan, learning you, memorizing you, until you were a writhing, trembling mess beneath him.

And when he finally, finally pressed into you--

It was slow. Deliberate.

Like he wanted you to feel every inch of him.

Like he wanted to ruin you.

Your fingers clawed at his back, legs wrapping tighter around him as he groaned, head dipping into the crook of your neck.

"You feel so--" His voice broke, his breath ragged, his lips pressing against your shoulder as he rolled his hips--

You gasped, arching into him, pleasure crashing through your veins.

Hotch cursed, a low, deep sound against your skin, his movements slow, controlled, but hard, perfect.

He was relentless.

He set the pace, dragging it out, making you feel every second of it, torturing you with the way he pulled back just enough before thrusting deep, the friction sending sparks down your spine.

Your moans were breathless, your nails scraping down his back, but it only spurred him on.

"You wanted this," he groaned, his breath hot against your skin. "All those games--"

You gasped as his hips snapped harder, his fingers digging into your thighs.

"You wanted to see if you could break me."

He rolled his hips again, making your eyes squeeze shut, pleasure coiling tight in your stomach.

"Do you feel broken now?"

You let out a sound that wasn’t even words, your fingers fisting into the sheets, your entire body on fire.

Hotch smirked against your skin, but his composure was fraying now--his thrusts turning more erratic, his breath coming faster, his muscles tensing beneath your hands.

He was losing it too.

And God, it was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.

His head dipped, lips crashing into yours in a deep, desperate kiss as the tension finally snapped.

Pleasure ripped through you, white-hot and overwhelming, your entire body trembling as his name tore from your lips.

Hotch groaned, his movements turning sloppy, frantic, chasing the edge--

And then he fell, his body shuddering against yours, his lips parting in a low, wrecked moan as he collapsed, breathless, his forehead resting against yours.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Your bodies were still tangled, limbs entwined, your hearts pounding in sync.

Then, finally, Hotch exhaled--a slow, deep breath--before lifting his head to look at you.

His gaze was soft now, but sated, his thumb brushing lazily over your cheek, tender.

"You really are trouble," he murmured, voice thick with exhaustion, but teasing.

You smirked, tracing your fingers down his chest, lingering. "And yet, here we are."

Hotch huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "You’re insufferable."

You grinned, pressing a lazy kiss to his lips. "You love it."

His smirk widened slightly.

"Maybe."

Then he kissed you again--slower this time, softer.

Like he was memorizing the taste of you.

Like he already knew this wasn’t the last time.

And God, neither of you wanted it to be.

You blinked, the haze of exhaustion settling in as reality began to sink in.

You had slept with Aaron Hotchner.

And it hadn’t been careful. It hadn’t been measured.

It had been raw. Consuming.

Desperate.

You swallowed, turning slightly in the bed, suddenly hyperaware that he was rolling off of you.

For a moment, your stomach twisted--should you leave? Would this change things between you? Was he already regretting it?

But before you could spiral, before you could even begin to untangle your thoughts, you heard it--

The quiet sound of running water.

You furrowed your brows, shifting up slightly onto your elbows, and then you saw him.

Hotch was standing near the bathroom sink, his back to you, shirtless, his lean muscles flexing as he ran a washcloth under warm water.

Your breath caught.

And more than that--he wasn’t panicked. He wasn’t rushing.

He was taking care of you.

Your throat tightened.

He turned a moment later, towel in hand, his dark eyes immediately finding yours.

“You should lie back,” he murmured, voice softer now, the roughness of the night before smoothed into something gentle.

You blinked at him, lips parting, but you didn’t argue. You simply did as he asked, sinking back against the pillows, watching as he approached the bed.

The mattress dipped as he sat beside you, his warm hand skimming lightly over your thigh before he pressed the warm cloth against your skin.

The sensation made you exhale, your body still aching in the best way, but his touch was tender, careful.

"You don't have to--"

Hotch gave you a look.

You stopped.

Because you realized--he wanted to.

He continued in silence, wiping away the remnants of the night before, his touch slow, thoughtful. His fingers brushed against you so gently that your chest tightened.

The air between you was different now.

The tension of the past weeks, the game you had been playing--it was gone.

All that was left was this.

Him.

You.

The weight of what you had just done, settling between you like something neither of you could take back.

When he was finished, he set the towel aside, fingers tracing over your hip absentmindedly before finally speaking.

"Are you okay?"

You blinked.

The question caught you off guard.

Not because you weren’t--God, you were--but because you hadn’t expected him to ask.

You swallowed, nodding. "Yeah. I am."

His lips pressed together slightly, his fingers brushing against your skin again, almost like he needed to feel you still there.

Your stomach twisted--not in doubt, but in something else entirely.

Something dangerous.

Something real.

So you asked.

"What about you?"

Hotch exhaled slowly, like he was steadying himself, and then--finally--he met your gaze.

And you knew.

Whatever restraint he had left--whatever pieces of the mask he had been holding onto--it was gone.

"I'm not sure I know how to stop wanting you now," he admitted, voice low, raw.

Your breath hitched.

Because that?

That was the first real truth he had given you.

Your fingers curled against the sheets, your heart hammering in your chest. "Then don't," you whispered.

Hotch exhaled sharply, shaking his head slightly, his fingers tightening just slightly against your hip.

"You don’t understand," he murmured. "I’ve wanted you for so long."

Your stomach flipped.

You opened your mouth, but he continued before you could speak.

"I tried--" He exhaled again, rough, like he was frustrated with himself. "I tried to ignore it. To pretend it was nothing. That it was just...passing attraction."

You swallowed. "Was it?"

Hotch let out a short, almost humorless laugh, shaking his head.

"No," he admitted. "It never was."

Your breath caught, your fingers gripping the sheets tighter, because this--this--was more than you had ever expected him to admit.

"You drove me insane," he murmured, voice dropping lower. "The way you looked at me. The way you challenged me. The way you--" He exhaled, shaking his head. "The way you said my name."

Your heart stuttered.

"You noticed that?"

Hotch huffed a soft laugh, his fingers trailing up your arm, his touch leaving a burning path in its wake.

"I noticed everything," he murmured. "The way you crossed your legs during briefings. The way you stretched when you were tired, your shirt lifting just enough to make me lose my train of thought. The way you knew exactly what you were doing--"

You let out a breathless laugh. "I didn’t always know."

Hotch tilted his head slightly, studying you.

Then, slowly, his lips curled into something dangerous.

"No?"

Your stomach flipped. "No."

His fingers brushed your jaw, thumb tracing over your lower lip.

"You really think you weren’t getting to me?" His voice was low, rough, something dark beneath it.

Your breath hitched.

"You were always getting to me," he admitted. "And you loved it."

You swallowed, suddenly feeling very small beneath the weight of his gaze.

Because God--he was right.

You had.

You had loved it.

But what you hadn’t realized was that he had loved it, too.

"I--"

Hotch moved before you could speak, pressing you back into the mattress, his lips ghosting over your jaw.

His weight was warm, solid, comforting.

And for the first time, there was no hesitation.

No restraint.

Only truth.

"I’m done holding back," he murmured against your skin.

You shivered.

"Good," you whispered.

And when his lips met yours again, soft and slow, hands sliding under the sheets this time--

You knew.

This wasn’t just a game anymore.

This was real.

And neither of you were walking away from it.

Not now.

Not ever.

Tag List: @zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @looking1016 @khxna @rousethemouse @averyhotchner @reidfile @bernelflo @lover-of-books-and-tea @frickin-bats @sleepysongbirdsings @justyourusualash @person-005 @iyskgd @hiireadstuff @kcch-ns @alexxavicry

2K notes · View notes

giannaln4 · 6 months ago

Text

For you? Anything.

lando norris x fem reader

summary: Even during the worst week of you life, and no matter how tired he is, Lando would do anything to make you feel better. (2.6k words)

warnings: fluff, established relationship, language.

a/n: And we are back to our regular schedule! Kinktober is officially over (kinda, more context here) so it's time to post regular fics. So, I wrote this sometime last week before the shit show of yesterday's race so that's why there are no mentions of it, but I do have some planned about that so we'll see when I can work on them. Anyway, this is for me and all the girlies who have been feeling stressed about work, let me know what you think!

↺ back to navigation — send me a request!

What a week it has been for you. You had done nothing but work on a stupid project your boss put you in charge of. It was very short notice, and the due date was creeping up on you faster than you would’ve liked.

The good thing is Lando had been away for weeks due to his job; not that you didn’t want to see him or that he was a distraction, nothing like that, but you always preferred to be with him instead of working, which isn’t something you would be able to do this time due to the amount of things you had to go over, but with the house all to yourself, you had the chance to get tons of work done.

It was finally the day of the presentation; you were supposed to pitch the finished project to management and honestly, you weren’t 100% confident in the job you had done. Usually, you were never too harsh on yourself, but with so little time to work on it, you knew there were some parts here and there that could’ve used a little more of your attention, but it was either use what you already have or show up with an unfinished project, so that would have to do. It wasn’t terrible; you were sure of that, but these people always found something to complain about.

You were there for only a few minutes before you were dismissed. What a fucking joke, you thought.

You didn’t even get half the presentation done, and the old dudes sitting across from you were already attacking you with questions, questions that didn’t even make sense or barely fit the theme of what you were trying to talk about.

Your boss was the one to send you out, saying something like “You have another week; we hope you’ll be more prepared next time,” before standing up and leaving the cold conference room, followed by the rest of the men that were surrounding him.

Only minutes after going back to your office you saw him come in, giving you notes on the things he thought you should work on. As the polite girl that you are, you just nodded and wrote down whatever he was saying, apologising for not turning it up on time, but as soon as he left, you couldn’t stop the tears from falling down your face, ruining your make-up in the process. You still had half of your day ahead of you, so you calmed down, washed your face, and went back to work like nothing happened.

At the end of the day, however, that’s a different story. You went back home completely devastated. All those sleepless nights you spent with your nose buried in your laptop felt like a total waste.

As you drove back home, you tried your best to hold the tears, but it was getting harder by the second, especially with each step you took down the hall that led to the door of your apartment, and when you made it there, you started crying as soon as you closed the door behind you.

You instantly got rid of your uncomfortable clothes and got into one of Lando’s shirts, curling up in your bed and letting all that consuming and irrational feeling of failure sink in. You knew you weren’t a failure; you were well aware of your worth, but you couldn’t help but feel like that after miserably failing the presentation you worked so hard on.

Suddenly, the front door opening pulled you out of your thoughts. You let out a loud sigh as you left the bed. You knew it was Lando coming back from his last race, and any other day you would’ve been happy to see him, running to the door to greet him with a hug like he deserved, but right now, you didn't want him to have to see you in that pathetic state.

You stared at yourself in the mirror for a moment, sighing again when you realised how obvious it was that you had been crying, so you’d just have to avoid eye contact.

“Hi baby,” Lando greeted you with his usual pretty smile as he entered your room.

"Hey,” you replied, immediately turning around and walking towards your desk, sitting facing away from Lando as you opened your laptop.

“Did you sleep okay last night? How did your presentation go?” He walked closer to you and wrapped his arms around you in a tight hug, kissing your temple.

“It was okay.” He stopped when he noticed your heavy mood.

"You alright, love? You seem down." His brows were slightly furrowed as he tried to make eye contact.

"Yeah, fine. I think I’m just gonna work on it a little more; there were some things missing that I need to include," you replied, clearly lacking energy.

“Hey now, let’s not do that." Lando turned the chair over to make you face him. He looked down and noticed your glossy eyes, a worried feeling growing inside him. “Talk to me, please. What’s wrong?”

You just shook her head briefly, a lip-tight smile covering your face. “Everything’s fine.”

“Y/N…” The slip of your name past his lips made you want to cry again. Of course you wanted to be comforted by your boyfriend, but you didn’t like the thought of him having to pick up the pieces anytime you messed up. As a tear rolled down your face, you realised that you didn't have the energy or even the desire to push him away “Oh baby, come here.”

Lando took your hand as he sat on the floor next to you, pulling you onto his lap. Your face was now buried in his black hoodie, the tears wetting it instantly as he brushed a hand softly up and down your back.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you." He would understand if you didn’t want to talk about it but would still like to know what was happening. If there was anything he could do to help, he would gladly do it. “Do you wanna talk?”

“I just-” A sob cut you off, “I- I couldn’t do it, even after everything I did, it wasn’t enough.”

“Is this about your presentation?” He asked, his voice softer than ever, and you simply nodded. “It’s alright-”

“No, Lando, it’s not alright. I worked hard to get it together, to get it ready for days and nights and I still failed, I’m so stupid-”

“Hey, baby, look at me," he interrupted you, pulling back a bit and gently lifting your chin to look into your eyes. “You know that’s not true; you’re so smart, and I've always admired your beautiful mind. You gave it your best, like you said, you worked really hard, and even if you didn’t get the reaction you deserved, you know I’m right here.” You simply nodded at his words as the back of your hand wiped some of the tears. “Why didn’t you wanna tell me?”

"Because I don't want you to be disappointed in me like I am right now." You looked down to your lap as more tears fell from your tired eyes.

“You should know that I could never be disappointed in you, Y/N. You are so intelligent and kind; I’ve never met anyone with such a beautiful soul, so I don't ever want you to feel down about yourself because you are perfect." You felt both of Lando’s large hands caress either side of your face, bringing it up so he could look into your eyes again as he swiped at the tears that had managed to escape from your eyes.

The slight smile that had formed on your tear-stained face told Lando that his words meant something to you, and they did. “You’re only saying that because you’re my boyfriend.”

“No, I’m your boyfriend for all those reasons." You giggled slightly. “And I’m sure that no one would disagree with me.”

“My boss would.”

“What does he know?” That made you laugh again, making Lando smile, a smile so sincere that told you he believed everything he just said.

"Thank you, baby, even though you’re being a little biased." You sniffled as you gently stroked the hand that was still on your cheek, keeping your eyes locked with his “I love you.”

“I love you more,” he smiled, pressing his lips to your forehead. You took a deep breath, feeling a lot calmer than you did five minutes ago as you looked at your laptop briefly.

“I should probably get back to work, though; I have to basically remake the whole thing and meet with them again next week.”

“What? Right now?”

“Yes, right now. I’m sorry.”

“Are you sure you don’t wanna go to bed? You look pretty tired. We can cuddle, I know we both need it.”

“I would love to,” your gaze fell on your bed momentarily; it looked so comfortable, and it was literally calling your name, “but I really need to get this done, and I have to do it right this time. I don’t wanna be embarrassed again in front of a bunch of old dudes.”

You stood up from his lap and sat back on your desk, focusing on the screen in front of you as you began to analyse what you should take out and what you needed to add.

Lando just sighed. He knew there was no way he would get you to stop working if you already set your mind to it, but honestly, he thought he would get to spend every second with you once he got back home, so needless to say, he was a little disappointed that wasn’t the case.

He got it though; your job was important for you, and you would never settle for anything unless it was perfect. What made his blood boil was the fact that your boss had the nerve to make you feel like you weren't worth it.

“Did you eat something already?” He asked you, getting up from the floor and wrapping his arms around you once again.

“Uh- I’m not really hungry.”

“Why don’t I cook something for us? What do you say?”

“It’s okay, baby, you should go to bed.” You tilted your head to look at him and give him a quick kiss. “I know you are tired, the triple header couldn’t have been easy.”

You started collecting your things so you could take over a different part of the apartment. He had been travelling for weeks; it wouldn’t be fair to keep him up just because you needed to get work done.

“Where are you going?”

“To your office, if that’s okay. I really don’t want to bother you.”

“You’re not-”

“Lan, I’ll be okay, I promise. Just go to bed, don’t worry about me.” Taking a few steps closer to him, you gave him a loving hug, “I love you.”

You left the room, holding everything in your hands as Lando just stood in the same spot. There was no way he would go to bed without you, not when you were feeling so down and it was clear you just needed to take a break.

Taking a deep breath, he started to make a plan in his head. He took the quickest shower of his life and got into something comfy, praying there was food, or more specifically, ingredients to cook you something that he wouldn’t mess up and that you would enjoy.

Everything seemed to be on his side when he found everything he needed to make some Alfredo. Everything was pretty much premade, so he knew he wouldn’t ruin it. He happily got to work, setting up a nice dinner as he hummed one of the songs that had been stuck in his head for who knows how long.

In the office, you were nearly breaking your head as you read the information you had over and over again. You kind of knew what it needed to be since your boss gave you a few specific notes, but then again, you weren’t feeling completely confident in your own ideas.

You didn’t realise you had been locked away for over an hour, your eyes getting insanely tired as you typed away. A break was needed and well deserved, and you were aware of this, but somehow it didn’t feel like you were making any progress, even though you had been working non-stop and you had already readjusted about half of the project.

A loud sigh escaped your lips as you abruptly closed your laptop, your face falling to your hands as your eyes felt wet yet again. That was it; there was no way you could keep going. You needed to grab a quick snack and head straight to bed. You did have an early morning the next day after all.

Just as you were gathering all your strength to get up, you heard the door open, making you jump a bit.

“Fuck, you scared the shit out of me.” You laughed as your hand fell on your heart.

“Sorry, love. Didn’t mean to scare you,” he giggled, walking towards you.

“What are you doing still awake? I thought you went to bed.”

“I couldn’t sleep without you. Are you almost done here?” He looked at your closed laptop, celebrating internally as he assumed you were done working for the night.

“Yeah, I guess. My brain stopped working, so I thought my future self can worry about the rest tomorrow.”

“Good. Come here.” He extended his hand out to you, which you happily took. “Please stop overworking yourself, you know this isn’t healthy.”

“I know,” you let out a sigh as you accepted his embrace. “I’m seriously thinking about quitting. Who knows, maybe I’ll find something that doesn’t make me feel this stressed all the time.”

His hand was caressing your back softly as he pulled away to look down at you. “You know you can, right? And I really think you should. I make enough to support the both of us and even a family in the future... Baby, you don’t have to keep working there if you don’t want to.”

His words made a smile appear on your face. Not because he was offering to basically support you for the rest of your life, but because he brought having a family with you. “You know I’d never let you do that-”

“But if you do want to quit and just take a break, you can do that too,” he interrupted you. You nodded, seriously considering it, but that was something you would have to think about and have a serious conversation in the future if you ever did decide to do it.

“We’ll see. Right now, I just need something to eat and some sleep. I have to get up early tomorrow.”

“Speaking about dinner, I made something for you.”

He took your hand and guided you to the dining room, a big smile on his face as he proudly showed off the beautiful set-up and the (hopefully) delicious dinner he managed to cook. He looked back at you expectantly, but his happiness quickly turned into a worried look when he noticed tears falling from your eyes again.

“What’s wrong, baby?” He asked, a hand softly falling on your cheek as he leaned down.

You were out of words; you truly didn’t know what to say. This is just what you needed, and the fact that he went out of his way to do it for you meant a lot more than he could ever imagine.

“I- Lando, this is-” you cut yourself off when you couldn’t find the right thing to say, so you just jumped in his arms and gave him the tightest hug ever. “Thank you for everything. And I mean everything.”

He let out a sigh of relief, hugging you back as he buried his head on the crook of your neck. “For you, my love, I’d do anything.”

#lando norris #ln4 #lando norris x reader #lando norris fanfic #lando norris imagine #lando norris x you #lando norris fluff #f1 #formula 1 #lando norris x y/n #lando norris oneshot #lando norris one shot #ln4 fluff #ln4 fic #ln4 imagine #giannaln4 writes

999 notes · View notes

foxtrology · 1 month ago

Text

calm before the storm (5)

harry castillo x reader

series

word count: 11.3k

warnings: no y/n, 28 year age gap, female reader, angst, fluff, smut.

The espresso arrived in delicate porcelain cups with gold rims, served on a tray so elegant it looked stolen from a palace. A curl of lemon peel floated in hers. Harry’s had no lemon, no sugar—just black, bitter, and scalding, like everything else about him.

She stirred slowly, eyes flicking across the candlelit table as the night wound down.

Marcella was reapplying her lipstick with a tiny compact mirror.

Lorenzo was swirling the last of his wine, looking far too smug for someone who hadn’t said more than five words during dessert.

Paolo… was watching her.

Still.

His gaze was lazy and smug, lingering on the exposed curve of her shoulder where her dress dipped low. His smile said too much. His espresso stayed untouched.

She felt Harry shift beside her.

The air around them had been tense ever since Lucy was mentioned—no, dropped like a live grenade mid-meal. And now, every breath was edged. Every movement calculated.

She took a sip of the espresso.

Warm.

Sharp.

Nothing like the chill that had settled between her and Harry since Lorenzo opened his mouth.

Marcella rose first. “A beautiful dinner, as always. I do hope we didn’t scare her away, Harry. We’re just curious by nature.”

Harry stood politely. “I’ve noticed.”

Marcella turned to her. Kissed both cheeks, leaving behind lipstick marks, the scent of expensive perfume clinging like static. “You’re lovely. Don’t let us corrupt you.”

She wanted to scoff. But didn't.

Livia followed, flicking her perfectly toned hair over one shoulder, clearly trying not to show how annoyed she was by the way Paolo had looked at her all night.

“It was… a pleasure,” She said with a tight smile.

“Likewise,” Livia replied, cool.

Then Paolo leaned in.

And it was way too close.

His arms wrapped around her like they’d known each other longer than ninety minutes, like he thought he was owed something soft and flirtatious just for finishing his pasta.

“Stunning,” he whispered, right by her ear. “Absolutely stunning.”

His hands hovered at her waist.

And lingered.

Until Harry’s voice cut in like a whip. “That’s enough.”

Paolo didn’t flinch.

Just smiled. Slow. Smug. Sleazy.

He released her, turning back to Harry with a shrug.

Livia’s jaw ticked. The muscle along her neck pulsed once.

Francesca playfully rolls her eyes when Livia's back is turned.

"Ignore her. Jealous."

Luca nods at Harry, muttering out a goodbye. Francesca kisses her cheek, whispering ciao before disappearing with her husband.

“Let’s go,” Harry muttered, his hand finding her back—not gentle, not affectionate. Just there.

But before they could walk away, Lorenzo cleared his throat.

“Harry—don’t forget tomorrow. Nine sharp. Contract revisions with Giuliana. She’s flying in.”

Harry’s mouth was a flat line. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

She offered a tight smile to the rest of group she didn't bother to get the names of, stepping back from Harry slightly. Just enough to create distance, but not enough to make a scene.

Danny approached, arms crossed loosely, face unreadable. But as everyone else started peeling off toward their rooms or the private bar tucked into the side of the villa, he leaned in close to her.

Low enough that Harry wouldn’t hear.

“They’re assholes,” Danny whispered. “All of them. Don’t let them make you feel small.”

She blinked.

He glanced back toward the dinner table, then met her gaze again.

“You’re the only real person here.”

Then, louder, “Night, boss. Night, trouble.”

He smiled at her. And left.

The walk back to the room was silent.

Not companionable silence. Not comfortable silence.

Uncomfortable silence.

Her heels clicked sharply against the stone walkway. The air smelled like rosemary and wine, but it was ruined now. Everything felt sharp-edged and unfinished.

Harry’s hand wasn’t on her back anymore.

She hugged her arms around herself, silk dress clinging to her skin, still warm from the evening, now feeling like too much. Like a costume.

He didn’t speak until they were halfway up the stairs.

“You’re quiet.”

She didn’t look at him. “So are you.”

He scoffed. “You’re mad.”

“No,” she said, too quickly. “I’m—” she stopped. “I’m not mad. I’m… processing.”

They reached the room. He opened the door. Held it open for her.

She stepped in.

The villa room was still warm, glowing from the faint amber lights left on by the staff. It smelled like lemons and her perfume and something delicate hanging in the air, still waiting to break.

Harry shut the door behind them.

The tension was immediate.

A rope pulled taut.

She didn’t turn around. Just stared out the open balcony doors, arms crossed, back stiff.

Harry set his watch on the nightstand. “Say it.”

She blinked. “Say what?”

“Whatever it is you’ve been dying to say since dessert.”

She turned now. Slowly.

Her dress shifted with the motion, silk whispering against her thighs.

“You didn’t tell me,” she said quietly.

“Didn’t tell you what?”

She blinked. Really?

“That you were invited to Lucy’s wedding.”

He sighed. Rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t think it mattered.”

She let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “You didn’t think it mattered?”

“It was just a fucking card. An invite. I didn’t even RSVP.”

“You didn’t tell me,” she repeated, voice rising. “You brought me to Italy and introduced me as your girlfriend in front of those people—people who clearly still talk to your ex—and you didn’t think it would matter?”

“She’s irrelevant.”

“Is she?” Her voice cracked slightly. “Because it didn’t feel that way when everyone at that table kept bringing her up like I was some new accessory you brought to distract from the fact that you haven’t moved on.”

Harry stiffened.

Jaw tight.

“She’s not why you’re here.”

She folded her arms tighter across her chest. “Then why am I here, Harry?”

His eyes darkened.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“You brought me to Italy. To this villa. To that dinner. And you made a scene every time someone looked at me too long—”

“I didn’t make a scene.”

“You glared at Paolo like you wanted to set him on fire.”

“The way he touched you.”

She laughed, but it wasn’t funny. “You’re unbelievable.”

He moved closer, slow and predatory. “You’re upset because I didn’t tell you about the invitation?”

“I’m upset because I don’t know what I am to you, and tonight it felt like you brought me here just to show me off.”

He flinched. It was subtle. But it was real.

“I didn’t bring you here for them.”

“No?” she whispered. “Then why now? Why Italy? Why introduce me like I’m your girlfriend and then not tell me the one thing that could change the entire context of this trip?”

Harry looked away.

And that was worse than yelling.

It was silence again.

Cold. Strategic. Familiar.

She hated it.

“I’m not her,” she said, quieter now. “I’m not Lucy.”

He didn’t respond.

She stepped back.

“I don’t want to be part of some rebound performance for your colleagues. I don’t want to be the girl you use to prove something.”

“You think that’s what this is?”

“I don’t know what this is,” she snapped. “Because you don’t talk about it. You just show up. You just do. You make tea and buy groceries and show up in the rain and give me keys and whisper things when we’re in bed and none of it makes sense.”

His voice dropped. “It makes sense to me.”

“Well, it doesn’t to me.”

She didn’t mean to cry.

But the tears came anyway—furious and humiliated and hot against her cheeks.

And Harry just stood there.

Not moving.

Not speaking.

Not reaching for her.

And that—

That broke something.

She turned toward the door.

He didn’t stop her. Didn’t say her name. Didn’t chase her.

So she walked out. Into the villa hallway. Barefoot.

Wearing that stupid silk dress that now felt like a costume for someone she didn’t recognize.

And Harry?

Harry stood in the quiet aftermath.

Watching the door. And saying nothing.

Just like always.

That’s what echoed in her head after the door clicked shut behind her—just like always.

It followed her down the hallway, a shadow of a thought that curled into the folds of her dress, into the crook of her neck, into the hollowness that lived behind her ribs.

Outside, the air smelled like something ancient.

Not perfume. Not wine.

Stone.

Wet stone, cracked and sun-warmed, steeped in centuries of candle smoke and blood and rain.

The kind of smell you didn’t get in America.

The kind of smell that told you, you were far from home.

She walked without a purpose.

The path outside the villa was dimly lit, bathed in the low flicker of lanterns strung between olive trees. The gravel hurt her feet—of course it did—but she didn’t turn back for shoes.

Didn’t care.

It was almost satisfying, the tiny stabs against her soles. Something real. Something sharp. Her dress clung to her thighs, catching on her knees with each step. It whispered as she moved. Almost pleading.

She passed the vineyard, now just a silhouette of stalks and wire. The grapes had been picked already, nothing but the memory of harvest clinging to the air.

The road bent to the left. She followed.

She walked until she didn’t know where she was.

Until the villa was gone behind her.

Until the only thing she could hear was the sound of her breath and the soft crunch of gravel.

She wished she had brought her coat.

She wished she’d screamed at Harry.

She wished she’d stayed quiet.

Most of all, she wished she was home.

Not New York. Home.

Her shitty little apartment. Her corner of chaos. Her socks with holes and half-made puzzles. Her books stacked like fire hazards. Her stupid crooked lamp and the incense she lit when she couldn’t sleep.

And Frances.

God, Frances.

She would’ve followed her into the bathroom. Sat on the sink while she washed her face. Meowed like a tiny judge if she cried.

Now there was nothing.

Just an old road in a country that didn’t belong to her.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. The screen lit up.

12%

A panic rose. Brief and strange.

It wasn’t just battery. It was proof of connection. A lifeline. A thread.

And when she saw Maya’s name in her favorites, she pressed it without thinking.

She didn’t even know what time it was back home.

Didn’t care.

The phone rang twice.

And then—

“Dude,” Maya said, voice groggy, “It’s like five a.m.—”

“I’m sorry,” she said, so quickly it came out cracked. “I just—I just needed to hear your voice.”

Maya paused.

Then sat up. She could hear the rustle of sheets.

“Oh no,” Maya murmured. “What happened.”

“I left.”

“What?”

“I left the room. I’m—I’m outside. I don’t even know where I am.”

“Are you drunk?”

“No.”

“Are you safe?”

“I think so.”

Another pause.

Then Maya exhaled slowly, her voice softer. “What happened.”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “It was supposed to be this beautiful, perfect thing. And it was. It was, for like, five minutes. And then it all cracked. It just—cracked. And now I’m here. Barefoot. And I just want to be in my bed. With my cat. I want Frances sitting on my stomach while I try to sleep.”

Maya let her talk.

Didn’t interrupt.

She sniffled. “I feel so fucking stupid.”

“You’re not stupid.”

“I am.”

“You’re not.”

“I thought he brought me here because he wanted me here. And now I feel like—I don’t know. Like I’m a prop. Like I’m some beautiful thing he found and polished and put on a plane to prove something.”

“Did he say that?”

“No.”

“Did he make you feel that?”

“Yes.”

A breath passed on the line.

“Then fuck him,” Maya said, calm and certain.

She laughed through her tears.

“He’s just a guy, babe,” Maya said, her voice warmer now. “A guy with a nice face and a big wallet and apparently zero communication skills. But you? You’re you. You were whole before him.”

“I don’t feel whole.”

“You’re just cracked at the edges right now. That’s temporary.”

She said nothing.

Maya added gently, “And also, Frances misses you. She sat on your hoodie and refused to move for three hours.”

That made her laugh again.

“God, I’m so tired,” she whispered.

“Then come home.”

She blinked into the night.

“I don’t think I can.”

“Then stay. But make it worth it. Don’t mope in a five-star villa.”

“I’m not in the villa.”

“Where the hell are you?”

She looked around.

Then up.

Stars. So many of them. Not like New York. They looked like spilled sugar.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, find someone who looks like they know where they are and ask them to take you to wine.”

“I’m not wearing shoes.”

“Classic.”

Another beat.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“I’ll keep my phone on.”

She nodded, though Maya couldn’t see her.

“Love you,” she added.

“Love you too. And hey—fuck him.”

The call ended.

She slipped the phone back into her dress pocket and exhaled, long and shaky.

And then—

A voice behind her.

“Excuse me?”

She turned, startled.

A girl stood a few feet back. Early twenties, maybe. Italian. Short hair, dark curls clipped back loosely, face flushed with wine.

She was holding a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of something in the other.

“You okay?” the girl asked, English accented but clear.

She blinked.

Nodded too quickly.

The girl tilted her head. “You look sad. And barefoot.”

“I’m fine,” she said, but her voice cracked.

The girl didn’t move.

Didn’t leave.

Instead, she smiled softly. “We’re having drinks. Me and my friends. You should come.”

“I’m not wearing shoes.”

The girl looked down. Then smiled again—this time wider, open.

Without a word, she stepped out of her sandals and handed them over.

“They’re a little big,” she said. “But they’ll get you there.”

She stared at the sandals.

Then at the girl.

Then back at the sandals.

“I don’t even know your name.”

“Chiara,” the girl said. “Now come. Before the bottle runs out.”

And without thinking, without hesitating, without asking who the friends were or where the drinks were or what kind of night this would turn into—

She slid her feet into Chiara’s sandals. And followed her into the dark.

Into something that was not Harry.

Not heartbreak. Not home.

But something. And sometimes?

That was enough.

For now, at least.

Chiara led her through narrow, winding cobblestone alleys that opened like secrets into wider roads.

The buildings were the color of peaches and faded terracotta, windows shuttered, vines trailing down from balconies. The air was warm even at this hour, kissed by the day’s sun, soft with the hum of nightlife.

She could hear music before she saw it—something pulsing and golden in the distance. A rhythm built from laughter and basslines and clinking bottles. It wasn’t a club. Not here. It was something older.

Wilder.

More communal. Like the heartbeat of a town that refused to sleep.

The street opened onto a wide stone courtyard surrounded by low houses and lanterns strung in crooked lines between olive trees and window hooks. Someone had dragged out folding tables and plastic chairs. Children ran barefoot. Older women in cotton dresses danced slowly near the center. Men clinked glasses. Twentysomethings passed along cigarettes.

Everyone looked like they belonged.

And there, on a makeshift stage cobbled from old crates and a rug, a small local band played with chaotic joy. The guitarist was in his sixties, sunglasses on, nodding along as the singer belted out Heart of Glass in a thick accent, missing half the words but not a single beat.

Chiara turned to her with a grin. “See? Worth it.”

She smiled back, dizzy with the scent of grilled meat and overripe lemons. The sandals were too big, but they kept her grounded. The silk dress fluttered around her knees. Her hair was a mess. Her mascara probably gone. And she looked exactly like someone who had been crying.

And still—

For the first time all day, she didn’t care.

Chiara handed her a glass of something cold and pale.

“Try,” she said.

She did.

Wine. Sharp and dry, with a citrus aftertaste that bloomed on her tongue like summer. It made her eyes water in the best way.

They didn’t go to the center of the party at first. Chiara weaved through groups, greeting everyone like a favorite daughter. Everyone smiled when they saw her. Kissed her cheek. Clapped her shoulder. Called her name.

And then—Chiara turned, placed a hand on her arm, and said, “You should meet a few people.”

And she did.

She was led to a long table tucked beneath a tree strung with fairy lights. Four older locals sat there already—men and women with weathered hands and soft laughter. One wore a scarf around her hair and had a cigarette burning in an ashtray shaped like a tomato.

They didn’t ask questions. Didn’t try to fix her. They just pulled out a chair. Made room.

Set a plate in front of her with bread and soft cheese and figs.

The woman with the scarf poured her another glass of wine. “Bella. Mangia.”

She did. And for a while, she just watched.

She watched a teenage girl dance with her grandfather, both of them barefoot, both of them smiling like nothing had ever gone wrong in the world.

She watched Chiara spin with a boy in a leather jacket, laughing like a movie scene.

She watched people clink glasses and hold hands and sing even if they didn’t know the lyrics.

The way the light caught on olive oil skin, on soft teeth, on silver bangles.

The way everything moved in circles.

Like life was a loop of love and forgetting.

She didn’t look at her phone.

Didn’t think about Harry. Didn’t allow herself to.

Not yet.

Chiara returned with a new plate of something fried and a boy trailing behind her. Tall. Tanned. Tousled curls. A soft jaw and a sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off.

“This is Nico,” Chiara said with a wink. “He is nice.”

Nico smiled at her shyly. “Ciao.”

“Hi,” she murmured.

He sat beside her.

Didn’t touch her. Didn’t push.

Just started talking.

His English was halting but eager. He was from the next town over. Studied architecture. Played piano. Wanted to move to Berlin one day but hated the cold. His favorite American movie was Kill Bill. His favorite band was The Strokes. His mother made the best limoncello in the province. He had a cat named Pesto which his little brother named.

She smiled. Asked questions. Laughed.

He made her forget, for a few minutes, that her chest was full of broken glass.

When the music slowed and a new song began by Fleetwood Mac, softer now, melodic—Nico offered his hand.

She hesitated.

Then stood. They walked to the edge of the courtyard.

He didn’t pull her in close. Just kept a polite distance, hands barely touching her waist, eyes downcast, respectful. He danced like someone who wasn’t trying to impress her. Just trying to make the moment stretch.

And she let herself sway.

For a while.

Until something shifted.

Until he looked at her and his fingers brushed the bare skin at her hip and her whole body stiffened—

Not because she was afraid.

But because she couldn’t.

Wouldn’t. Not to Harry.

Even after everything.

Even after the silence and the lies and the way he just let her walk out like she was nothing.

She couldn’t be the one to do something cruel.

She pulled back gently.

Nico stepped away immediately. “I’m sorry—did I—?”

She shook her head. “No. No, it’s not you.”

He nodded once. “Is it someone else?”

She nodded again. “Yes.”

His mouth curved in a sad smile.

“Then he is lucky,” he said softly.

She blinked. Swallowed.

“Thank you,” she said. “For dancing with me.”

“Of course,” he murmured. “Even girls like you deserve to dance.”

She smiled. A real one.

He kissed her hand. Briefly.

Then he walked away. she didn’t follow. Didn’t sit down.

Just stood there as the song changed again—Call Me this time, the band getting rowdier, the tempo rising.

And she laughed. Out loud.

Because it was absurd. Because she was barefoot in borrowed sandals in a foreign town, dancing to Blondie with strangers under stars that didn’t belong to her.

Because the world hadn’t ended. Not yet.

Chiara reappeared, cheeks flushed, hair wild. “You okay?”

“I think I am.”

Chiara beamed. “Good. You stay until the last bottle. That’s the rule.”

She nodded.

And she did.

She stayed through four more songs, four more drinks, two more strangers who told her she had kind eyes.

She stayed until her dress clung to her knees and her feet were dirty and her phone was down to 3% and her laughter felt like it belonged to someone new.

Harry had stopped pacing only to check the time.

10:52 PM.

Then again.

11:14.

11:37.

11:58.

12:17.

And every time, the numbers made less and less sense, like they were mocking him. He’d checked his phone so many times he couldn’t remember if he’d texted her once or ten times. He hadn’t called, though—not yet.

The first hour, he was sure she’d be back.

She just needed air.

That’s what people say when they need to cool off, right?

Get space.

Take a breath. She was always walking off somewhere when she needed to process—he remembered her telling him that once, offhand, like it was no big deal.

"I just walk. It helps me think. Helps me not freak out."

So he waited.

Like an idiot.

Let her walk out in a silk dress with nothing on her feet and a thousand emotions clawing at her throat and said nothing.He hadn’t even moved.

He hated that version of himself. Hated the silence. Hated how familiar it had become, how easy it was to fall into that old defense mechanism of shutting down before things could get worse. That’s what he did with Lucy. That’s what he did with everyone.

But she wasn’t Lucy.

God, she wasn’t Lucy.

And he had wanted to tell her that tonight. Had planned to. Right after dessert. Right after Lorenzo made that comment about the invitation. Right after Paolo looked at her like she was something edible and Harry had nearly ripped his throat out with a butter knife.

Instead?

She asked why she was here.

And he didn’t have the courage to answer the way he wanted to.

"Because you’re the only person who makes the rest of it feel quiet."

But it was too late now. She hadn’t texted back.

His last message sat there like a ghost,

Old man Harry ❤️👴: Where are you? Please. Just tell me you’re okay.

He sat with that for five minutes. Then stood. Paced again. Kicked the edge of the nightstand by accident and cursed. Then noticed something on the floor near her suitcase.

Her sandals.

The flat ones she packed at the last second because she hated the way heels made her feet ache when they walked too long. She almost didn’t bring them. He remembered teasing her about overpacking. She’d rolled her eyes and stuffed them in anyway.

He picked them up.

Turned them over in his hands like they might tell him something. Then he grabbed his coat for her.

Left the room.

The hallway was too quiet. Like the villa itself had exhaled and gone still. He made it to the main staircase before spotting one of the employees—a young guy, maybe twenty, sweeping flower petals off the marble.

Harry didn’t even hesitate. “Did you see a woman leave earlier? Silk dress. Barefoot.”

The guy blinked. “Ah, yes. Yes. I think she went toward the town. A girl was with her. Dark hair. They were laughing.”

Harry’s stomach dropped.

The town.

Jesus Christ.

She was barefoot in a foreign town at midnight wearing something that belonged on a fucking Vogue cover and she didn’t have a goddamn jacket and—fuck.

He nodded tightly. “Thanks.”

And then he walked.

Not drove.

Walked.

He didn’t want the barrier of a car. Didn’t want anything between them when he found her—because he would find her. He had to.

And he’d do it holding her sandals like a goddamn fool, because if she needed them, he’d be ready.

The gravel gave way to the road. The olive trees faded behind him. The lanterns thinned. The cobblestones began. He followed the noise.

He knew this kind of sound. Not the sound of a bar or a club—but community.Music. Voices. Bottles clinking. Old songs sung out of tune. A courtyard party. Some kind of celebration.

And when he turned the corner, it was like walking into another century.

The stone square was alive with light and movement. Paper lanterns, wine bottles, music bleeding from a band tucked under string lights. Kids dancing. Grandmothers smoking. Tourists. Locals. Some combination of both.

And there—God.

There she was.

At a table tucked beneath a tree.

Laughing. Barefoot.

Wearing the silk dress he loved so much, with her legs tucked under her like she’d been there for hours, a half-eaten peach in her hand, juice dripping down her wrist. An older woman sat beside her, talking with big hand gestures, and she nodded along, eyes bright, like she understood every word.

Harry didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

She looked radiant.

She also looked...not sober.

And he should’ve been mad. He should’ve stormed across the courtyard and demanded to know what the hell she was thinking. But the moment he saw her—truly saw her—his anger dissolved.

Because she wasn’t being reckless.

She was surviving.

In the only way she knew how.

He approached slowly. Not wanting to scare her.

The older woman saw him first. Gave him a sharp look, one that said, don’t you ruin this for her. And then she leaned over and said something to her in Italian. She turned her head.

And saw him.

Her eyes went wide. But she didn’t smile.

Didn’t move.

Just looked at him like she wasn’t sure if he was real.

“Hey,” he said softly.

She blinked. “Harry.”

“You left your shoes.”

She looked down at his hands.

And then—God, then—she laughed. Just a little. Just enough to break something in him.

“You came all this way to bring me shoes?”

“I came to find you,” he said. “The shoes are just...part of the deal.”

She swallowed.

The older woman stood and patted her shoulder. Then her cheek. Then kissed her forehead like she was her own granddaughter and walked away into the party.

Harry sat down beside her.

Set the sandals on the ground.

She didn’t put them on.

Instead, she looked at the peach in her hand.

Then up at the sky.

“I met a girl named Chiara,” she said. “She gave me shoes. Then gave me wine. And then took me here.”

He nodded.

“I was worried.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t answer.”

“I didn’t know what to say.”

He nodded again.

Her voice was slower now. Tipsy. Not slurring, but looser than usual.

“I called Maya,” she added.

“I figured.”

“She told me to stay. Make it worth it. Not mope in a five-star villa.”

A beat.

“Were you moaning about me in Italian to strangers?”

“Only a little.”

He smiled, finally. “That’s fair.”

Another beat. She looked at him then.

And her expression cracked, just a little.

“I didn’t mean to leave like that.”

“I didn’t mean to let you.”

She closed her eyes.

Harry reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a napkin. Reached forward. Wiped the peach juice gently from her wrist. She didn’t pull away.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he said.

“I know.”

“I thought maybe you were coming back. The first hour. I thought you were just—walking it off.”

“I was.”

He exhaled.

“I didn’t know how to fight with you,” she said. “This was our first one.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t like it.”

“I hated it.”

She looked at him again. “I thought you were going to yell.”

“I don’t want to be that guy.”

“I didn’t want to be the girl who runs.”

“And yet.”

She smiled, tired. “And yet.”

A pause.

Harry leaned back in the chair, watching her like he didn’t know whether to kiss her or hold her or just sit there until the sun came up.

“I should’ve told you about the invitation,” he said finally. “I didn’t because I didn’t want it to take up space in this. In us. But I should’ve known it would.”

She said nothing.

He tried again.

“I didn’t come here with you to prove anything. I came here because I wanted to wake up next to you in this place. I wanted to see you eat peaches and drink wine and wear that fucking dress and let me love you.”

She flinched slightly.

“You could've told me that,” she said quietly.

“I know.”

He looked down at her bare feet.

“I brought your sandals and my coat in case you got cold,” he added. “I didn’t want you walking back on the road with nothing.”

“You remembered I packed them.”

“I remember everything.”

She pressed her hands to her face. “God, I’m a mess.”

“You’re beautiful.”

“I’m wine-stained and peach-dripping and probably sticky.”

“You’re beautiful.”

She dropped her hands.

Met his eyes.

And for the first time all night, he saw the pain underneath.

“You let me walk away.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t stop me.”

“I didn’t think I could.”

“Well,” she said, voice cracking, “you could’ve tried.”

That was what broke him.

He leaned forward.

And gently, slowly, reached for her.

One hand on her thigh, steady. One hand on her jaw.

“I’m trying now.”

She looked up.

And when he kissed her, it wasn’t desperate.

It wasn’t apologetic. It was real. Soft. Unshaken. Earnest.

When they finally pulled apart, she touched her forehead to his.

“Take me back,” she whispered.

He smiled. “Villa?”

She nodded her head. “Please.”

He nodded.

And helped her to her feet.

She didn’t put on the sandals right away. So he bent down. And slipped them on for her. One foot. Then the other.

She looked at him like she couldn’t believe he was real. And maybe, finally, he felt real too.

He wrapped his coat around her shoulders. Tucked her against his side.

She gave Chiara back the shoes just as they were reaching the edge of the courtyard.

"Thank you," she murmured, her voice thick with wine and gratitude.

Chiara waved her off like it was nothing, grinning. “Don’t thank me. You needed them more than I did.”

They stood there for a beat—Chiara’s cheeks flushed, her sandals dangling in one hand, the air around them scented with smoke and lemon zest and melted sugar.

Then, Chiara turned to Harry.

Her eyes flicked up and down, assessing him the way only someone deeply unfazed by power could. “You’re the boyfriend?”

Harry blinked. “I—”

“Yes,” she said quickly, cutting him off. Her voice was sleepy but certain. Like it wasn’t even a question. Like she already knew the answer.

Harry turned to look at her.

And then back at Chiara.

Chiara smirked, eyebrows lifting with mischief. “My family is having a dinner tomorrow. It’s for the town. You should come. Both of you.”

“Dinner?” she asked, dazed, adjusting the coat around her shoulders. “Like... family dinner?”

“Like long tables, cheap wine, too many cousins, lots of pasta. Real dinner,” Chiara said. “Everyone’s invited. But you’ll be my favorite guests.”

She hesitated.

Harry didn’t say anything.

And then Chiara added, almost in a sing-song whisper, “Boyfriends are allowed.”

That made her laugh.

A soft, surprised sound that bubbled out before she could stop it.

She looked up at Harry.

Hair messy. Eyes tired. Mouth pink and smudged. Wrapped in his coat like it had always belonged to her.

He looked at her like he was still catching his breath.

She turned back to Chiara. “We’ll come.”

Harry still didn’t speak.

He just nodded once.

And the way he looked at her—like her saying yes was the only thing that mattered—was its own kind of vow.

He’d do whatever she told him to.

The walk back to the villa was slower this time.

She was quiet now, the kind of quiet that only came when the world had finally stopped spinning. Her shoulder pressed into his side as they walked. Every few steps, she stumbled slightly—nothing dramatic, just enough for him to catch her waist and steady her.

“You alright?” he murmured once, voice low in the hush of the road.

She nodded into his shoulder. “Mhm. I’m just…falling in love with you.”

Harry swallowed.

He wrapped an arm around her tighter.

By the time they reached the villa gates, most of the staff had gone. The courtyard was quiet, the lanterns dimmed to a low, amber flicker.

But one worker—a young man in pressed linen, eyes wide the moment he spotted Harry—stood frozen near the entrance, stacking empty glassware into a crate.

Harry didn’t break stride.

He glanced once in the man’s direction. “Water and crackers to our room. Now.”

The man paled. “Yes, Mr. Castillo. Right away.”

She didn’t say anything.

But she looked up at him.

“You didn’t even ask,” she whispered, scoffing.

“You’ve been drinking. You’ll wake up with a headache.”

“Harry.”

He didn’t look at her. “Don’t argue. You’re not going to win.”

She smiled. Sleepy. Touched.

“I wasn’t going to argue,” she murmured. “It’s… nice.”

He said nothing.

But his fingers flexed at her waist.

As if holding her tighter was the only way to respond.

Back in the room, the air was warm again.

The balcony doors had been closed by the staff, but the faint smell of night drifted in anyway—lavender and stone.

He helped her out of the coat.

Set it carefully over the back of the velvet chair.

She didn’t say anything. Just stood there in the middle of the room, blinking at the floor like her body had finally remembered it was tired.

“You want to shower?” he asked, gently now.

She nodded. “I feel sticky.”

“Alright.”

He stepped into the bathroom. Turned the water on. The steam started to rise immediately. When he returned, she was standing exactly where he left her.

Still in the dress. Still barefoot. Her hands limp at her sides.

“C’mere,” he said softly.

She did.

He pulled her in slowly.

Guided the silk down with careful fingers. The fabric slid off her shoulders, pooled at her waist, then fell to the floor in one elegant sigh.

She stepped out of it.

Now just in her underwear. Still quiet. Still soft.

He kissed her shoulder. Just once.

Then reached for the towel.

She followed him into the bathroom like she was moving through water. The steam curled around her ankles.

She shivered once. He noticed.

The water was warm now.

Gentle.

He let it run first. Down her back. Her spine. The delicate curve of her hip.

She didn’t speak. She just stood there.

He reached for the soft cloth the villa had left.

Soaked it. Added soap—vanilla-scented, already faintly familiar. And then—he bathed her.

Not rushed. Not sexual. Just intimate.

His hands moved slow, reverent, washing her shoulders, her arms, her back. He knelt down to scrub her calves, careful not to press too hard. His palms circled over her skin like she was something ancient he didn’t want to break.

When he reached her forearm, he froze.

Barely noticeable.

A flicker of ink.

His eyes narrowed slightly.

There, just inside her left elbow—so faint he almost missed it—was a tiny tattoo.

A letter.

Just a small, quiet T.

Harry’s throat tightened.

But he didn’t ask.

He just finished washing her arm with the same gentle touch, eyes moving on, heart slightly heavier than before.

She didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she did.

But she didn’t say anything either.

Once she was clean, he wrapped her in a towel. Pressed a kiss to her temple.

Carried her out of the steam like she weighed nothing.

He dried her carefully, patting down her legs, her collarbone, her stomach. He found a fresh shirt in the drawer—his, oversized, white, worn soft at the edges. He slipped it over her head since it was already buttoned.

Her hair was still damp.

He knelt to towel it gently, fingers combing through the strands until they no longer dripped.

She watched him do it.

Eyes half-closed.

“You’re very good at this,” she murmured.

“Good at what?”

“Loving me.”

Harry didn’t speak.

Just brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

And kissed her—soft, long, like a whisper.

He helped her into bed. Propped the pillows. Tucked the blankets around her like she was something precious.

Then brought over the glass of water and plate of crackers the staff had delivered while they bathed.

She nibbled one. Took a sip.

Then collapsed back into the pillows.

He undressed quickly—just his shirt and slacks. Left on his briefs. Climbed in beside her.

She shifted automatically. Turned. Pressed her body into his side.

Her leg hooked over his. Her arm wrapped across his chest. Her breath slowed.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“For what?”

“For coming to find me.”

He kissed her forehead. “Always.”

He didn't bring up the tattoo. Not yet.

They didn’t talk about tomorrow or what's to come. Not yet.

They didn’t talk about anything. They just breathed.

And slept.

And healed.

And in the morning—Italy would still be there.

So would peaches. And pasta. And a dinner table strung with lights.

But for now—

It was just them.

In a room that smelled like lemons and warm stone.

Wrapped in each other.

Wrapped in the kind of silence that finally felt safe.

Morning came like it was trying not to wake them.

The room was amber with early light, seeping through the curtains in soft, sleepy stripes. Somewhere outside, birds were chirping. A breeze moved through the barely cracked balcony door, brushing the linen curtains like a lullaby. The whole villa felt hushed, like it knew.

It was 8:02.

Harry was already awake.

He laid still beside her for a while, eyes open, body warm under the weight of her leg still tangled around his. Her breath hitched faintly as she dreamed. The collar of his shirt—still on her, buttons halfway undone—had slipped off one shoulder, revealing the smooth curve of skin he’d kissed hours earlier. One arm was splayed above her head on the pillow, the other tucked beneath his own.

She looked like a painting.

And for a moment, Harry just watched.

Tried to memorize her like this. Sleepy. Safe. Still here.

But work waited.

So he moved carefully, untangling his limbs from hers like she was glass. She stirred only once, face nuzzling deeper into the pillow, hand curling slightly into the sheets like she could sense his absence and wanted to hold on to something.

He kissed the top of her head.

Then slipped into the bathroom.

The water was cold at first. Harry didn’t mind.

He turned it hotter as he moved, running his hands over his face, under his jaw, through his hair. The steam clung to the mirror and his skin alike, fogging everything. He leaned both hands on the tile at one point and let the water pound against his neck.

It cleared his head, but not enough. He couldn’t stop thinking about the night before.

About her walking barefoot into a foreign town because he’d shut down when she needed him most.

About the way her voice cracked when she said you let me walk away.

About the tiny tattoo on her arm—T, barely there. So small you’d miss it unless you were right next to her. Unless you were bathing her.

And now?

Now she was asleep in his bed like none of that had happened.

Like she trusted him again.

Like he hadn’t ruined everything and somehow still got to keep her.

It was a kind of grace he didn’t think he’d earned.

He stepped out of the shower twenty minutes later, water dripping down his chest, towel slung low on his hips. His hair curled in wet waves. He padded barefoot into the bedroom and dressed quickly—black slacks, a crisp white shirt rolled up at the sleeves, two buttons undone. Watch on. Shoes polished. Silver chain on.

She still hadn’t moved.

He sat beside her on the bed. Bent low. Ran his finger gently up and down her cheek.

Her face twitched slightly. Eyelashes fluttered.

"Shh," he whispered, brushing her hair back from her temple. "Don’t wake up yet.”

She half-opened her eyes—barely.

He smiled, close to her ear now. “Sleep. I’ll be gone a few hours. Stay in bed. Don’t go anywhere.”

She made a sound in her throat—something like a hum of protest.

Harry chuckled under his breath, then pressed his lips to her temple.

“I’ll bring you something sweet,” he whispered.

She nodded without opening her eyes. He waited just a second longer—then left.

The door clicked shut. And the room was quiet again.

She woke twenty minutes later.

The sheets were tangled around her legs, the pillow smelled like him, and her entire body ached in that slow, heady way that meant she’d actually rested. She blinked against the sunlight and rolled onto her back, groaning faintly.

It was too quiet.

Harry was gone.

She reached for her phone. Then realized it was across the room—battery still dead. She decided to leave it there.

Instead, she pushed back the blankets and padded barefoot into the bathroom. The tile was warm from the sun. She found a silver bowl on the counter, filled it with cold water, and dipped her hands in. The chill snapped her out of the morning haze. She dabbed her face, then dragged wet fingers across the back of her neck.

Afterward, she dressed slowly.

A soft cotton tank top, half-tucked. Loose trousers that hit her ankle. A thin cardigan she’d almost left in New York. Her hair went up in a loose bun with a clip she’d stolen from Maya’s drawer months ago.

Still barefoot, she padded back into the room and scribbled a quick note on villa's stationery—

Back soon. Don’t panic.

Then she plugged her phone—leaving it charging on the nightstand.

The villa was already humming by the time she stepped into the hallway.

She passed a few staff members carrying trays and linens, all of whom startled slightly when they saw her. Gave tight nods. Quick, deferential greetings.

One man even bumped into a flower vase as he tried to walk and bow his head at the same time.

It was weird. And sort of funny.

Apparently, being Harry Castillo’s girlfriend meant even your morning stroll inspired a mild wave of panic.

She rounded a corner—and there she was.

Francesca. From dinner.

Slender, sharp-eyed, hair pulled behind her ears, long dress with thin straps and a vintage scarf tossed over her shoulders like armor. She held a book in one hand and an espresso in the other, leaning casually against a column in the sun.

“Francesca, hi” she says.

Francesca looked up. Grinned.

“Well, well. She rises.”

She laughed. “Didn’t expect to see you up.”

“I didn’t go to bed.”

“Oh?”

Francesca held up the book. The Secret History. Pages dog-eared, spine cracked, annotated within an inch of its life.

“Started rereading at midnight. Got to the murder again by sunrise. Can’t stop now.”

They fell into step together without speaking.

Walked through the garden, past the edge of the pool, toward the gravel path that led down into the town.

Francesca sipped her espresso.

“You hungry?” she asked.

“A little.”

“There’s a place.”

“A place?”

Francesca smiled. “Where they don’t care if you’re underdressed. They don’t care who your boyfriend is. They only care if you eat.”

That was enough.

She followed her down the winding path.

The town appeared slowly—first rooftops, then chimneys, then the low hum of traffic and laughter. Morning energy pulsed beneath it all. A few locals bustled through the square. Bread vendors called out from carts. Children ran with gelato already staining their fingers.

Francesca led her down a narrow side street.

Past closed shutters and old stone fountains.

They turned into a tiny café with vines crawling up the side of the building. There was no menu. No sign. Just four tables, all mismatched, and the smell of garlic already floating from the back.

An old woman came out with two mismatched mugs and a basket of bread.

Francesca handed her the book.

The woman took it without a word.

“They trade novels,” Francesca explained. “She hates Kindles.”

They sat.

No one stared at them. No one whispered. No one cared.

It was perfect.

They talked. Not about Harry. Not about the dinner.

They talked about books. About unreliable narrators. About Marguerite Duras and poetry that tasted like metal. About Sylvia Plath’s letters and whether or not Donna Tartt would ever write another book.

They lingered. Coffee turned to tomato toast. Toast turned to pastries. Pastries turned into wine even though it wasn’t even ten yet.

And at one point, Francesca reached into her bag and pulled out a little polaroid camera.

“Smile,” she said.

She blinked. “Why?”

“Because you are gorgeous. And that’s worth capturing.”

The camera clicked. She didn’t smile. But her eyes were soft. And that was enough. For now.

Meanwhile across town—

In the velvet backroom of one of the most exclusive restaurants in Florence, the air was thick with espresso, cigarette smoke, and the kind of tension that clung to cufflinks. The room was dim and windowless, paneled in dark wood, framed by heavy crimson curtains, and lit by a single crystal chandelier that hung too low and sparkled like a threat.

Harry sat at the head of the table.

He wasn’t speaking.

He didn’t need to. People rarely spoke first when he was in the room.

Lorenzo was swirling his double espresso like it was a Negroni. His Rolex caught the light every time he flicked his wrist.

Paolo was leaning far too close to the waitress, his fingers brushing her tray every time she approached, voice oily with charm as he mispronounced grazie on purpose to make her laugh.

She didn’t.

Luca looked like he wanted to disappear.

And Danny? Danny was sweating.

Not visibly—yet. But his collar was too stiff, his shoulders too rigid, his jaw too tight. He kept sipping water like it might help, but the glass never emptied, and he hadn’t made eye contact with Harry since they sat down.

Harry noticed. Of course he did.

He noticed everything.

He sat still in his chair, one ankle resting across his knee, a finger tapping once every few seconds on the armrest. His blazer hung off the back of his chair. His shirt was crisp, unbuttoned at the throat, and the light caught the sliver of silver chain just below his collarbone. His hair was damp from the morning shower. He looked composed.

But his jaw hadn’t unclenched since Giuliana walked in.

She was seated across from him, all sharp cheekbones and smooth efficiency, her tablet glowing on the linen tablecloth. Everything about her was glassy, manicured, calculated.

"These are the revisions," she said flatly, turning the tablet to Harry. “Standard margin adjustments. Expanded options for the additional properties. And a clause we’d like to include about exclusivity with vendors.”

Harry barely glanced at the screen.

“Exclusivity how?”

Giuliana smiled thinly. “You can read the fine print later.”

“I'll read it now.”

Across the table, Paolo stifled a laugh and took a drag from his cigarette.

Giuliana didn’t flinch. “Of course.”

Harry leaned forward, scanned the clause once, then again. His jaw moved slightly. “No.”

“No?” Giuliana echoed, arching a brow.

“You want control over my vendor list without adjusting the revenue share?”

“That’s the proposal.”

“Then it’s a dead one.”

Silence.

Even Paolo shut up.

Luca exhaled quietly, grateful for the pause in verbal combat. He’d taken to chewing the inside of his cheek and staring at the antique mirror behind Giuliana like it might teleport him home.

Giuliana didn’t argue. Not yet.

She just tapped a new page on her tablet. “Then we can revert. But don’t be surprised if the board follows up with a counter.”

“They can send what they like,” Harry said, voice even. “Doesn’t mean I’ll sign it.”

He sat back. Calm. Steady.

But his eyes flicked—just once—to Danny.

Still quiet. Still tense. Still refusing to look up from his notepad.

Harry’s gaze lingered a little too long.

Danny cleared his throat. “We can loop back on the exclusivity clause during the second round of review. After—uh—after the revisions from finance are incorporated.”

Giuliana gave a tight nod. “Fine.”

Paolo made a noise in his throat, leaned back in his chair, and said to the waitress as she returned, “Due moretti, bella, grazie. Unless you’d rather share one with me.”

The woman didn’t respond.

Harry’s head turned.

Slowly. One look. That was all it took.

Paolo shut up again.

The waitress placed the espresso in front of Harry. Her eyes darted between him and Danny, then back to the door, then away entirely.

Danny swallowed.

His phone buzzed on the table.

Once. Then again.

He flipped it over without checking it.

But Harry saw the name flash across the screen the first time.

Allegra / NYT.

He filed it away.

Another tap of his finger on the armrest.

The same rhythm. The same restraint.

Giuliana was talking again—something about property assessments, something about taxes and city permit negotiations—but Harry wasn’t listening.

Because Danny hadn’t stopped shaking his leg under the table for the past twenty minutes.

And that wasn’t just nerves about the deal.

That was something else.

Something worse. Something guilty.

And Harry could feel it—like a shift in temperature, like a drop of blood in a glass of water. Barely visible. But spreading.

Danny had barely slept.

He’d spent the entire night texting anyone he could think of, pulling strings, calling in favors that weren’t his to call. He’d offered to Venmo three separate interns eight hundred dollars each just to “accidentally” delete Carrie Roth’s file folder.

It hadn’t worked.

One of them—Allegra—called him at 6:23 in the morning, voice full of regret.

“She still has the photo. But she’s not allowed to publish it yet. The girl—Harry’s—there’s nothing on her. It’s weird. No last name. No socials. Nothing. She’s a fucking ghost.”

Danny had rubbed a hand down his face, staring at the window.

“And Lucy?” he asked, already bracing for it.

Allegra hesitated.

“…Yeah. She gave a quote.”

Danny closed his eyes.

Fucking Lucy.

Of course she had.

"How bad is it?"

“Not bad-bad. But not good. Vague. Something like, ‘I hope he’s happy. We all move on eventually.’ But it’s laced.”

“Laced?”

Allegra sighed. “She sounds like she’s holding a knife behind her back and smiling for the camera.”

Danny had spent the rest of the morning doing damage control.

He knew how Harry would react.

Or worse—how he wouldn’t.

The silence was always worse. The version of Harry that went still. That closed off. The version that pushed the good things away.

And Danny…Danny had never seen Harry like this with anyone. Not even Lucy. Not even close. There was something softer now. Something better. Harry laughed more. He joked. He sat closer. He smiled like someone who actually felt peace for once.

And if some fucking quote from his ice queen ex managed to ruin that?

Danny would never forgive himself.

So he sat. In the backroom. In the middle of a million-dollar meeting. And tried to pretend he wasn’t unraveling.

Harry knew.

He didn’t know what Danny was hiding yet, but he knew it wasn't good.

He watched his friend fidget with a sugar packet. Watched his gaze drift anywhere but Harry’s face. And he did what he always did when people lied to him.

He waited.

Let them hang themselves with silence.

Let the lie grow heavy.

Let the guilt set in.

Then he’d strike. Not yet. Not today. But soon.

He sipped his espresso.

Looked straight at Danny. And said nothing.

Danny didn’t meet his eyes. Which told Harry everything.

The meeting didn’t end so much as dissolve.

Giuliana closed her tablet with a firm snap, gave Harry a businesslike nod that didn’t quite reach her eyes, and rose from the table without another word. Her assistants followed in silence.

Lorenzo didn't bother saying goodbye.

He just huffed, muttering something to Paolo in rapid Italian, and disappeared behind a cloud of aftershave and espresso.

Paolo lingered, naturally.

He adjusted his collar like someone waiting for a round of applause, then turned to Harry as if they'd just finished a friendly brunch rather than a laced negotiation.

“Enjoy the rest of your little vacation,” he said with a crooked smile. “And tell your girlfriend to try the gelato place on the corner of Via Luce. It’s almost as sweet as she is.”

Harry didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

Just said, “Walk away.”

Paolo did. Chuckling to himself, the kind of laugh people used to cover fear.

Then it was just the three of them—Harry, Luca, and Danny—in the quiet echo of the emptied room.

Luca stood awkwardly by the far wall, holding his phone in one hand, glancing towards the door. He looked like a schoolboy waiting to be dismissed, trying to figure out whether he’d be expected to walk home or if someone was going to make him stay behind for detention.

Harry noticed him hovering.

“You waiting on a ride?” he asked.

Luca looked up, startled. “Ah, yeah. I called for a car but it’s taking forever. No signal in here.”

“I’ll take you back,” Harry offered simply. “Come with us.”

Danny perked up immediately. “Actually, if you don’t mind, I’ll just get dropped at the villa first. I’ve got—uh—work to do.”

Harry turned to him slowly. “Work.”

“Yeah,” Danny said quickly, already pulling out his phone. “Emails. Calls. Logistics. Just, you know, stuff. Need to get ahead of it.”

Harry arched a brow but didn’t press.

Not yet.

“Fine,” he said. “Let’s go.”

They stepped outside into the Florentine afternoon—the kind of golden, honey-warm light that made everything look like a painting. The car, black and sleek, was already waiting, engine humming low and loyal.

The driver opened the door.

Danny climbed in first, barely offering a word before burying himself in his phone. His thumbs moved at an unholy pace, scrolling, tapping, texting, double-checking some digital disaster Harry was clearly not yet privy to.

Luca slid in next, offering a polite grazie to the driver, and then Harry joined, stretching out as the car pulled away from the curb.

For a while, the only sound was tires against cobblestone and the soft clicks of Danny’s frantic typing.

Then Luca’s phone buzzed.

He looked down, smiled, and turned slightly toward Harry.

“Francesca says she’s with your girlfriend,” he said. “They found some little café. She said to tell you not to worry—they’re safe, they’re having croissants, and we are both invited if you’re done playing mafia.”

Harry’s mouth twitched.

“Tell her I’m on my way.”

Luca sent the message, then tucked his phone away. He seemed a little lighter now—shoulders relaxed, voice warmer. The post-meeting haze had faded from his features.

Harry glanced at him sideways. “Francesca yours?”

Luca blinked, then smiled, a little sheepish. “Yeah. My wife. We got married last year.”

Harry raised an eyebrow.

“You’re young.”

Really ironic of him to say when he's fucking involved with a girl who's 26.

“I’m twenty-nine.”

“Still.”

“I know.” Luca chuckled softly, running a hand through his hair. “Everyone told us we were crazy. But she’s… Francesca. She could’ve ruined me if she wanted to, and I would’ve said thank you.”

Harry smirked faintly at that. “Sounds about right.”

“She’s opening a boutique,” Luca added. “In our town outside London. Small, but she’s excited. She’s good at what she does. Always has been. Fashion, interior work. Makes everything feel expensive even when it’s not. I think she wants to build something that’s hers.”

Harry nodded, thoughtful.

“Smart woman.”

“The smartest,” Luca agreed. “She helped me rebuild after the last deal I tanked. Stuck around when I had nothing. The ring I gave her was bought with borrowed money and blind faith.”

“She sounds like someone worth keeping.”

“She is.” Luca glanced out the window. “Not everyone’s that lucky, you know? Finding someone who lets you be soft without thinking less of you for it.”

Harry didn’t respond.

Just looked out the opposite window.

Thought of her curled in bed this morning, the soft sound she made when he ran a finger down her cheek. The way she whispered his name in her sleep. How her breath had hitched when he wrapped his coat around her shoulders last night like it was the only thing he could offer.

The car slowed.

They were near the villa now, winding through the familiar lined paths. The sun cut through the trees in slats of white gold, casting shadows like ribbons across the windshield.

Danny didn’t look up from his phone.

“Here’s good,” he muttered, already gathering his things.

The driver stopped.

Harry didn’t say a word.

Just watched as Danny climbed out like the car was on fire, muttering something about emails and pressing timelines, phone already back to his ear.

He walked toward the villa at a pace that could only be described as erratic.

Harry watched him go.

Luca then gives the driver the cafe's address. The driver nods, starting the car back up.

He looked sideways at Harry. “You think he’s okay?”

Harry didn’t answer.

Instead, he rolled down the window.

Let the wind rush in.

Let the city open around him, brick by golden brick.

And somewhere, in a quiet café across town, she was laughing over croissants and gesturing with her hands, probably making Francesca snort her coffee and wave for more napkins.

He could feel it.

Like gravity.

And for the first time in hours, the tightness in his chest began to loosen.

He was on his way back to her.

The car wound through the hills, the stone and roads softening into something warmer as they dipped toward town. Golden light pooled on terracotta roofs, and the scent of warm bread and basil drifted through the open windows.

Harry barely noticed. His fingers drummed silently on the armrest, but it wasn’t impatience. It was gravity. Like some part of him already knew where she was. Like some thread between them had pulled taut and was pulling him home.

Francesca spotted the car first. She waved lazily from the doorway of the cafe, espresso in one hand, sunglasses on, expression unreadable. Her other hand was tangled with his girl’s, who stood beside her in soft linen trousers and a tank top, cheeks flushed from wine or sunlight or maybe just relief.

Harry stepped out of the car without waiting for the driver to open the door.

She looked up.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to.

She crossed the stone patio in three quick steps and wrapped her arms around his waist. Not urgently. Just naturally. Like that was where they belonged.

Harry exhaled into her hair.

Francesca raised her brow. “We’re going to lunch.”

Luca stepped out behind Harry and nodded. “I told you they’d be ready.”

The restaurant wasn’t far—tucked into a shaded side street, the kind of place only locals knew about, with uneven cobblestones and no name on the door. The tables were mismatched wood, the plates chipped, the wine poured without asking.

They sat under vines.

Harry kept his arm draped along the back of her chair, his fingers occasionally brushing her shoulder. She leaned into it like instinct. Her hand drifted to his thigh more than once, casual, familiar. The air was warm but not hot. They ordered bread, fruit, and some pasta.

They got wine drunk slowly.

Not the loud kind. The soft, sleepy kind.

The kind where she bit her lip to keep from smiling every time he looked at her. The kind where Harry started to say something about her hair, got halfway through, and just shook his head because the words wouldn’t do it justice.

Francesca snapped a photo of them with her old film camera.

They didn’t even notice at first.

She was resting her chin on Harry’s shoulder, eyes half-lidded, cheeks flushed. He was whispering something into her ear that made her laugh, soft and slow. The kind of laugh that lives in your chest. Francesca snapped again.

“You look like you’ve been in love for a hundred years,” Francesca said.

Harry blinked. “Haven’t I?”

She just swats him.

The wine kept coming. The food kept coming. She fed him a slice of peach soaked in something syrupy and giggled when the juice dripped onto his shirt. He didn’t care. He just licked it off her thumb like it was a reflex.

At one point, he said her name in that voice—the low, quiet one he used when the world fell away and there was only her.

She leaned in.

He kissed her under the vines. Soft. Long.

Not showy. Not loud. Just... there.

She pulled back when she realized she was still in public.

Harry smirked. “Come with me.”

“Where?”

He stood. Took her hand.

“Just come.”

She didn’t ask again.

They slipped out the back of the restaurant, past the kitchen doors, into a narrow alley framed and hidden by stone walls and jasmine vines. The air was thick and cool, and the quiet wrapped around them like smoke—intimate and heavy with the weight of what was about to happen.

Harry backed her against the wall with a hand on her waist, his body pressing flush to hers.

His eyes were dark, hungry.

“You’re drunk,” she whispered, grinning.

“A little,” he murmured, dragging his mouth along her jaw. “But not on the wine.”

Her breath caught.

He kissed her again—slow, consuming. His hand slipped beneath her tank top, palm hot against her bare skin, gliding up to cup her breast. He loved when she didn't wear a fucking bra.

She gasped softly, arching into his touch.

“Here?” she breathed, half-laughing.

“No one’s coming,” he said. “But you are.”

Before she could respond, he dropped to his knees.

Right there, in the middle of that sun-drenched alley, Harry shoved her loose linen trousers down, dragging her panties with them. She stepped out, trembling slightly, and braced herself against the rough stone wall.

He looked up at her with a wicked glint, then leaned in.

He didn’t kiss her like she was fragile. He devoured her like a man starved—tongue hot and wet, lips greedy, fingers digging into her thighs to keep her still. The first stroke of his tongue made her moan, the second had her thighs clenching around his head.

“Fuck, Harry—”

He groaned in response, mouth never leaving her. He licked her like he meant it, filthy and relentless, nose buried in her pussy, tongue lapping every drop, every twitch, every whimper. He moaned into her like she was his favorite meal, like the taste of her was addictive.

He wrapped his arms around her thighs, locking her in place as he flicked his tongue over her clit again and again until she was gasping, squirming, one hand gripping his hair like she needed to anchor herself to the world.

He sucked her clit hard, then teased it with the tip of his tongue, slow and obscene.

When he slid two fingers inside her—deep, curling—she nearly collapsed.

“Fuck—fuck—” she choked out, her voice high, wrecked.

Her orgasm hit fast, sudden and overwhelming. Her knees buckled. She cried out, hand smacking the wall behind her as pleasure tore through her, her body shaking.

But Harry didn’t stop.

He kept licking, kept fucking her with his fingers, chasing every aftershock, every tremor, until she was sobbing his name and clawing at his shoulders, too sensitive, too overwhelmed, dripping onto his tongue.

He only pulled back when she pushed at his head, breathless and dazed.

His mouth was soaked. His lips swollen. His eyes wild.

He rested his forehead against her stomach, breathing hard, his hands still splayed on her thighs like he never wanted to let go.

She laughed breathlessly. “You’re fucking insane.”

He kissed the inside of her hip, slow and reverent. Then stood. His mustache was glistening with her, and he didn’t bother wiping it off.

“You taste like wine and fucking salvation,” he whispered, voice rough.

She buried her face in his shoulder, dizzy.

They fixed her clothes, hands brushing, bodies flushed with heat. Her thighs were still trembling.

He laced their fingers together as they walked back, like he hadn’t just ruined her in a sunlit alley with nothing but his mouth.

And she let him.

Like nothing happened.

And when Francesca saw them, she just raised a brow and handed her another glass of wine.

Meanwhile, back at the villa—

Danny had turned his suite into a digital warzone.

Two laptops. One iPad. Three chargers. Twelve tabs open. Phone on speaker.

“Allegra,” he said, pacing. “Tell me you have good news.”

The voice on the other end crackled slightly. “Define good.”

“She hasn’t sent it yet?”

“Not yet.”

“But she will.”

Allegra exhaled. “It’s Carrie Roth. Of course she will. She’s sitting on it like a fucking vulture. Waiting until it hurts the most.”

Danny scrubbed a hand over his face.

On his laptop, the image was still frozen. The photo Carrie took. From the lobby. The one Harry made her delete. So he thought.

Carrie hadn’t published it yet. But she would. She always did.

And when she did? It wouldn’t just go viral.

It would scare her off.

This girl Harry was in love with—really in love with—she wasn’t built for this.

Not yet. Not that kind of spotlight.

Not the New York fucking Times with a headline about her being a mystery. About who she was, what she wore, why she mattered.

It would ruin everything.

Danny knew it.

Harry wouldn’t survive it if she left. Not after Lucy.

Not after that silence, that grief, that hardening it took to survive someone walking away.

And this girl?

She was different. She made him soft. She made him happy.

Danny had never seen Harry like that. Not once.

So he’d do anything to protect it.

Even if it meant calling Carrie himself.

Even if it meant trying to spin it, bribe her, threaten her, beg.

“Allegra,” he said, heart pounding. “Text her. Now. Ask for a meeting. Say it’s urgent.”

“What do I tell her it’s about?”

Danny stared at the photo.

He swallowed.

“Tell her it’s about blood in the water.”

Back in town, Harry reached for her hand beneath the lunch table.

She let him.

And when he leaned in, lips grazing her ear, and whispered, "I’m never letting you walk away again," she believed him.

Because this time, he meant it.

#harry castillo #harry castillo x reader #materialists #materialists fanfic #harry castillo x you #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #joel miller x reader #joel miller writing #joel miller x y/n #joel tlou #pedro pascal fandom #the materialists #the materialists fanfic #Spotify

532 notes · View notes

mariasont · 2 months ago

Text

Lipstick Smudges - A.H

sweetheart!reader isn't sure what's worse, being caught applying lipstick in his office, or the way he watches you as he wipes the smudge from your cheek. either way, you've lost this round

pairings: aaron hotchner x sweetheart!reader warnings: pre-relationship pining, power imbalance, suggestive ish content, accidental touches, dbf!hotch, implied age gap wc: 2.1k

He’s everywhere in this room, even when he’s not. Leather, paper, power, and that impossibly clean, expensive, sophisticated cologne that somehow feels too refined to be squandered on rash inhales. You take too much anyway, far too greedy, let it fill your lungs until there’s no room for anything else.

You shouldn’t loiter. Shouldn’t stand here like this is your space, like you have any claim beyond the slip of a paper waiting for his signature.

But your gaze snags on the framed diplomas, and it’s hard to look away.

Harvard law.

Georgetown.

It’s not that you forgot how much older he is. You didn’t. You couldn’t. It’s a number that has always been tucked into the recesses of your mind, harmless in theory. Just a fact, static and absolute. You could recite the exact statistic if asked.

But knowing isn’t the same as feeling it. Feeling it is standing in front of signed, sealed degrees, reading the dates and doing the math, realizing that while you were mastering basic addition, learning to carry the one, he was outmaneuvering seasoned prosecutors.

Maybe that should’ve been obvious. You’d heard the stories growing up, heard it in passing at dinner tables, in the offhanded way your father spoke about him, the one who always had his head buried in a casebook, the one who could dismantle an argument with nothing more than a well-placed pause.

He is untouchable incarnate, and you are standing here, staring at his old life like you have any right at all.

You need to stop.

This is just stress. Just a long week, a long day, a long minute spent in the wrong place at the wrong time, thinking the wrong things. That’s all this is. That’s what stress does, right? It makes your hands fidget and your heart race and your brain pick apart things that don’t need dissecting. It makes something out of nothing. And that’s what this is. Nothing.

You steal one last breath before your better judgment can catch up – one last inhale, ripping off a scab just to let it bleed.

But this time, you don’t let it slip away so easily. You hold it captive in your lungs, let it smolder, let it sear through you like punishment. And when you finally exhale, you force it out like an exorcism, as if you can purge him from your bloodstream.

He’s your boss. You’re a professional. Not some starry-eyed girl mistaking admiration for something hazardous.

You shift, weight rolling from foot to foot, as if your body is trying to find a version of stillness that fits. It doesn't. Something is agitated beneath your skin, an itch you can’t scratch.

The glass panel on the cabinet across from you catches your attention. Light bends strangely around your reflection. You don’t recognize yourself, at first. You look distant. Lips parted like you were about to speak and forgot what words were, brows pinched like you’re thinking something, except your mind is empty, a hollow shell where a thought should be.

Your mother's voice pushes through like a bad habit, a woman should never look unfinished.

A small sigh escapes, barely audible, as your fingers close around the tube in your pocket, rolling it absently between them. It’s not a perfect mirror – certainly not meant for this – but you angle your head anyway.

The cap clicks off, and with it, the scent rises, vanilla, waxy, something faintly synthetic. The first pass is light, feathering across your bottom lip, then another, building the color, deepening the shade. The way fruit darkens on the vine. The way bruises bloom. Your upper lip demands more care, a steady hand tracing the curves of your cupid’s bow, shaping pigment into symmetry.

You blur the edges with your pinky, press your lips together, then part them again.

Your mother would call this finishing.

You aren't sure what you would call it.

“Do you need something?”

Oh, hell.

Your heart misfires, a violent percussion that boomerangs up into your throat. Your fingers spasm, useless, the lipstick slipping past them, a graceless fumble, smacking the desk before rolling to the floor.

You scramble for it on instinct, but stop yourself halfway, suddenly hyper-aware of Hotch standing behind you.

You whip around so fast it’s a wonder you don’t send yourself sprawling.

“Oh – um, hi, sir.” It comes out shaky, bolstered only by a laugh so weak it could be hospice care. Your hands hover, indecisive, as if touching anything – papers, lipstick, oxygen – might somehow make this moment less humiliating. You opt for nothing. “Sorry, no – I mean – yes?” A grimace tightens your features before you can stop it, and then, because commitment is important, you force the word again. “Yes.”

You lift the papers between you like a white flag, the edges crumpled from where you crushed them in your palm. The ink smudges in places, a casualty of your grip, but it’s all you have to offer. A flimsy excuse.

“I just – I needed your signature.” Your voice does not inspire confidence.

His gaze dips, tracking your mouth, but the glance is pointed, like it wasn’t entirely unconscious. It’s there just long enough to leave an afterimage in your mind, stamped there for proof.

You don’t have the luxury of descending into your usual spiral of overanalysis because he’s stepped forward and swallowing the air between you, dissolving everything into white noise.

You stand impossibly still, like even the flutter of an eyelash might tip the balance of something unsure. And he, blissfully oblivious – or worse, fully aware and delighting into your sudden paralysis, simply drops down, reaching for the lipstick where it sits beside the leg of his desk.

You should step back, gods, should you ever. You ought to wiggle, shuffle awkwardly, or maybe just pretend you’ve spotted something fascinating on the ceiling tiles, anything other than standing here frozen, suspended in a glitchy buffering video type way as he crouches before you.

He’s so close you can count every near-invisible stitchwork on his cuff, see the way his suit catches the light in muted glints of charcoal and shadow. Close enough that one false move – just a tremble of your restless fingers or a breath taken too deeply – could collapse the gap between you, your knee brushing his shoulder, your calf dragging along his slacked thigh.

The moment he looks up is infinitely worse than you anticipate.

Your thoughts trip, tumble, faceplant into explicitly, never-before-seen territory, like it’s decided to speed-run the transition from oh, he’s your boss to oh, I wonder how his mouth would feel branding you with invisible kisses hot enough to blister.

You shouldn’t even entertain the fantasy of how minimal the effort would be. Shouldn’t consider how it would feel. How his breath could ripple across your skin, drifting upward – first thigh, then hip, then everywhere else.

You’re fairly sure you’ve stumbled into the single most dangerous thing you’ve ever experienced because your brain is recklessly inventing scenarios, running wild with possibilities you’d never dared allow past mental customs before this. Thoughts you’ve dutifully kept locked behind layers of decorum, rules, and years of well-behaved caution are suddenly crashing through the gates, loud and messy and painfully exciting.

None of these possibilities were remotely realistic – weren’t even conceivable, not until he waltzed into your carefully ordered life and promptly shattered your sense of self-preservation.

He doesn’t rise all at once, doesn’t offer the mercy of a quick retreat. Instead, he rises in increments, slowly, forces your eyes to shamelessly follow the gradual climb of his frame. The distance between you dwindles, so little space, but so vast because he still isn’t touching you. Who knew your own boss could weaponize space itself.

He dangles your lipstick between you. It’s extended just far enough to force your compliance – forcing your hand, quite literally. “I’m assuming this is yours?”

“Yeah, that’s mine. Definitely mine.” You nod too many times, like doubling down will make you sound less ridiculous and not, in fact, like a guilty party caught red-handed.

Your fingertips graze his, something that shouldn’t feel as noticeable as it does.

You fidget awkwardly, wishing you could physically move away from the glaringly obvious streak of lipstick you spot on his desk. The exact shade currently clutched between your fingers. The exact shade still warm on your lips.

“Oh,” you say quickly, voice thinner than you’d like. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to, you know… vandalize your office.”

Hotch follows your eyes, registers the mess, and barely gives it half a second of consideration before dismissing it entirely. “It’s fine.”

Then he looks at you again, sharper now.

“You, however, are not.” A slight pause. “It’s on your face, too.”

You blink at him, your brain still a half-step behind. “I mean… yeah? That’s kind of the whole point.”

In the most absurdly on-brand move imaginable, he pulls a neatly folded handkerchief from his pocket, because why wouldn’t he have one? You don’t even get the chance to react before he’s pressing the material to your cheek, thumb gliding lightly over the smudge.

“Oh. You mean like… on my face face?”

He doesn’t say anything, but his almost-smile – so understated and arrogantly smug – answers you perfectly. It’s worse than a laugh, a laugh might let you feel indignant, even justified, but his silent smirk leaves you with nothing but a raw, simmering embarrassment.

His touch stays light, impersonal – at least in theory. You should be grateful for his efficiency, for the fact that this is clearly nothing more than a practiced, thoughtless gesture. Your body rebels, refusing to interpret his touch as merely an exercise in routine.

Up close, you’re able to catch details you’ve never had the privilege of seeing before – the beauty mark under his left eye, the fine crease at the bridge of his nose, the way his lashes are dark at the base and fan out in soft, feathered arcs.

It would be so easy to kiss him. Exactly why your mind warns against the temptation. But thoughts like these have a stubborn way of sticking – once they arrive, they refuse to vanish without a trace. A single step forward, a subtle lift of your chin, just —

The cloth drags too close to your mouth.

You feel it first, him first, his thumb pressing through the fabric, catching at the corner of your bottom lip. You really shouldn’t be able to feel it, the rough pad of his finger, not with the barrier between you, but you do.

Your lips part instinctively and everything slows.

You were so careful putting this lipstick on. But now you wouldn’t mind if he wiped it away. You’d let him ruin it. Let him press too hard, let his thumb drag the color down your chin, let his tongue take what was left until there was nothing but him. Until the only thing staining your lips was the taste of him.

The moment stretches so tight it must snap, so he steps back.

“Your technique could use some work.”

And yet, he won’t look at it. Won’t meet your eyes either.

You huff out a small, awkward laugh, pressing your lips together in a vain attempt to not think about them. His lips. Your lips. “Well, I wasn’t exactly planning for an audience.”

“Generally speaking, applying lipstick in someone else’s office does tend to come with an audience.”

“Right. Good point. I’ll be sure to coordinate my poor decisions more efficiently next time.” You clear your throat, taking a step back. “I should – um – get back to work.”

Hotch glances at you, then to your hands. “Don’t you have something for me to sign?”

You glance at the documents still crumpled in your hands, then back at him, then back down. You could give them to him. The kind of thing a well-adjusted, serious, responsible adult would do.

That, however, would require standing here while he reads them. That would mean watching him purse his lips in concentration, maybe even bite his bottom lip, which for reasons that absolutely should not be examined, has become your Achilles’ heel.

And then you’d panic. And say something dumb. And ruin your life.

And then again, you could pay Reid twenty bucks to do it himself and never speak of it again. Twenty-five if he asks questions. Thirty if he tells you to unpack your weird workplace behavior. Fifty if he looks at you with those big, perceptive, judgmental eyes and mutters something about Freudian repression.

With a nonchalant hum that hopefully doesn’t sound too forced, you slip the papers behind your back. “Nope.”

Hotch lifts a brow. “No?”

“Nope.”

You’re out the door before he can say anything else. You don’t look back. You can’t. Not when you know he’s probably still standing there, still watching, still processing your terrible, terrible decision in real time.

And somewhere across the bullpen, Reid is about to make the easiest twenty bucks of his life.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner #criminal minds #aaron hotchner x fem reader #aaron hotchner fluff #hotch #aaron hotchner x sweetheart reader #aaron hotchner x sweetheart!reader

782 notes · View notes

hueseok · 5 months ago

Text

it was always you (from the vault)

originally titled: take my breath away.

a.k.a. the original draft for my “it was always you” fic wherein naval aviator!jungkook is your cocky soon-to-be-ex-husband who won’t sign your divorce papers because he’s still in love with you lol.

pairing: jungkook x reader

word count: 4.5k

content: fluff, semi-angst, exes to ??? | ft. naval aviator!jungkook + husband!jungkook

warning: what you’re about to read (if you do choose to read this) is an unfinished work which perhaps will forever be unfinished.

the only reason i’m posting it because i feel like it’d be a waste to let it rot in my drafts considering that i really liked how it went until the moment i stopped writing hehehehe. i’ve also thought about continuing this story but since i already have an existing naval aviator!jungkook in my masterlist, i felt like it’d be redundant to post this!

anyhow, since a lot of you showed so much love to “it was always you”, i thought it’d be nice to share this 🥹

You really hoped that flying for almost three hours and experiencing horrid turbulence during half of the trip was going to be worth it. But again, that was only the first part of the whole charade; the real challenge would begin perhaps much later, when you finally come face to face with the person that you were scheduled to meet.

As you walked inside the bar, the nerves that previously weren’t there started to crawl from your chest to your legs, making it harder to reach the counter where a vacant bar stool stood. You didn’t even know why you were suddenly nervous—although you could only guess that the sudden burst of anxiety was rooted from talking again to the most stubborn man ever to walk on earth—and you were already preparing yourself for the long conversation you were going to have with him and possibly the extended leave you’ll have to inform your boss for this trip because of his infamous stubbornness.

“____?” a familiar voice abruptly called out for you after you finished ordering a mug of beer from the barmaid, “no fucking way. It can’t be.”

You turned to your left and saw Jung Hoseok.

Spoiler: he wasn’t the person you were going to meet today, which made seeing him such a delight. You grinned immediately upon making eye contact, hopping out of your chair and exclaiming his name with the same enthusiasm he let out when he did realize it was you who he was looking at.

“Holy shit. What are you doing here?” He automatically engulfed you in a tight embrace when you initiated. You noticed that he was wearing an off duty attire, a plain black polo shirt and blue jeans, his hair kept neat and short. “Actually, scratch that—there’s only one person you should be here for.”

You bothered to smile. “Yeah. I’m guessing he didn’t tell anyone I’m visiting, huh?”

“Nope. He 100% kept it a secret because he knows that we’re going to steal you away if he spills.”

“We?” you mused. You didn’t even know that he was training with Hoseok, and now you’re discovering that Hoseok’s apparently not the only friend he has here. “How many of you that I know are training with him?”

Hoseok takes a short pause to think about it. “Hm… well, there’s me, then Yoongi and… Namjoon. That’s just about it.”

“Wow. It’s essentially the whole group again, huh?”

“Yup. I mean, we are the best of the best.” He smirked.

You playfully rolled your eyes.

“And we’ve missed you,” he added swiftly. “I’m a bit mad that your husband didn’t inform us that you’d be here—but again, I’m not surprised.”

“Sorry. I think I have myself to blame for that. I did tell him that I don’t intend to stay here for too long.”

“Why not?”

“I’m just here to make sure he signs the divorce papers.”

Hoseok nodded, thoughtful and a bit disappointed. “Is he giving you a hard time with them?”

“You can say that.” A dramatic sigh escaped you. “He insisted that if I really wanted to get his signature, I should just go here where he’s training.”

“Classic Jungkook.” He laughed, and you agreed with a snort.

He was right, this was all a Classic Jungkook move.

Sometimes, you didn’t understand why you agreed to marry Jungkook so urgently when he asked for your hand, even after knowing that he did everything he could to ensure that he got what he wanted in the end.

Though that was just that thing, wasn’t it? He knew exactly what to do in order to get what he wanted—and at that time of his proposal, you knew it was you that he sought for.

Despite the fact that Jungkook had only been seeing you for less than a year, he was convinced that you were the love of his life. It was the reason why when he needed to be deployed for a mission, it seemed proposing was the most natural thing to do, going on about how he wanted to be reassured that when he came back for you, you were going to be there waiting for him, not only as a girlfriend, but as his wife.

And you said yes, without missing a beat, because you genuinely loved Jungkook and for you, the both of you were a match made in heaven.

By the two year mark of being a wedded couple though, just being in love with each other wasn’t enough. There were a lot of arguments, irreconcilable differences, a lot of moments wherein you wanted to abandon everything and just disappear—until you finally declared that enough was enough and you were going to file for divorce.

Of course, Jungkook didn’t want to sign them, but he did grant you a little bit of your freedom back. He did so by leaving your shared apartment on a random Thursday, only sending a text that said he was being called by the Navy for a mission he couldn’t disclose per usual, and that if you really wanted to divorce him, you’d just have to wait for him to go back.

He never returned though. Because after that mission, came a next one, and another one, until you heard that he was invited to a naval fighter weapons school in the northern part of the country, close to the seas and where he’ll be training for a few weeks among the best naval aviators in the nation.

That’s when he decided to invite you over and say that if you wanted his signature, you’d have to be the one who’ll go to him. You initially contemplated for a long time before just going forth with his ridiculous demand. Nonetheless, you figured you were once again left with no choice because here you were now, doing exactly what he wanted to get what you exactly wanted as well.

God, who knew that contrary to how easy it was to enter this marriage, it was an absolute pain to get out of it?

“Do you know where he might be?” you asked Hoseok while taking a sip of your beer. “Or if he’s going here at least?”

“I have no clue,” Hoseok said. “Though I do know that he should have free time. We don’t have training for the rest of the day.”

“I’ll be seriously pissed if he stands me up.”

“He won’t.”

“It’s Jungkook.”

“Yeah, but you’re ____,” he said it like it was reason enough, “and Jungkook can’t resist seeing you. Especially if it’s been what? How many months have passed since you two saw each other?”

You held up six fingers, continuing to gulp down your drink in frustration. “Still, he loves to annoy the shit out of me.”

“It’s his love language.”

“Oh, I’ve been made very aware.”

Hoseok barked out a laugh. He was a huge fan of your dynamic with Jungkook; he was practically there throughout the whole journey of your relationship. As Jungkook’s weapon systems officer, the both of them were thick as thieves, which also made him the best man of the wedding—so deep inside, he wanted to believe that whatever it was that you and Jungkook were dealing with, it would be resolved soon enough.

“Well, it looks like you don’t have to wait for too long.” Hoseok toasted his glass to the direction of the entrance where the Jeon Jungkook entered, removing his aviator sunglasses and hooking it on the collar of his white shirt, worn inside a dark blue long-sleeved polo he was sporting as well.

You followed his line of vision and scowled at the sight of Jungkook. Not because you hated your husband, but because even when in the middle of finalizing a divorce, you couldn’t deny that he was too handsome for his own good.

“I think this is my cue to leave,” Hoseok added, getting off his seat. “It was nice seeing you again, ___. Let’s catch up later, yeah? I’ll conspire with Joon and Yoongi to steal you away.” He smiled mischievously and gave you a sweet chaste kiss on the cheek before walking over to Jungkook, greeting him, pointing to where you were, and then walking to another table where you guessed a bunch of other naval aviators were hanging out.

A sigh escaped you, just in time when Jungkook met your gaze.

He grinned—actually grinned—and you had to prevent your eyes from twitching to not look like some crazy person who didn’t have any self-control. So, instead of plastering the same scowl a few seconds ago for him to see, you flashed a sarcastic smile, waving your hand.

“There’s my beautiful wife,” Jungkook claimed when he was close enough, marching towards you, appearing like he was going to go for a kiss but before he could, you outstretched an arm and stopped him by literally wrapping your fingers around his neck as if you were planning to choke him to death with the gesture (which you were tempted to do).

He rolled his eyes, holding your wrist and bringing it down.

“Can’t I give you a kiss?” he retorted.

“No.”

“And Hoseok can?”

“Hoseok’s my friend.”

“I’m your husband.”

“Ex-husband.”

“Wrong. I haven’t signed any divorce papers, honey, so in the eyes of the law, I’m still very much your husband.” He quickly stole a kiss on the corner of your mouth and you allowed yourself to grimace in annoyance, glaring at him as he took Hoseok’s previous seat.

You watched him order a drink for himself and nachos for sharing. You didn’t say anything while he did all that; you just stared at him, analyzing him, trying to decipher what was going on in that head of his. You honestly had no clue what his thought process was in depriving you of the signature you wanted and then randomly agreeing to meet you again, accompanied with the condition that you’re the one who has to go to him and not the other way around.

As he reasoned, he was still in the middle of training, and he couldn’t just leave even if he wanted to and that’s why you had to make the effort to make this work (he made it clear that he didn’t want to make the effort anyway if it meant it could lead to his and yours divorce).

“How are you?” he asked once he was done ordering and you scoffed.

“Let’s not do that, Jungkook.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me that I’m not allowed to know how you’re doing too.”

“I meant the small talk. Let’s just cut to the chase.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“Jungkook.”

“Alright.” He placed an arm against the counter, spinning his stool to face you. “You already know where I stand, though. I still haven’t changed my mind in wanting to work it out first.”

“What? But you told me that if I went here—”

“I would talk to you, not sign the papers,” he finished. “You didn’t really think I’d sign them just like that, right?”

Your stomach dropped.

There goes assuming that the three-hour flight to go here would be worth it.

“I did, actually.” You grumbled. “When are you giving this a rest?”

He seemed annoyed by the rhetoric question. “When are you going to stop thinking that divorce is the answer to our problem?”

“We already did couple’s therapy and that proved to be a waste of time.”

“That’s because you were stubborn and wouldn’t cooperate.”

“Oh, I’m the one who’s stubborn between the both of us? I’m the one who wouldn’t cooperate?”

“Yes.”

“No, I’m not!” You raised your hands up. “You were the one who always said some lame excuse to not attend it with me.”

“Babe, how many times do I have to tell you, my schedule isn’t—”

“Yeah, whatever.” You didn’t let him finish, knowing that he was going to say something about how being in the Navy didn’t grant him the free time you were expecting him to have.

“I’m just saying… you can’t keep on doing this, you know?” you said.

“Can’t keep doing what?”

“Prolonging this. We already broke up, Jungkook. There’s not point in staying married.”

“That’s the thing, though.” He smirked. “I can keep prolonging it.”

Your nostrils flared. “Why?”

“Because I can.”

You think flashes of red were beginning to blur your vision.

Jungkook noticed the rage building up, yet he didn’t back down. “Why are you even so eager to legally separate? Do you plan on getting married again soon?” he asked.

It was supposed to be a joke, because Jungkook didn’t actually think you were seeing anyone at the moment—but at the mention of it, he saw the manner in which your expression slightly shifted, and he narrowed his eyes at you, understanding. “Don’t bullshit me. You aren’t seeing anyone, right?”

You blinked, acting all innocent. “It’s none of your business.”

“It is. You’re still married to me.”

“We’ve broken up for almost a year now, Jungkook.” You groaned, remaining him once again. “If you just signed the goddamn papers, all of this would be out of your hands.”

He scoffed. “You are seeing someone?”

“That is not the point of our conversation.”

“Well, it’s a significant aspect of it.”

“Fine.” You huffed. “I am seeing someone. Happy?”

Jungkook was in fact not happy. He was angry, but then he thought of how he shouldn’t be, because you and him have broken up for almost a year now like you said. Even though he wasn’t in support of that notion, he remembered at least granting you enough freedom to feel like you could date around without thinking about how you were technically cheating on him if ever you did.

However, he didn’t really think you would find someone. Sure, you were beautiful, you had an amazing personality, there was no question when it came to you attracting men, yet you could be picky most of the time. It was even a miracle how he managed to bag you; though he guessed that he didn’t really have to try that hard in the first place before because the two of you just had so much in common for you to ignore.

“What’s his name?” he asked after a long silence.

You crossed your arms. “Do you have to know?”

“Yes.”

“Fine.” You adjusted yourself in your seat. “It’s Ben.”

Jungkook thought the name sounded stupid. “How long have you been dating him?”

You hesitated, already predicting how he was going to react that you almost exaggerated the answer, but decided against it last minute. “Five weeks.”

He suddenly burst out laughing, the sound echoing inside the bar; it was the exact type of response you were positive he was going to do, proof that you knew him too well and that you shouldn’t have changed your pretense in the first place.

“It’s not funny,” you hissed, noticing that a lot of people were glancing at where you were both situated. “What the hell is funny about what I said?”

“You want to divorce me for a guy you’ve been dating for five weeks?” He carried on snickering; he barely got the whole sentence out because he was too busy catching his breath.

“Of course not! I would just prefer it if I don’t have any baggage left before attempting to commit to another relationship.”

The barmaid came back with Jungkook’s beer and nachos. He thanked her and slid the basket of cheesy nachos to your direction, an offer that you could get a piece if you wanted. However you were neither hungry nor interested in getting anything from him that would elicit a thank you from you, too prideful at this point due to how annoying he was being.

“What does he do for a living?” he asked next.

“I’m not telling you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re going to make fun of it.”

“Is it worth making fun of?”

“No.”

“Then just tell me.” He threw a chip inside his mouth.

You pressed your lips together. “He’s a bank clerk.”

Jungkook didn’t laugh this time, but the corners of his mouth were twitching as he grinned, and you found yourself refraining from wanting to strangle him again, questioning why you thought it was a good idea to come here since it was obvious that talking to him properly was an impossible task.

“You’re dating a bank clerk?” he posed the question like it was the most preposterous thing he had heard from you today. “What the hell do the both of you have in common?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll have you know that Ben is a very nice guy.”

“That’s what ladies say when a man is horrible in bed.”

“That’s not true.”

“Is he good then?”

“That’s none of your business, Jungkook,” you uttered once more, teeth gritting. “Besides, it’s only been five weeks.”

He smirked. “That’s a no then. It seems that you haven’t slept with him,” he said. “Makes sense. I mean, if you have already slept with another guy, you might be already begging me to get back together. Given that I’m the best sex you’ve ever had.”

You stared at him in disbelief. “How the fuck are you always so arrogant?”

“It comes with the praise I usually get during my escapades, babe.” Jungkook winked at you, hand reaching out for another nacho.

“Oh, so I’m assuming you do have sex with other people now. You know, if you’ve just divorced me, you can go live your happy single life again to go to that without any worries.”

“I don’t sleep with other people—”

“But you just said—”

“I meant before I met you.” He pointed out, giving you a look. “Why are you even thinking about that? Are you jealous?”

“God, you’re fucking impossible.” You practically growled.

He flashed you another smirk, amused.

“Anyhow,” you began, bringing out the divorce papers from your bag that you should have given him the second you saw him, but as what you think was part of his plan, he did manage to stall you in doing so, “here’s the papers.” You shoved it to his chest, rendering Jungkook no choice but to grab it.

He glanced down at them. “You’re never going to stop until I sign these, huh?”

You nodded. “Never.”

“Fine.” Jungkook flickered his gaze on you. “I’ll sign them.”

You glared at him. “Be serious.”

“I am serious.”

“Are you?”

You were still suspicious, but at the same time, you had high hopes.

“Yes. But I need to meet Ben the bank clerk first.”

Your spirits dropped. “Oh, no, no, no,” you made a huge cross sign with your arms, “you are not giving me another condition just to go against your word in the end.”

“I won’t this time.”

“Yeah, right.” You scoffed loudly.

It was his turn to narrow his eyes at you. “I’m serious. You want my signature or not?”

You bit the insides of your cheeks, gazing at him.

You were no fool, you knew why he wanted to meet him; you knew that it was because he wanted to see it for himself if the guy you replaced him for was actually more good looking than him or at least appeared as if he could survive a fistfight if Jungkook prompted to start one. It was all testosterone and ego, and you contemplated cutting his balls just to get this over with once and for all.

Surely, by then, he would be more agreeable.

“Fine,” you told him. “If you meet him, you’ll sign the papers? Promise?”

He took a sip of his beer, shrugging. “Sure.”

***

Jungkook watched the scene unfold in front of him with an amused expression.

Although he did admit it once that he did get a bit jealous whenever you gave the other guys more attention than him, he loved his best pals too much to care.

It was why he allowed instances like this to happen wherein you made it apparent that you valued their company much more than you did Jungkook. It was evident in the manner in which you laughed loudly as Hoseok, Yoongi, and Namjoon hugged you, each one of them taking turns in lifting your body off the ground a few seconds in glee.

You were seen as a beloved sister to them as they saw Jungkook as a cherished brother in the Navy.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Jungkook reckoned after five seconds.

Namjoon glanced at him, the last one to embrace you. “Jealous?” he teased, reading his mind.

“I am, actually.” Jungkook affirmed. “You three got a better greeting than I did.”

You rolled your eyes at the pettiness of his comment. “That’s because there’s nothing good about seeing you again, Jungkook.”

Jungkook glanced at you. “You wound me, babe.” He placed a dramatic hand on his chest. “Truly, you do.”

The guys stifled a laugh.

Today’s agenda was supposed to be a catch up session with the three guys. News spread quickly yesterday that you were in town thanks to Hoseok, and given that the three of them were good friends of yours, you didn’t decline the offer when Jungkook informed you that they wanted to meet you while you were here.

So, as the next day came in and the evening rolled, they met up with you at the same resto-bar Hoseok found you in. It did seem like the only venue that was both near enough from the academy and the hotel you were staying at that offered adequate food. You observed that the occupants of the place were composed primarily of people wearing naval aviator uniforms or motorcyclists stopping by before going forth with their ride.

“So,” Yoongi began just as Jungkook headed to the counter, volunteering to relay all of your orders to the barmaid, “we heard from a little birdie that you’re seeing someone else.”

You gave him a look. “Still a big gossip, I see.”

“Oh, it’s not counted as gossip if it’s what Jungkook’s been complaining about the whole time at the showers,” Namjoon humored.

Hoseok agreed with a nod. “It’s what he’s been nonstop yapping about earlier when we were flying,” he said. “Seriously, ____. Release the boy from misery and just get back together.”

They watched you grimace. “You all know my relationship with Jungkook has been long complicated for it to be as easy as that.”

“Did he cheat on you?” Namjoon asked.

“No, of course not.” You scoffed. “He’s an annoying shit for the most part but he’s not a cheater.”

He physically relaxed at the confirmation. “Good, because I don’t think I can beat him in a fistfight.”

Yoongi chuckled. “What’s the matter then? You still haven’t spared us any details on why you’re so keen to divorce him.”

“There’s no particular reason,” you sighed with a throw of your hand. “It’s just a compilation of the small things. He’s away most of the time, I’m away most of the time when he’s available—we fight a lot, argue a lot, it just doesn’t seem to be worth fighting for anymore.”

“So, you don’t love him anymore?”

“I…” you trailed, abruptly feeling like you were being interrogated, “I mean, love doesn’t go away easily. And it hasn’t been that long since we called it quits.”

The three men shared a look among themselves.

You straighten your posture. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What does?” Hoseok queried.

“That look you guys just gave each other. I don’t like it.”

“That’s just their faces, babe,” Jungkook reappeared, taking the liberty to take the seat on your right. “What are you fellas talking about?” he asked his buddies.

They didn’t dare utter a word. You were under the impression that they had an understanding between them that talking about your relationship right in Jungkook’s face was something one should not ought to do.

You, on the other hand, took it as your cue to speak, starting another topic to hopefully erase the previous one. “Ben said he can come. He’s boarding tonight,” you told Jungkook as he’s sipping from his glass of service water.

“That’s good.” He didn’t look as interested as he was yesterday.

“Who’s Ben?” It was Hoseok again.

“The bank clerk,” Jungkook answered.

“The new guy you’re seeing?” Yoongi asked you.

“Yep,” you said before turning to Jungkook. “And can you please refer to him by his name? He’s not just a bank clerk.”

“Is he a boring bank clerk?” Jungkook asked, that teasing smirk flashing on his mouth.

“Will he be here tomorrow?” Namjoon chimed in.

You nodded. “Hopefully.”

“Great,” Jungkook placed his glass down on the table. “It’ll be enough time to get to know him.”

He said ‘enough time’ like his time was limited because it really was. He informed you before you parted ways yesterday that he was graduating from the academy this Friday, and that after that, he was almost 100% sure he was going to be deployed again with some of his classmates for a mission that you wouldn’t be allowed to know the details of.

Your stomach somersaulted when he told you that.

Somehow, despite convincing yourself that you no longer cared for Jungkook, the thought of his life being put at risk again once he was back on the field made you want to vomit in anxiety. It reminded you that his very dangerous occupation was one of the root causes of your separation, for there were months wherein you couldn’t take the fear of waiting in uncertainty on whether he was going to come home to you or not, regardless of how he promised he would every single time.

It was funny, you thought. One of your similarities with your husband was that the both of you were adrenaline junkies. You and him bonded over extreme rides in amusement parks, activities that got your heart pumping and gave you the sensation of being on top of the world—and yet it was the reason why you didn’t want to be with him anymore as well, too scared to continue loving him if he always sought for adventure and danger through being a naval aviator.

“You knew what you were signing up for, ____,” he told you during one of your many arguments. “You entered this relationship knowing the nature of my job. You can’t expect to adjust for you when it comes to—”

“I’m not expecting you to adjust for me, Kook,” you replied in exasperation, practically begging him to listen to you with an open mind at that point. “God, I just want you to consider me. I just want to feel that for once, you actually remember that someone’s always waiting for you to come home.”

Whenever conversations like that popped back inside your memory, you forced yourself to push it away. It wasn’t an experience you wanted to relive. You’ve spent far too many nights just crying because of how it felt like to be in a constant state of worry for the person you found yourself loving the most.

“We can all meet him, right?” asked Hoseok, looking at the other guys for back up.

You surveyed them, raising your eyebrows before saying your answer.

“Like the hell you would.”

#jungkook #bts

940 notes · View notes

demonicbaby666 · 1 year ago

Note

Dom Emily prentiss x intern fem reader is all i ask!! Smutty ofc, a lil bit of a humiliation kink if you’re comfortable!!! Thank yewww

Packing Heat

One shot | Criminal Minds Masterlist | Masterlists

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Pairing: Emily Prentiss x fem!Reader

Genre: Smut

Words: 4.8k+

Warnings: 18+, minors DNI, strap-ons (r!receiving), semi-public sex (office sex, again…), praise, degradation, mommy kink, kind of dub-con at one point, top!Emily, bottom!reader

Summary: Interning at the BAU means you don’t interact with the person in charge a lot. Of course, this doesn’t mean you haven’t seen the section chief in passing or exchanged pleasantries; it's that they’re simple, short-lived and often anti-climatic. However one evening, you find yourself in the desolate office with no chance of going home, work to be done, but no one to sit with you through the process. With only one other soul residing on the sixth floor, it seems Emily may be your best bet for company.

A/n: Listen, could she be more dom? Yes. Is there any humiliation? Not really... But I got lost while writing, so please don't be mad at me... Hope you still enjoy!

When you'd first started at the BAU, it was safe to say you hadn't seen much of the woman calling the shots. There were always updates about when the team were taken out of state, what their cases would entail, the steady progress being made, and the brief comical encounters Garcia spewed around the office. When they were back, everyone made an effort to small talk. They welcomed you well and continued to appreciate the little things you did for them daily. Emily, however, was constantly on the go, meaning every encounter you'd had with her consisted of one-way glances and hopeful smiles in the event she decided to notice her surroundings and the human lifeform less than two metres away.

She never did, though, until one uneventful evening.

Almost everyone had vacated the building. The only remaining souls left on the sixth floor were you, Emily, and a one-person cleaning crew—whom you watched exit through glass doors before approaching the brunette's office with shaky knees. Peeking through the window, you saw her attention dart to and from the bright computer screen to the mountains of bureaucratic paperwork lying atop her desk. It was easy to get lost in the little creases between her eyebrows, brought out by the deep scowl she wore, the delicate way her fingers were woven together, and the pads of her thumbs skirting against one another as she pondered in deep thought.

It was nearing eight, and you were struggling to understand how someone could appear so put together at this late hour, given that their day was most certainly jam-packed with non-stop slog.

Emily's eyes suddenly flashed up. She squinted toward her door, trying to figure out who'd be here this late other than herself. When she appeared to have worked it out, she leaned back victoriously in her chair, a smug smile on her face, when she called out, "Are you going to stand out there all night?"

You could have done two things: scurried off like a teenager caught peeping or held your chin up high and walked into the older woman's office with little to no shame. Somehow, you managed to do a mix of both, scurrying in with sagging shoulders, a guilty smile plastered on your face and trembling hands clasping your laptop over your chest.

"Well, it's eerily quiet out there, and I would go home to write this paper. It's just that my roommate and her boyfriend have an awful tendency to forget about volume control when they're—" You cut yourself off, realising it probably wasn't appropriate to talk to your boss about your roommate's over-the-top borderline pornographic soundscape. "I was wondering if I could, you know."

Emily, satirising as ever, waited with a raised eyebrow and a relaxed smile for you to continue your purposefully unfinished question.

"Sorry, I should let you work." You surrendered to your weak resolve with flushed cheeks and began to turn around.

"Sit," she ordered before you had fully turned back around to the door, nodding to the available chair on the other side of her desk. Her eyes followed your journey to the seat, watching as you placed your laptop down and opened it with shaky fingers. Satisfied, she turned her attention back to her work. "I could do with some company."

The following silence, starting as unsettling and stagnant, blossomed into something warm and comfortable. There were occasional glances thrown your way and vice versa. Their acknowledgement and appreciation were shown in the form of timid smiles on your end and double takes followed by teasing smirks on Emily's.

When half an hour had passed, your shoulders had finally relaxed, your fingers had stopped their infernal twitching, and your paper neared its completion. There was a proud smile cresting, and you were trying to prevent it from forming, knowing how dorkish it made you look. But you knew there was no hope when your cheeks ached and your jaw locked. You granted yourself the freedom to display your gloating smile.

Just as expected, Emily had a questioning look on her face when you dared to look up from the document. There was a playfulness to the upward quirk of her lips - the superiority of a predator knowing the power they have over their prey, ready to prove it at any given moment.

"I've almost finished," you timidly admitted, feeling obligated to explain as heat infiltrated your jutted-out cheeks.

Without a second thought, the ravenette stood up and made her way around the desk. She could have easily chosen to turn the laptop around. Instead, she took the far more intimate route.

Soft curves grazed your shoulder blades, causing you to shiver. The weight finally settled, soft padding pressed flat against your back as Emily read your paper, and suddenly, your stomach had worked itself into looping knots, and your heart was racing.

The struggle continued as you fought not to fidget, if only to alleviate the growing tension mounting between your thighs. This was only made worse when Emily's right hand left the back of your chair to drop down over your shoulder and land comfortably on your thigh.

"Such a smart girl," she whispered sultrily into the shell of your ear, squeezing generous flesh between her fingers.

With a scrambled brain, there was little fight to be put up against the meek whimper that crackled against the constricted lining of your throat. Subconsciously, your thighs tensed, and your pussy fluttered as you were reminded how close Emily's hand was to where you could only dream she'd touch.

You'd thought you imagined it—the subtle shift in the room from breezy and light to torrid and all-consuming, but with Emily's fingers veering off course, inching higher and higher, reality came crashing down.

"Thank you," you struggled to get the words out, and when they did come out, they were tremulous and feeble.

Turning to look at her may have, in hindsight, been a mistake because where her gaze should have been fixed on the laptop screen, it was glued to your lips. Unexpectedly, your stomach flipped, and you felt dizzy. She was still superbly perfect up close, skin smooth like silk, cheekbones sharp as a razor, and lips cut from velvet. It was too close, dangerously so, you had to look away. Outside the window, you spotted a swarm of birds barely visible against the night sky. You ignored the clanking of your heart as you focussed on their synchronicity, watching them circle each other until they became one big blur of messy movements.

The hand resting on the leather backing of your chair rose, skirting up and over your neck, until a firm grip was established around your dangling ponytail. She was gentle when she tugged, aware that though she wanted to educate you in the art of being owned, you were delicate.

"I think a pretty thing like you deserves a reward," she baited. "Don't you?"

Her grip on you may have been physical. However, a stronger pull was coming from deep within you, an unimportant piece of scrap metal drawn in by a powerful magnet. It was useless to deny her. The mesmerising glow of her chocolate eyes and the promise of being made to feel special was too powerful. So, you nodded slowly but eagerly, desire painting your eyes dark shades of lust.

"That's a good girl."

Emily didn't miss how you preened at the praise and safely stored that information away for further use. She shifted to your side, hands migrating to the small of your waist, guiding you to your feet. The act of it was far gentler than you'd expected, like a gentleman asking a maiden to dance, sweeping her off her feet to whisk her away into a fairytale land filled with magic and romance.

Certain the benign treatment would be short-lived, you granted yourself the leniency to enjoy it whilst it lasted, refusing to get too caught up in the dull ache between your legs that craved the form of savagery Emily displayed in the field.

There was nothing short of passion in how she worked. It drove you crazy. As wrong as it felt, you couldn't help but envy the dirtbag the team was working to catch because you saw how badly the brunette wanted them. The look in her eyes, gratification and disgust all at once, when she'd achieved what she set out to do and was staring the devil right in the face - it made your heart race, your palms sweat and your cunt throb.

The memory kickstarted what could only be described as a brutal attack upon the older woman's lips. To her credit, Emily indulged the outburst for a lot longer than you'd have thought. As if she'd expected it, she quickly responded, pulling you into her body and tilting her head to the side to deepen the kiss. The lead was stolen promptly from your grasp when Emily wedged a leg between your thighs, backed you up against her desk and tactically slid her tongue into your gaped mouth. You would have gasped if not for the fact you were immediately indulged in the minty taste of your boss's tongue skirting over the roof of your mouth. So much so that you scarcely noticed the pressure coming from your core was no longer just a phantom need manifested but taut clothed muscle pressing you further and further into the sharp wooden edge of the desk.

"Emily," you breathily moaned, pulling back and separating your kiss-swollen lips from the brunette's. Ordinarily, you wouldn't have allowed what happened next to occur, but this was Emily, after all, the BAU section chief, and if you were to let anyone order you about, it would be her.

She backed away from you with a final nip to your bottom lip, letting it go with a pop, and you fought the urge to reach out and pull her back to you. You knew you'd already tried to take things into your own hands once, and doing so again may undermine any chances you had of keeping the ball rolling on tonight's affairs.

You could feel the tight pull of your ponytail and all the places where hair had been lead array from the confines of your hairband, and it truly dawned on you how out of sorts you must have appeared. Tracing your fingers over your lips, you could make out how swollen they were - puffy and hot, yet desperate and pouted, begging for more. Your breathing was laboured, filling the room's silence, and your shirt suddenly felt too tight as your chest expanded with each intake of oxygen. It almost came as a relief when Emily opened her mouth to finally speak until you heard what she'd said.

"Take your clothes off," she mindlessly ordered, walking around to her chair and sitting back in it. Her eager eyes trained over your body with the faintest shimmer of mirth.

Initially, it was a shock. Of course, it was. You were in an official government building, personnel still sparsely spread throughout, and a goddess of a woman was asking you to bare yourself to her.

For the longest time, revealing your body to someone always felt like giving up something. Perhaps some kind of purity. The moment you gave it up, it bred only guilt and shame that twisted and pulled at the pit of your stomach until you felt sick. You stood there, waiting for that feeling to come. It never did.

Remaining still, your body pulsed not with nerves but with exhilaration and anticipation. It took a few seconds to realise this was precisely what you wanted. You wanted to give this false sense of purity away. There was not a sudden influx of courage soaring through every living cell of your body. However, there was enough for you to put on a front and do as you were told.

"Slowly." Emily sat further back and placed her elbows neatly over the arms of her chair. She laced her fingers together, offered you an encouraging nod, and then was back to watching you raptly.

Feeling like a glutton, you followed a path of desire and heeded Emily's request, fingers increasingly fumbling over each button of your shirt.

"So obedient." And in no way was it said negatively; the adulatory smile she gave you only sought to prove that further.

The way she looked at you made you feel as though you were already naked. Maybe that was why it was so easy to get lost in the subtlety of undressing. It was art, and you were a performer. That's what you told yourself. And for the most part, it worked.

With closed eyes, you trailed your fingers over your shoulders, letting your shirt drop to the floor. The AC raised goosebumps over your chest, pebbled your nipples under your plain bra, and you smiled. You smiled because this was the most alive you had felt in months. The thrill of moving on to your slacks and deftly unclasping your belt felt like being on a rollercoaster, like missing a step and laughing fear in the face afterwards. You felt utterly fearless.

In the back of your mind, you could sense Emily's eyes still on you. You could hear her moving around but didn't think to check her reaction. You were in your element, and far be it for a look of appraisal, or lack of, to stop you. That was until your trousers hit the carpet with a soft thud, and a sharp breath was heard from across you.

Your eyes snapped open, and you found Emily's smile was absent. The brunette now had her bottom lip trapped between her teeth as she looked you up and down, knuckles white from her deadly grip over the armrests.

She lifted a hand, palm facing the ceiling as her index and middle finger crooked. "Come here so I can get a proper look at you," she said, slightly breathless.

The desk had conveniently covered the lower half of Emily's body, which meant that when you circled around and came to stand next to her, you could see exactly what the earlier ruffling had been about.

"Is that?" You froze, both shocked and utterly intrigued by the thick black dildo jutting out from the older woman's opened slacks.

She didn't need you to finish the question, already nodding as she followed your line of sight. Leaning forward with an outstretched arm, Emily coiled her fingers around your wrist and pulled you forward, causing you to almost stumble over your own feet. At this closer distance, you could tell the faux cock would give you a run for your money. It was thicker than anything you had taken before, though that was not a hard trophy to earn, given that the most you had let anyone put inside you was three fingers.

"Do you want to come sit on mommy's lap?" Emily asked with a tilt of her head.

She didn't miss how your breath caught in your throat, how you seemed to stop blinking, stop moving, stop existing.

"Are you scared?" the lioness asked, sights set on her prized fawn.

You shook your head and placed one foot in front of the other, eyes downcast as you took in the size of Emily's additional appendage. The shake of your jaw gave you away.

"I don't like being lied to," she snapped, eyes dimming to an even darker shade of brown.

She pulled you in by your waist and sat you on her lap, cock brushing over the thin material of your underwear. Instinctively, you wedged your bottom lip between your teeth to quiet yourself. But Emily wasn't having any of it. Her thumb came to your captive lip, where she helped release it with a soft flick.

The smooth texture of Emily's cock through your sodden panties was a needed relief. Its head purposefully pressing against your sensitive bundle of nerves evoked a flurry of shivers to run down your spine. And with nothing holding you back, you moaned in gratitude.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" Emily smirked, watching you rut against her.

"Yes," you uttered, breath caught in your throat.

Happy to watch, Emily relaxed her shoulders and leaned back, enjoying the show you were putting on for her. Only when she recognised the tell-tell signs of frustration wash over your features, from your creased brow to the bite of your lip between your teeth, did a sick smirk lick the edges of her lips. With a mischievous glint shining in her eyes, the older woman shifted her position, pointedly ignoring the sound it pulled from you.

"Something wrong?" she asked with a hitch of one eyebrow, adamant to appear oblivious.

You gave no reply, only held tight to her shoulders in defiance and continually ground down on her, trying so hard to pleasure yourself to no avail that your eyes began to sting with the emergence of tears.

With sweat threatening to spill down the side of your face, the tension between your legs starting to ache, and your release nowhere near in sight, you threw your head back with a sigh and whispered a quiet 'please' to the ceiling.

"Please what?" Came the dull reply, tone bored, unamused, unimpressed.

You tried to impale yourself, failing as strong hands held you down. It was driving you crazy—pleasure being so close yet so far.

With one hand removed from your hip, Emily gripped your jaw and turned your attention solely to her stern gaze, "Are you going to stop being a brat and tell me what you want?"

When no answer came, she let go, jerking your head back as if disgusted with the lack of compliance.

"Get up."

Ice, you were made of ice. Sat still, shocked, speechless and slightly mortified.

"Do I need to repeat myself?" Emily's voice was no longer flat; it was not roaring either. Instead, it was layered, resembling the same barbed tone a teacher might use with a disobedient student. It was enough of a motivator to get you to rise to your feet.

Following you closely, the older woman, too, rose to her full height, hands meticulously reaching behind your back to expertly relieve you of your bra. Never once did she look you in the eye.

With the same callous approach, you were turned and pressed against the desk, papers sticking to your heated chest. Emily was quick to loop her fingers through the hem of your underwear and slip them down your thighs, allowing gravity to do the rest.

The full-bodied presence behind you lessened, and you took it as the opportune moment to glance back.

The brunette had let her trousers drop to the floor, allowing you to see how her porcelain skin was directly contrasted by the black leather of her strap-on. Unlike yourself, she did not appear nervous or afraid. As she kicked the tailored pants aside and met your gaze, you realised how in control she was.

Her gaze moved down your body, hands running down your back, until finally, she pressed herself against you and lowered her body atop yours.

"I can feel how wet you are," she teased, running two fingers through the mess between your legs. "Are you always this wet?"

"Emily, please," you begged.

"I asked before, please what?" She raked five fingers down your side, moving them back up till they wound tightly in your hair and gripped your neck to an uncomfortable arch. Two fingers pushed inside you but did no more than that, remaining still as stone. "If you're going to be a baby and refuse to tell me what you want, you'll get nothing."

"Fuck me!" You no longer had the sound of mind to acknowledge shouting something vulgar could attract attention. Logic had evaded you, allowing you to play right into your boss's hands. "Please just fuck me."

Sliding her slick fingers out of you, she proudly stated, "That wasn't hard, was it?"

If the older woman wanted an answer, she did not allow for one. In one fluid motion, she rose from over you and snapped her hips forward, sheathing the entire length of her cock into your cunt. Your breath caught in your throat, resulting in a strained groan tumbling out of your open mouth. The pit of your stomach dropped, and try as you might have not to clench around the toy inside you, you did precisely that.

It was new, the foreign feeling of being filled so fully that one slight move would summon pleasure that sent shivers through your whole body. It wasn't unwelcome, especially when Emily started to move, and heat engulfed your entire body. Her pace was languid, allowing you to feel each slide of her cock along your slick walls, how each push of her hips ended in the tip hitting the spot within you to cause the furling in your stomach to expand tenfold. It was all you could do not to scream when the push and pull and Emily's hips moved with more purpose, jerking your body into the edge of her desk.

"I've barely started, and you're already dripping down your thighs." Her voice was laced with mirth, finger smearing your mess as if to prove an unnecessary point that had your cheeks burning up. "How long have you been thinking about this?" Emily finished her question with an arduous thrust. "How many times have you sunk your fingers into your pussy and thought of me?"

The questions continued, each hitting the nail right on the head. Your cheeks were scorched with the embarrassment that comes with having your desires known and exposed, but it did not take hold of your conscience as the event of falling in front of a large crowd might have. It was comparable to how a blushing maiden may feel when caught by a suitor in only their undergarments. It excited that small part of you that gave in to demoralisation and encouraged you enough to meet Emily halfway as she thrust into you.

As your pleasure mounted, the need for more grew. Your clit, swollen and needy, begged for relief, and you beckoned to its call, sliding one hand from above your head to the juncture between your legs. It was when the tips of your fingers brushed against your sensitive pearl and you gained the briefest taste of the euphoria that Emily removed her hand from your thigh and snatched your hand away, halting all movement.

You could have cried, having everything, then nothing, so quickly.

"Did I say you could do that?"

Abruptly pulling out, Emily stood tall and proud, staring down at you with curiosity and disappointment lining the brown of her eyes. She heard you whimper and acknowledged your sniffle.

"There's no need to cry," she tutted, flipping you onto your back and lifting you by your shoulders. "You're going to listen to me from now on."

You nodded, and she once again lined her cock to your opening, only now she waited, taunting you with possibilities.

"Beg," she instructed.

And you heeded.

"Please. I need you."

"You can do better." She sounded bored, and this struck a nerve within you, one that begged you to impress her, show her you could be a good little girl, and beg as though your life depended on it.

You took a heaving breath and looked into Emily's eyes, sporting your best puppy eyes. "I need you. I want you inside me. I want you to fuck me with your big cock, mommy. Make me scream out your name. I need it."

"There's a good pet," she cooed, mesmerising you with the bating of her lashes as she looked down to where your bodies were so close to touching.

It all happened in a blur. The next thing you knew, your nails were digging into muscled shoulders, legs wrapping around a slim waist as the brunette filled you, wasting no time in picking up a brutal tempo. You barely recognised the sound of your voice as high-pitched obscenities spilt past your lips. You felt your whole body light up, heard blood pulse in your ears, and saw in real-time just how easy it was to aid Emily in calling upon your impending orgasm.

Your vulgar mouth, luckily, seemed to amuse Emily enough for her to let you continue rutting your hips against her. The corners of her lips curled, and her smirk lasted only so long for you to see before she inched forward and kissed you with passion and hunger. It was easy, so easy, to melt into the brief moment of intimacy. The butterflies felt tangible, and the sparks crackled in your ears; it felt so fucking good you'd almost forgotten just where you were. Of course, bubbles eventually popped, and this one was demolished by rustling outside Emily's office.

What little movement Emily allowed, her hands holding you firmly against the desk by your waist, was not enough to wriggle free and glance behind to see what was happening. Instead, the possibility of being caught weighed heavier with each drawled-out second.

"Emily," You tried but were cut off by a tongue sliding into your mouth. "Emily, stop."

With a bite to your lip, the older woman backed off, confusion marking her features, "What is it?" she punctuated her question with a hard thrust.

"Someone's o-" another hard thrust. "Someone's outside."

Emily smiled, picking up her pace, forcing you to breathe so deep you felt your lungs expand.

"You'd better be quiet then."

Whatever protest you were about to give died in your throat when nails skirted up to your chest and dug painfully into your breast, and Emily pushed herself so deep within you that you felt her hitting your cervix. A strangled cry was briefly heard before you managed to clasp your hand over your lips and silence your own mewls. She was fucking you as if her life depended on getting a reaction out of you that would draw attention. Nevertheless, you held firm and stayed as quiet as your muffled sobs would allow you to be.

"Emily, please," you were pleading for release and for the brutal fucking stop because you knew there would be no chance you could keep a lid on your volume; there would also be no chance you would survive not cumming.

Taking note of this, the older woman took the route of giving you your release, dragging a thumb down over your clit and applying the right amount of pressure to have your tense legs turn into a shaky mess of tremors. She didn't stop there; with a brief slide, she ran your slick over your bundle of nerves and started to circle steadily.

"Fuck!" You screamed out, missing the way the ruffling outside suddenly stopped. "I'm cumming. I'm cumming."

"That's it," the brunette encouraged, her fingers coming up to crook and tangle through the mussed mess of your hair, nails slowly working against your scalp. "Let everyone hear what a slut you are, letting me fuck you over my desk."

She didn't stop, though, not when your clit felt raw and your pussy tender, not when you begged and not even when you reached out and tried to grab her wrist. Emily only yanked you down by your hair, relishing the thud the brutal move made. She fucked you harder till stationary fell to the floor from your thrashing arms, and by then, her lips were already wrapped around a nipple, sucking firm whilst you cried through a second orgasm.

When you finally felt empty, you didn't even try to open your eyes. You knew your vision would be blurred if not blacked out. Instead, you focussed on coming back down to earth, steading your breath and not thinking about how you strangely missed being filled by Emily despite being so fucking sore.

"Are you still alive?" a smug voice asked from above, and you pried your bleary eyes open to weakly smile.

"I think so," you whispered, peeling your sweat-slick back from the desk. That was when you remembered the unknown personnel outside and shot a look at the door.

"They're gone," Emily said, cupping your chin and turning you back to her. Again, you were greeted by that conniving smirk. "After your commentary, I think they understood we didn't want to be disturbed."

"But-"

"Uh-uh." she silenced you with a finger to your lips, the smell of yourself still narrowly fragrant. You took the digit into your mouth, patting yourself on the back as you watched Emily's eyes turn dark. "You want to make Mommy feel good now, don't you?" She knew the answer, but oh, how she loved to watch you sink to your knees and eagerly nod anyway. You helped unclasp the straps of her harness, then set to pealing the last barrier keeping you from her heat down her legs.

"My good little pet," she said, smiling down at you and happily watching you beam. Her hand cupped your jaw before moving to the back of your neck, where she pulled you to her core and began singing a melody of moans.

Tags: @ssa-sapphic @aws-l @babygirlscout @red1culous @7thavenger @sapphicprentiss @five-bi-five-mind @jenna-ortega-is-pretty17177 @supercorpstan97 @kenyakimble34 @12fluffybunny12 @asensitivecookie @summoned-lust-demon @maxinehufflepuffprincess @whosprentiss @asolitaryrose3 @imlike-so-gaydude @maybe-a-humanbean @taylorswiftsboyfriend @bossofcriminalminds @asphodelvamp @jareguiromanoff @lilfartbox1 @lovelyy-moonlight @patronagrona @lostenby @storiesofsvu @mrs-prentiss @romanoffsho @paulilvsremus @waitaminutebaby @jarexuslover @lesbodietcoke @homo-oddity @milfsincrime @noahrex @pnsteblnme @asolitaryrose3 | click here to be added to my taglist

#emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss x female reader #emily prentiss x you #emily prentiss smut #emily prentiss #emily prentiss fanfiction #criminal minds #emily prentiss x y/n #lgbt #Emily Prentiss x fem!reader #criminal minds fanfiction #fanfic #cm

2K notes · View notes

biribaa · 2 years ago

Text

Unfinished Boss/Blank Canvas x reader

Xe deserves love..........

TW/CW: Angst(P03 being a asshole)

This will be the last time P03 forgets to close a zip file correctly in his existence.

It was supposed to be a moment of peace, you were in the corridors of the factory, doing what he commanded. And even then, a voice hummed through the robot's circuits. P03 had no ears, and yet, he could hear that voice inside him somehow. It was not discovered how this boss managed to remain inside him with the file already closed, but oh how xe was annoying.

"I want to talk to them." Implored the voice coming from the zip file, echoing in what we can call P03's mind.

The face on his screen frowned in irritation. Maybe, P03 thought, if I ignore xem, xe'll give up.

"...Let me play with them, just one more time." Xe suggested. The voice came out almost as a whisper.

P03 looked at the exit of his room, which led to the corridors. Why are you taking so long?! Passed out on the way? The scrybe feels stupid wanting your company not to be alone with this thing.

"We've been through this over and over again. Don't be a fool. Why stop me?"

"Why I wouldn't?" P03 replied, almost letting out a grunt of rage.

"This has nothing to do with you..." argued the voice. And if you paid attention, maybe you could see that xer patience is not infinite either.

"Oh, it does. You will be bugging me for eternity because of that idiot." P03 spat.

"Don't you dare call them that..." Xem growled.

"And what are you going to do, huh?"

Silence.

The robot blinked, expecting some kind of revolt from the file, but it just hummed as a response to the silence. "That's what I thought." His bored face returns.

Was it that hard to check a broken camera? P03 was born knowing this but oh, how could he forget, you're a stupid gamer, that's why it takes so long.

However, P03 started to think about this friendship between the laziest boss he ever made and a dumb human like you... Did you even liked xem back? Sure, xe is the first you get into among the other uberbots, if not, at least the second one, but that means nothing... And what made this boss so obssesed over you? If you had something special, P03 would notice.

The worst part is how the boss cries like a baby just because of the lack of your presence–

"I want to tell them."

Here we go again.

P03 produced a sound that resembles a sigh, trying to prepare his patience for the flea that annoys him all the time.

"Tell them what."

"...That I love them..." Xe declared. The tone of voice sensitive and low, exactly like a whisper.

For a second, P03's digital eyes wided, only to then burst out laughing. His laughter echoes through the room, as if it were the best joke the machine has ever heard in his life.

In silence, this time with a slight depressive mood, xe was forced to hear the scrybe's laugh. What stops xem from having you by xer side? Xe is one of the best among other Uberbots, a saint even(which is ironic to say when we remember what Archivist is). Xe does xer job correctly. It's not fair.

"And I thought you were the least idiot of the rest." An extra laugh escaped, and P03 took the 'breath' back to speak. "This idea of 'love' will only hold you back from everything. It's useless. Believe me when I say that your situation is great compared to others." The robot returned to his straight posture with his usual expression. "And what makes you believe they like you too?"

"They come to me first, always me first..." The unfinished boss mumble, xer tone clearly more serious, colder.

"Pfft, please." P03 scoffs. "You're so stupid." He opens a small smile, even yet with irritated eyebrows.

"They tolerates me, unlike you. Have you seen how irritated they gets with you?"

"You're a big joke." The smile faded

"People at least like jokes, unlike you." Xe nagged. If the boss were able to show xer face in the screen, it would have a smug grin.

"Shut up."

"They clearly like me more-"

"Yeah, but I don't care!" The robot snaped. "You will never do stupid romantic things with them, you will never tell them. And maybe, if you continue being a pain in the ass, you will never talk to them again."

Both were silent, while P03 waited for some kind of annoying argument coming from the voice. Then, footsteps from the metallic floor could be heard echoing from the hallways, this is the first time P03 is glad to see you.

"...I hate you."

"Whatever."

#inscryption x reader #unfinished boss x reader #blank canvas x reader #x reader #canon x reader #reader insert #robot x reader #robot x human

28 notes · View notes

blackcatlesbo · 25 days ago

Text

You know I’m no good.

UnitChief!Emily Prentiss x Agent!Reader

Warnings: Smut, work sex, mean!dom!mommy!emily, sub!reader, WLW, desk sex, blowjobs, spanking, mommy kink, thigh grinding, dumbification, rough sex, degradation

Words: 4.2k

Masterlist

The daylight came to a halt as the shine of the sunset dipped below the horizon. It’s 9 pm, case reports are due at 11. Naturally, your stress is high as you anxiously clamper to meet the deadline.

The team doesn’t seem nearly as stressed as yourself; they close up shop and scurry home as soon as possible. But you? Why, you’ve been stuck at your desk for what feels like all of eternity, working your ass off to impress the board.

You curse yourself as you watch them exit the floor, envious that they get to be in the comfort of their homes while you busy yourself with the task at hand.

Truthfully, you find yourself not even trying to do a good job on the case. You just want to get it done as quickly as possible. Mashing the keys quickly to get any semblance of what’s supposed to be your report.

9:26 P.M.

The clock reads, making your heart drop. You think about how embarrassing it is that you’re the only one who has to stay so long. That is, until your eyes catch a pair of dark ones. The culprit, now making her way to the embarrassingly messy desk you’re sat at looks at you, to your work, and back to you. It’s Emily; your boss. The unit chief.

“Workin’ hard, huh?”

Focus enraptured by the blue light of your laptop, you take a moment to look up at the woman standing by the side of your desk chair. You look up at her, meeting her intimidating gaze.

“Yeah, just trying to finish this in time.” You say, giving a little smile as you look back to the screen. With this, Emily opens her mouth to speak:

“Hm,”

Her hand, now on your shoulder, runs up and down your upper back, eliciting a shiver within you. Emily’s lips curl into a smirk, her eyes flickering with amusement as she watches you shiver. “Why don’t you take a break? All that hard work isn’t good for a pretty young thing like yourself.”

Her words, laced with pure seduction and ecstasy, ring in your ears as you stare into her lust-filled eyes.

Emily Prentiss, as sexy and alluring she may be, is a woman who knows what she wants and how to get it. The ways she chooses to do so are sometimes questionable. Case in point: the situation you’re in at this very moment.

As a profiler, even if she were to try hiding her feelings, you would know exactly what she’s thinking. You were in no place to be indecent, as the not so secret crush you’ve had on the older woman was now causing palpitations throughout your heart and your chest.

“Come to my office, I’m sure it’ll be better than sitting alone in the darkness like you do everyday.” She smiles affectionately, luring you in.

Looking back to the unfinished document on your brightly lit computer screen, you hesitantly stand up from your chair. The look on her face tells you that you're in for a treat.

Deep down, your morals beg you to snap out of it and sit back down, but Emily being the intimidating woman she is makes you feel obligated to obey her commands.

As you find yourself stood in front of the open door of her office, Emily sat herself down at her desk, smiling at you as you walk in timidly.

“Take a seat, sweet girl,” Your face heats up at the name as you sit down, twiddling your thumbs as you look around her office. It’s dark, but a lamp on the desk illuminates the aura of the room. Emily takes the silence as a means to speak.

“You alright?” Emily says, her chin in her hand, her face painted with concern.

“Yeah, just… stressed,” She hums in response, putting her elbows up on the desk as she rests her head in her hands. “Yeah? And why’s that?”

You almost feel bad for being so quiet, feeling the need to say exactly what’s on your mind. Responding to the older woman’s question, you sink in the chair across from hers. “Stress, work, life, …feelings..”

Emily lets out a thoughtful hum, crossing her legs as she leans back in her own seat, tilting her head slightly as she takes in your answer. She runs a hand through her hair, looking you over with a contemplative expression. “Sounds like you got a lot on your mind. Deadlines and life can be a handful, I know. As for feelings....well, they can be tricky sometimes.”

She pauses for a moment, her gaze lingering on you, before a soft smirk appears on her face. “What kind of feelings in particular are bothering you, sweetheart?”

You chose to stay silent, not wanting to blow your cover just yet. This only spurs Emily on even further, as she knows what’s going on inside of your head. She can practically see the gears moving in your brain as you silently contemplate your actions.

At this, Emily continues to study you intently, her smirk turning into a knowing smile. She uncrosses her legs, leaning forward slightly in her chair as she gauges your reaction. Her voice is low, almost playful as she speaks. “Come on, I can tell you've got something you wanna say. Don't keep it all bottled up in that pretty little head of yours.”

Your heart skips a beat as Emily's voice washes over you, her knowing smile only intensifying the effect she has on you. Biting your lip, you hesitate for a moment, weighing out the options. But ultimately, you can't resist the subtle challenge, the undeniable pull she has on you.

You take a deep breath, meeting her gaze, finally deciding to speak up. “It's...it's not just deadlines and life that's on my mind, ma'am,” You confess quietly, voice soft but tinged with just a hint of nervousness.

Emily's smile widens at your confession, her eyes lighting up with a mixture of satisfaction and curiosity. She leans back once more, crossing her legs and folding her arms as she continues to take you in.

“Oh? Is that so? And what else has my pretty girl thinking so hard?”

You can feel your cheeks heat up under Emily's intensity gaze, yet still managing to hold it, the effect she has on you undeniable.

“It's...well, it's you, ma'am,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "You're on my mind, more than I'd care to admit..." you flush immediately, darting up from your chair in embarrassment. “I- I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have— I- I have to finish my—“

“Ah-ah-ah, sit back down, pretty girl. You’re gonna finish what you’ve started.” She tantalized you with her words, her eyes boring into your own with a dominant gleam. Your eyes follow her hand that points to your seat, demanding obedience.

Instantly, you sit. As the people pleasing person you are, you feel obliged to listen to what you’re told. Emily stands up from her seat to circle around to you—stalking. The smirk on her face remains as she looms behind you, her breath warm against your ear as she murmurs.

“You work too hard, sweetheart. All that hard work.. you deserve a reward, don’t you?” Your eyes shoot up to hers, the mention of a reward filling you with surprise.

Your heart flutters in your chest at her sudden mention of a reward, curiosity and excitement mixing together in a heady cocktail. you can practically feel your pulse quicken as your gaze meets Emily's, mind already beginning to race with possibilities.

“A..a reward, ma'am?"

Emily nods slowly, smirking at your response; thinking about all of the possibilities and where this could lead to. Emily stands behind you for a second until you feel her cold hands on your shoulders. She grazes her thumb across the back of your neck slowly.

“Mhmmm, you’ve been such a good girl, huh?” Her voice lingers in your ear, warm breathing blowing your hair in the slightest.

Eagerly nodding, you look up at her with a curiosity and feigned lust. Emily’s hand finds your chin, cradling affectionately.

A moment of warm silence passes, interrupted suddenly with the Raven’s voice.

“Tell ya’ what, you finish your work—“

Exhaling a breath you didn’t know was being held, you immediately begin to stand up from your seat to scurry away and do your job without Emily’s desperate effort to distract you. It doesn’t make sense, really. How Emily is literally the unit chief, yet she’s the one prying you away from the work that she assigned.

“—while you sit on my lap.”

Your eyes widen before you turn to face her again, flushed and hoping you had misheard her because of your evident lack of sleep.

“What?”

The look on the Emily’s face can only be described as touch starved and of pure desperation. The devil and angel on your shoulders bicker with each other to either run away or give in to her desires. But not only hers, your own that you’ve forced yourself to bury deep into your heart.

“You heard me, pretty girl. Go grab your laptop and maybe you might just get that reward.” Emily says, her expression telling you all you need to know. That she’s not asking, but telling.

…

Laptop in hand, you approach the raven with shaky legs and a pounding chest. Your fingers grip the edges of the device, genuinely a bit frightened by Emily.

“Good girl.”

Emily praises, beckoning you to her with a nimble finger, once again telling you silently that it’s not a choice. An act as simple as this sends chills down your spine despite the warm feeling of the air. The dark lights of the office makes her all the more sexy intimidating.

Finding your body in front of hers while she sits in her office chair, she turns herself to face you, a smirk on her lips.

Spreading her legs a bit, she pats her thigh.

“You wanna sit on mommy’s lap?”

The question rings in your ears and goes straight to your increasingly needy cunt. Without a second thought, you nod feverishly, allowing Emily to pull you onto her lap. Her hands circle your waist, your feet dangling off the ground. A strange hard feeling on your thigh pokes you the slightest bit, but you pay it no mind.

“Go ahead and finish up sweetheart, don’t mind me,”

Nodding, you open your laptop and continue where you ended off moments ago. Cold hands rubbing up and down your thighs make it a bit tough to keep your focus, though. The occasional squeeze making you squirm in the lap of your superior.

“Emily..”

Her ministrations force you to open your mouth, needing to finish desperately.

“Yes?”

“Please…I need to fin-finish this..”

You can feel the smirk against your shoulder, her hot breath tickling the hairs on the back of your neck.

“Aw, babygirl can’t handle a bit of lovin’ from mommy without getting all hot and bothered, huh?” Shuddering under her gaze, you shake your head and continue typing as fast as you can, eager to finish as soon as possible.

Warm lips on your neck pulls an unexpected whine from your lips. Emily’s smile can be felt as well as the hands that continue their descent down your legs.

Emily takes your hips in her hands, forcefully rolling your cunt against her thigh. You whimper softly, the need inside of you growing with each touch the raven provides you.

She grins, amused by just how needy you’re acting. “Look at you, all needy and desperate for mommy’s touch,”

“Fuck..” you cry out, decidedly shutting your laptop quickly. 90% of the file had been finished anyways. Deep down, you feel completely ashamed that you’re letting your arousal take over your common sense.

“Open the laptop. You’re gonna finish this, I know you can.” Emily demanded, her words spoken close in your ears, her lips grazing the cartilage of it.

Your hands grip the laptop on her desk, turning its hinges as it opens quietly. The force on your hips doesn’t relent, if not it gets increasingly more intense as the minutes pass by.

Your mind truly goes blank with her touch, thoughts out the window as you type mindlessly. Fingers aggressively smoothing over your breasts through the thin material of your blouse is what snaps you back into reality.

You can feel your body reacting to her touch, every nerve ending alive with electricity. Any attempts at trying to suppress the shiver that threatens to consume you ultimately fail, your mind struggling to catch up with the sudden onslaught of sensations.

“Ma’am.. I-“

Your words die in your throat as Emily continues to trail her fingers over your chest, her touch sending waves of heat coursing through your veins.

Helpless whines escape your throat as Emily's fingers find a particularly sensitive spot, your body arching instinctively toward her touch. You try to speak, to say something, anything, but all that comes out is a soft gasp as you surrender to the sensations coursing through you.

“Such a responsive girl, isn't she?” Emily whispers huskily, her voice sending shivers down your spine. She continues to explore your body through the thin fabric, her touch both feather-light and impossibly stimulating.

Biting your lip, trying to control your breathing as wave after wave of pleasure washes over me. “Y-yes, ma'am...I-“ You manage to gasp out, words breaking off in a soft moan.

Emily chuckles at your needy response, her lips curling into a wicked smile as she watches you squirm with need “That's it, baby. Let me hear you. Don't hold back. I want to hear every single sound I'm pulling out of you.”

She continues to tease and torment you with her fingers, every touch like fire against already burning skin, leaving you panting and trembling with desire.

Emily grinds your hips against her thigh manually, her hands soon traveling from your hips to your needy and wet cunt. Fingers graze the damp fabric of your panties—teasing.

Waves of heat wash over you as Emily's hands move lower, their torturous trajectory sending your body into a frenzy. You can't help the low moan that tears from your throat, your hips involuntarily bucking against her touch in desperate need.

“M-ma'am...oh, god...” You gasp out, the sensation of her touch against the thin material both exquisite and unbearably torturous.

The raven grins, clearly enjoying the effect she's having on you. “That's it, princess. Lose yourself in it. Let go of all those thoughts in that pretty little head of yours. Just feel.”

Her fingers continue to torment, each brush of her skin against yours sending sparks of pleasure through your body. You writhe beneath her touch, unable to think, speak, or do anything but feel as she expertly plays your body like a fine instrument.

you struggle to move your fingers to type on your laptop, keys jamming into incoherent sentences. Emily chuckles softly as she watches you, her touch not letting up for a single moment. Even as you attempt to focus on the task at hand, her fingers continue to tease and taunt you, leaving your body trembling and your mind a fuzzy mess.

Taking a leap of faith, Emily pulls the now see-through fabric of your panties to the side, running a finger through your wetness. Your gasp is loud and full of need as Emily's fingers finally touch you. The touch sends shockwaves of pleasure coursing through you.

“Oh...oh, fuuuckk..” you moan out, body arching instinctively toward her touch, desperate for more. “P-please, I...I can't take it anymore..I-“

For a second, her hand falters. Just a twitch. Then it steadies, and her mouth sets into something unreadable. “Keep typing or I’ll stop.” Warns Emily, her fingers pulling away, which pulls more pitiful whines from your panting mouth.

You whimper at her warning, your mind struggling to focus on anything but the burning need coursing through your body. With a shuddering breath, you force myself to type; fingers shaking uncontrollably as they press on the keys of your laptop.

“Y-yes ma'am.. Please, don't...don't stop..” you gasp out, your body trembling with every touch.

Emily, now chuckling catches your attention. However it’s not taking your attention away from the pleasure she’s providing you. Your shaky and clammy fingers mash against random keys and you don’t even bother to proofread what you’ve written.

“That sure makes a lot of sense,” Emily mocks, sarcastically, now knowing that the gibberish is why she was laughing previously.

“I’m done, ma’am! Please, can I be done and you stop teasing me?” Begging, she chuckles again, giving you a nod that you felt on your neck.

Immediately shutting the laptop, Emily takes her hands off of you completely, eliciting a needy whine from you. “Get up and take your clothes off.”

Emily demands harshly, catching you off guard. You obey her commands instantly however, watching her push all of her belongings off of the dark wood. Your laptop though she neatly places it somewhere safe so it doesn’t get damaged.

As you stumble out of the older woman’s lap, she groans out loud when her eyes catch the dark wet spot on your panties. Her pant leg was surely sopping wet by now, but she didn’t care as long as she got what she wanted; a pretty girl to play with.

You stand in front of her in just your bra and panties, the matching color and pattern picked out just for her is what Emily tells herself.

The raven points to the spot in front of her where she remains sat, her legs wide in a manspread. “Come here, princess,”

Beads of sweat fall from your body and face as you hesitantly make your way to her. Her deep voice makes you stop in your tracks. “Crawl.”

“Oh god,” you think to yourself. Getting on your knees and crawling to the woman slowly embarrasses you like no other. Never in a million years would you have ever expected that you’d be in this position right now; situated at your bosses feet while she has her way with you.

The sound of a zipper pulls you out of your thoughts, now realizing she was pulling her pants off. Already knowing where this is going, you grab a hair tie to put your long hair up to keep it out of your face. That is, until her large hand stops you, grabbing your hair into a make-shift ponytail with her hand.

Unzipping her fly with her right hand, she tugs them down slightly, revealing—wait… no fucking way.

A purple dildo, probably bigger than you’ve ever taken before is pulled out from her pants. How she got away with having that on all day, you’ll never know. But all you know is that whatever she’s gonna do to you is gonna be life changing.

Emily’s hand grabs the faux cock and strokes it as if it’s an extension of her own body. For extra measure, she spits onto her own hand and continues jerking the dildo off, her hand still clamped onto your hair tightly.

Pulling your hair towards her, she angles the dick to your face, rubbing it against your lips. Hesitantly, your mouth opens slightly to take the tip of it into your mouth. “You gonna suck mommy’s cock, sweetheart?”

Through lidded eyes, you nod, grabbing the dildo with one of your hands which confirms your suspicions of it being large.

“Yes..”

Emily tsks. “Yes who?”

Momentary silence until you gather up the courage to use her honorific.

“Yes, mommy..”

Emily smiles, pushing you onto her dick and thoroughly enjoying the gagged moan you give her as a result. “Such a good girl,”

You get a few more gags in before she pulls you up abruptly, to which you gasp for air. A string of saliva follows your mouth as you breathe heavily.

Closing your mouth and wiping it with the back of your hand, Emily’s own caresses your cheek gently. She rubs your lower lip with her thumb slowly as she looks in your eyes; deciding how’s she’s going to use your body next—all to satiate the emptiness in her soul.

“Get up.” She orders, trailing her hand up to your head, yanking your head up by your hair. You yelp, immediately rushing to try and push her hand off and stop the pain.

“Ohhhh, that hurts, huh?” Emily chastises, slamming you onto the top of her mahogany desk. She coos at you, grabbing a handful of your hair once again, this time pulling you flush to her chest. “I’m sorry, sweet thing, mommy just can’t help it,” Her eyes aren’t on you, not exactly. They’re fixed somewhere over your shoulder, like she’s trying to convince herself that this is fine.

Licking a stripe up your jaw, her free hand trails down your spine and into the valley between your legs. The feeling of her cold and soft fingertips drawls a series of pants from your mouth, to which she pushes two fingers into you.

Loud and desperate is the scream that comes out of your mouth in response to her touch. Smirking, Emily removes her fingers to place a firm hand over your mouth for a moment—a warning. She removes it before leaning in to speak directly into your ear.

“Better zip those fucking lips.” Emily punctuates her threat with a harsh open-handed slap on your ass, to which you bite your lip so hard that you swear you can taste blood on your tongue.

Unexpectedly, instead of her fingers, Emily’s strap quickly finds its place inside of you. It takes every ounce of the strength you have left not to scream in ecstasy. The length of her, the bruising pace she’s set, and the deep headspace you’ve been shoved into—it’s too much to satiate. Her hand stills on your back for a moment, like she’s debating something. Then it moves again, harder this time.

“Schlep! Schlep! Schlep!” The squelching of your sopping pussy echos through her office and into your clouded ears. Quiet yet needy pleas fall from your lips as the task of remaining silent was deemed impossible with how brutally Emily fucks you from behind.

“Ple—Nghh!! Fuck!—mommy, pl—ease..!~”

“If you want something, you have to use your words.” The older woman says, her strap pushing into your pussy up to her knuckle. “Wan—want more, please mommy, I’ll be such a good..hah..girl..!”

Emily smirks at this. “Yeah?” She says with a hint of teasing to her tone, “You want it so bad, huh, pretty girl?” She says, changing her rhythm slightly and hitting your weak spot.

You scream out a string of begging pleas, your legs quivering by the grace of her bruising and relentless touch. Another plow at your ass results in a long, wanton cry of her name. “Emilyyyyyy..!” She tells herself it’s just need. Yours, hers—who cares. But your voice shakes when you say her name, and that does something dangerous in her chest. She grabs a handful of your asscheek, watching the way it jiggles when she slaps it. “Fuck, look at this gorgeous ass, all mine.”

Nodding furiously, the quivering of your legs and the clenching of your pussy comes to a halt as hot white ecstasy overtakes you. You can barely make out the sound of Emily grunting at the sight of your release.

Stopping her ministrations entirely, the older woman flips you onto your back, to which results in a groan on her behalf when she sees your beautifully fucked out face.

Your face flushed and exhausted, wet tears adorning your whole face and all the way down your neck, and your mascara drools down your cheeks in dark lines. However, things only get better for Emily when she looks down to your freshly fucked pussy and the thick white cum that slowly dribbles out of it.

Emily can’t help herself but to spread your swollen pussy lips apart and admire the work she’s done on your fragile body. She’s quick to lap at the fluid before spitting into your clenching hole and watching as your face twists in overstimulation.

Drool spills out from your mouth and your tongue lolls out like an exhausted mutt. Emily finds this incredibly sexy.

"You're so fuckin’ hot, mommy’s little slut to ruin.”

Emily lays one last slap to your pussy before leaning up to grab your jaw tightly, her breath tickling your face. “Clean yourself up.” She shoves your face out of her grasp and quickly turns away to straighten out her appearance and light a cigarette before walking out of the office without another word.

#emily prentiss #smut #emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss smut #wlw #wlw post #sapphic #lesbian #olderwomen #domme mommy #Spotify

214 notes · View notes

beetleskeleton · 2 years ago

Text

Hello Hello! Back again with The Pride Herbal Remedy Event! Like last time, it will last the whole month of June in celebration of pride month! There’s some new ones as well as most of the same prompts from last year. The same rules still apply; magick students are strictly platonic, nothing that is gross and icky, ect. Also! If you requested the last pride event, those are being made as we speak so don’t stress about it! The prompts where they say ‘partner’ can also be changed to ‘friend’ accordingly for those who would like something platonic! Have fun requesting and have a good rest of your day/night!

Polyamorous Poppy Seeds

When did they realize that they fell for their partner?

Bisexual Bay Leaf

What is their favorite type of affection?

Straight Ally Sage

How would they react to their partner protecting them?

Gay Goji Berry

Would they tease their partner? How would they react to their partner teasing them?

Polysexual Echinacea

Do they prefer physical or verbal affection? Or do they prefer something else?

Asexual Aloe

Do they prefer a quiet and reserved partner or a loud and rambunctious partner?

Pansexual Pandan Flower

Do they enjoy gift giving? Would they be the one to receive gifts or give gifts?

Intersex Peppermint

What is their favorite activity to do with their partner?

Omnisexual Orris Root

What would they do if they were sick? Would they let their partner care for them?

Transgender Thyme

What would they do if their partner was seriously injured?

Cis Cobwebs

How would they help their partner if they were coping with a loss?

Aroace Amica

What is their favorite memory of their partner?

Abrosexual Rosemary

Do they enjoy baking with their partner?

Bigender Barberry

How would they like to be comforted after a bad or stressful day?

Lesbian Lavender

Do they prefer to do indoor or outdoor activities with their partner?

Nonbinary Neem

How affectionate are they with their partner?

Demiromantic Dandelion

What pet names do they like to use? Do they get flustered by them?

Queer Quassia

Make your own question!

10 notes · View notes

iliketangerines · 7 months ago

Note

pov you randomly facetime johnny while he's busy working and you're fucking yourself stupid on a dildo that HE CUSTOM MADE FROM HIS OWN COCK AND BALLS and he's just so caught off guard like

made by you

a/n: @partycatty last request!!!

pairing: johnny cage x afab!reader

warnings: nsfw (MDNI), soft!Johnny, needy (like really needy) reader, masturbating (?), praise kink, phone sex, not proofread

Johnny rubs his eyes with one hand, squinting them at the unfinished script of the video game

the pen in his hand shakes as he circles and scribbles in comments about what he liked and what he didn’t like about what the script writer had put in

he wonders if he had hired an idiot because the dialogue sounded stiff and the staging of the scene seemed to make no sense

perhaps he should just hire a new editor and write his own script and then send it to an editor to have them tweak any small details he might’ve missed

his hand reaches out for the coffee cup next to him, and he lifts it up only to find it empty

Johnny looks up from his script with a disgruntled look, lips curved downward and eyebrows furrowed as he stared at the empty cardboard

throwing it into the wastebasket beneath his desk along with the three other empty coffee cups, he stands up from his seat, hearing the bones in his back creak and his knees pop with pain

he groans and presses both of his hands to his lower back, stretching out after spending so long hunched over his desk trying to edit this ridiculous script

maybe he should just go to bed, wake up with a fresh head and fresh eyes

Johnny glances once more over to the script, the red pen decorating the paper at almost every corner, and he lets out a displeased hum

for as much as the weight on his eyelids felt heavy, he really wanted, needed, to get this done tonight, at least before the next shoot happened

he checks his phone for the time, greeted with the sight of you as his lock screen, a bright smile on your face with the sunset perfectly framing you

you hadn’t been able to come with him this time to shoot the current movie, a new project at work had a deadline that happened to cross over into the workflow of the shoot, and you couldn’t afford to slack off

every day and night, he would text you updates about his day, how he felt, whether the food was good on set tonight, and you tried to do the same, complaining about your colleagues, your boss, the traffic getting to and from work

it never failed to make him smile as he read your texts

lately, however, the actors had pressing questions, the cameramen had questions and positions to be marked, the stuntmen needed more clarification on the moveset

he hadn’t had much time for you, and he tried his best to respond to you, typing as fast as he could with one hand as he went on lunch breaks, eyes glued to his screen whenever the actors needed a short break before they could continue

it was absolute hell for him to not be able to talk to you so freely

Johnny steps out of his trailer, trudging over to the coffee machine, checking his phone for any new messages from you

there are a few from a few hours ago, telling them that the dinner party you had been to had been a bust and that one of your colleagues had passed out from drinking too much

he smiles at the text and goes to text you back, quickly pressing the buttons on the coffee machine to give him the largest coffee possible, when your face shows up with your caller id

that was strange, it was past midnight for you usually you’d be fast asleep at this hour, always claiming you needed your beauty rest to get an early start on the grocery shopping on the weekend

nonetheless, he picks up the call, “hey sweetheart, what are you doing up so late?” and he blows on the steaming coffee in his cup and takes a sip

“‘m miss you, miss you Johnny,” you sound breathless, words all slurred together and slightly too high-pitched to be normal

panic strikes through his heart, had something happened? were you safe? had something happened? Shang Tsung?

the memory of you being at the dinner party flits into his memory, and he realizes that you’re probably just drunk and a little needy for him, just as needy as he was for you

“are you drunk? you should go to bed, honey. drink some water before you do.” Johnny takes another sip of his coffee as he starts striding back to his trailer

he wonders if you’ll be able to get up in the morning, you always complained so heavily about hangovers, he’ll send you a text in the morning to remember to take some medicine

“no, not drunk, want you, Johnny, hah-” you practically whine into your phone, and Johnny stops in front of his trailer, hand frozen, his phone tucked right between his ear and his shoulder

suddenly, with his phone so close to his ear, he can hear the faint shuffle of the bedsheets, the way you breathe heavily into the mic and the familiar wet squelch of your pussy

Johnny practically rips the door open in his hurry to get inside, “oh honey, i know, what do you want? tell me.”

suddenly, the coffee in his hand seems redundant, not when adrenaline rushed through him, the thought of you so desperate for him on the sheets sending all of his blood rushing downwards

he places the coffee on his desk and sits on the edge of his bed, pressing his phone as close to his ear as possible to hear you

“want you, want you to kiss me, mark me all over, want you fucking me right now,” you pant into the phone, a low drawn out moan escaping you

Johnny swears his hand is dangerously close to cracking his phone with how tightly he grips it, and he presses his free hand against the bottom of his chin, still trying to remain calm as thoughts of you naked and covered in a slight sweat filters into his thoughts

“i wish i could, honey,” he lets out a sharp exhale through his nose as he tries to imagine what you look like, the soft caress of your skin against the sheets, your eyes that glossy faraway look, lips turned into a slight pout, “tell me what you’re doing right now.”

“mm, wearing your shirt, your favorite, missed you, i miss you,” Johnny resists a groan at the image of you wearing nothing but his shirt, the purple one that had cost too much money

still, it was worth all the money, especially now that you were wearing it right now, all needy and whiny for him

“what else are you doing, honey? c’mon keep talking to me, you’re doing so well.” he encourages to talk more, to fill out the details of your want for him so that he can fuel his own imagination of you

“riding, riding you, but it’s-i-i can’t,” you sound pained at the end, your voice tinted with tears

“hey hey, what’s wrong, what can’t you do?” Johnny presses his chin further into his free hand, trying to decipher what you meant by you riding him

he wasn’t there, but you wouldn’t take on another partner just for this, you wouldn’t do something like that, at least not without his permission

Johnny closes his eyes, listening to you whimper, voice slightly warbled through the phone line, “can’t make myself cum, can’t without you, please, Johnny.”

you sound so desperate for him, and he exhales through his nose, almost proud of himself for ruining you for anyone else, but he could stroke his pride later

“honey, why don’t you facetime me? show me what you’re doing, i’ll guide you. how does that sound?” he hears your small sound of confirmation on the other end, and he pulls his phone away from his ear and waits for your caller id to show up again

as soon as it pops up, he clicks on accept and is met with the sight of you, the phone resting on the headboard of the bed, slightly tilting as you move away after setting up the camera

you look divine, better than he remembered, better than anything he had ever seen actually

his heart slightly aches at the sight of you, just as desperate as you to see each other again, to feel your touch on his skin, to feel your warmth hold his soul

Johnny sucks in a breath and concentrates back on you, how he can slightly see your chest through the unbuttoned front of the shirt, how your thighs slightly trembled as you ride a toy

your baby hairs stick slightly to your forehead, and you look breathless, lips parted in a moan and your brows furrowed upwards as you sink back down onto the toy

he stares at it, rummaging through his mind which one it could possibly be when it suddenly clicks in his head

you were riding him, him as in the prank gift he had given you on your birthday before presenting you with your actual gift

Johnny thought you had thrown it out, but you had kept it and now you were riding it, riding him and his lips slightly part in surprise

as he stares at you, you continue to ride the dildo and let out a long whine as one hand travels downward to rub harsh circles onto your clit

it snaps him out of his shock and back into the moment as he coos at you, “you look so gorgeous, so pretty on my cock.”

a slight hum escapes from you as you stare at the camera with half-lidded eyes, drinking in his praise, and Johnny has to bite his tongue to keep himself from cumming into his pants at the sight alone

“that’s it honey, slow down your hand, you’re being too rough on yourself,” he says it gently, voice a little breathy as he strains to control himself, and you listen obediently, your fingers on your clit slowing down into small gentle circles

you whine pitifully, wanting more, but you listen anyway, trusting him

the fact that you do so easily in such a vulnerable moment fills him with something more, something proud and smooth, like gold shining underneath the sun

“good, you’re being so good for me, sweetheart. use your other hand to pinch your nipple,” he stares, unblinking at his phone as you follow through, legs shaking as you ride him slowly, whimpering as you twist and pinch your nipple

Johnny can’t look away, not, he drinks in the sight like you were the stars in the sky, the galaxies flying in the universe, a marvel, a miracle, a beauty to behold

because you truly were, something wonderful and marvelous and more than anything you would ever know

“that’s it, just like that, speed up just a little bit, good, so good for me” he watches as you bounce a little faster, your fingers against your clit just a bit faster, your pinching at your chest just a bit rougher

“haah, ahhh aghh, Johnny, please, please,” you can barely speak, mewls of pleasure interrupting your own thoughts

“let go for me,” it’s all he needs to say as you moan loudly, and you sink down fully onto the toy, fingers rubbing against your clit desperately as your thighs tremble and twitch

he watches as you ride through your orgasm, as your breathing slows, as your body slouches over, exhausted and spent

“you did so well, so well for me,” he isn’t sure if wants to push it, to tell you to try and get yourself cleaned up, and he decides against it as you lower yourself to the bed and grip onto a pillow, no doubt the one on his side of the bed

his fingers itch to stroke your hair, to massage out your muscles, to hold you close in his arms and fall asleep next to you

Johnny settles with watching you fall asleep on the bed and then ending the call, sending you a text message asking how you felt and to call him when you woke up

setting his phone off to the side, he drags a hand over his face, the image of you riding the toy, the toy based off of him, buried deep inside of you

he stands up and rummages through his drawer, he needed a change of his clothes before he went to bed

#tangerine writes #tangerine answers #mortal kombat x reader #mk x reader #mk x you #mk x y/n #mortal kombat smut #mk smut #mk1 x reader #mk1 x you #mk1 x y/n #mk1 smut #johnny cage x reader #johnny cage x you #johnny cage x y/n #johnny cage smut

535 notes · View notes

insomniumstella · 2 months ago

Text

coffee, Tuesdays, and f*** you | ceo!bucky x reader

summary: James Buchanan Barnes might just be the worst man on earth—too bad he's the only one who can help you out of a sticky, sticky situation.

warnings: enemies to lovers, fake dating, forced proximity + contact, sarcastic!bucky, explicit language, alcohol consumption

word count: 1,970

author's note: this is a possible teaser for a series i kinda want to write after over a year or so long hiatus😭 anyway, would anybody even read this??

“Huh,” his voice is like nails on a chalkboard on the gloomy Tuesday morning after your non-boyfriend boyfriend dumped you with an ‘I’m bored, sorry’ text the night prior. “It’s actually happening. The world is healing again.”

You shove yet another journal that is as unnecessary as it is cute into the cardboard box perched atop your desk and glare at the looming man. James is wearing his usual middle-of-the-week sallow grey shirt, which somehow manages to dull his sharp features more than Thursday’s yellow, and Prada trousers. Always with the Prada trousers. He loves Prada more than Rebecca Bloomwood and that is saying something.

He’s a… fashionista like that.

“I’m not quitting.” Why James has yet to successfully fire you is a miracle. The pair of you are like Tom and Jerry. Dracula and Van Helsing. Pandora and her box. Surely he must have tried to sweet talk his daddy into terminating you for good. “This,“ you motion to the empty (besides the wine opener, stress balls, and an emergency tube of red lipstick—obvious essentials) drawer, "is called organising. Learn it, live it, love it. It’s after organise and before o-fuck you in the dictionary.”

“Real big talk for someone who keeps a diary.”

“That was…” you take in a deep breath in hopes to maintain at least an ounce of sanity. It doesn’t work. Why would it work? It never works. James and peaceful work hours is only a concept in a hypothetical world full of other ridiculous things such as your neighbour quitting drums and affordable Manolo Blahniks. “That was not… this is not a diary. It’s a journal. A journal I use for very important business meetings. And calls. And conferences.”

“Right,” he quips with a hint of a smirk and sits down on the edge of your desk, the wood creaking underneath his weight. Journal my ass, he ponders but stays surprisingly quiet about it.

“Not a diary. A journal is different from a diary. Maybe there’s no shame in keeping a diary, but I do not have a burning desire to write down every reason why the Wicked Witch of the West would make a better boss than you.” The words keep spilling out of your mouth before you can realise his painfully infuriating sneer is only growing. You hate that stupid smile of his. James knows you hate that stupid smile of his. That makes it all the more alluring for him to torture you with it. “I talk about it with my therapist like an adult.”

“Not a diary. Got it.” James nods as his eyes flicker to the open (and totally unfinished) Word document on your work laptop before slowly raking across the wrinkled cotton of your shirt until they find yours again. “I was wrong to assume this box of trash on your desk,” he vaguely gestures to the cardboard and smirks just a fraction more, “is for diaries. Though you definitely have the look of a girl who keeps one. But anyway. Why are you organising when the entire PR department is having a meeting?”

A… silence settles between you. It’s neither awkward nor peaceful, like it often is with James—he asks a somewhat reasonable question and you can only stare at him like he’s the biggest idiot on planet earth. Because sure, there is an important meeting happening on the forty fifth floor of Dioro right this moment. After all, you are a goodie two shoes of an employee with a busy Google calendar and a functional corporate email. You would know. But it is so like James to assume you would organise over attending, as the freaking head of public relations nonetheless, that you can only stare at him with those blank, are-you-serious eyes.

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Yes?” James cocks his head to the side as if expecting you to say something, anything, else in addition, and when you don’t, his eyebrows furrow, too.

Yes. Yes. Yes is not remotely an answer to my question, you infuriating woman, he thinks, and though he knows he should not expect anything less than for you to be as annoying as his shoelaces coming undone on a bright and early morning run, “yes” still takes him off guard a little.

“Yes,” you shrug, promptly closing the laptop because James has no place to see the opened Word document that is half a plan for next year’s PR strategy and half a series of good lunch places around the office, and straighten up. He’s not the only person that’s confident in their words around here.

“I sincerely hope you know the company does not pay you to look cute and gossip in the break room. If that was the case, you would’ve been let go a long time back.” It’s his turn to flash you the blank, dead, are-you-serious eyes.

Exasperated stares are one of the many love languages between you.

“I don’t just look cute and gossip. I also take precious time to share all of those memes in the company’s group chat. Good for morale.” You quip and James pinches the bridge of his nose.

He should have managed to fire you a long time back. But to his credit—he has tried. Once. Twice. Thrice, if somebody was to count the time he got drunk at the annual Christmas party and pettily tried to end your employment over a disagreement about Creedence Clearwater Revival. Surprisingly, it stuck. For a whopping total of twelve hours. Before you stepped through the elevator doors once more, his father exasperated, and right beside you. To this day, James finds it a mystery you’ve managed to charm the man because you’re as charming as a wet towel. But his father is also a fan of Raisin Bran, so there must be something wrong with his judgment. At least when it comes to choice of breakfast cereal and the annoyingly annoying girl’s personality. You are great at PR, much to James’ frustration, and Dioro is habitual with scandals. The very last name Barnes is habitual with scandals that you make go poof! So don’t get it twisted—James is gra… gra… grateful for your talents in PR. At least until the glorious day when he takes over the company completely and can finally make you go poof! A flute of Dom Pérignon in hand as he stares at your empty desk out of his glass office is a nice dream, one to keep him from full blown insanity.

James just might need a hobby.

“Team-building activities are good for morale. Recognition programs are good for morale. Social events are good for—“ he starts listing on his hand, his features dark with disappointment, aggravation, and a hint of resignation. Good. Maybe you could break him before autumn.

“Stop. Nobody cares about a lecture on morale from Dolores Umbridge.” You wave a dismissive hand and place last year’s Dean Winchester themed calendar atop the abyss of journals and trinkets. He’s fine and all, but Sam’s much more tempting to go back to. There’s just something about a strong man with longer hair and a kind heart. “I know about the meeting, Sophie’s leading it because I’m taking the rest of the week off. Plus maybe Monday. Probably Monday. Actually, now that I’m thinking about it, do NOT expect me back on Monday.”

“I expect you to find another job, but y’know. Tuesday’s fine.” He deadpans, not that you pay much attention to his tone. You’re much more interested in the fact his ass leaves the anguished, abused edge of your desk. “Why are you taking time off? It’s like the middle of July. And who the hell approved it?”

“So there’s this Linda us lowly employees visit when we need time away from work,” you drawl out and cover Dean’s smouldering face with an old February issue of Vogue. “And it’s July second, which is not even remotely the middle. I hope you know that. It’s important to me that you know that.”

His eyes drop to the magazine and the calendar that peaks out from beneath it, but he’s suspiciously silent about it. Instead when he speaks, his voice is a deep, almost frustrated rumble on—surprise, surprise—the HR department. “I’m aware of what a Linda is.”

“Good, boss. Glad to know you’re following, boss. And before you say anything, Linda approved my request for time off months ago, so there is nothing you can do about it, boss.” A lazy smile curls your lips as you stack more publications of Vogue until Lady Gaga’s staring back at you from the top of the pile.

“Linda loves you, employee. She would give you a raise without hesitation if she could, employee. I specifically instructed you to come to me for these things.” James pinches the bridge of his nose before his arms fold over his chest. “Employee.”

Pet names are another one of your love languages.

“We have been at each other’s necks for the past three miserable years.” You shove the flaps of the box closed and when they pop back up, you wrestle with the cardboard as elegantly as a girl on merely three hours of sleep can manage. “And it’s like you don’t even know me.”

James rolls his eyes, but not because you always find loopholes and roundabouts when it comes to his demands—you just… bring out his unprofessional side. You are a lunatic in business casual clothes.

“My apologies.” He leans forward, abusing your poor desk again as his hands grip the edges. “I should have recognised you would go on a vacation when your department is in the midst of a crisis.”

“Thank you,” you flash him a smile as sweet as sugar, a mighty contender to his infuriating smirk, and lean over the acrylic divider to steal a tape dispenser from some underpaid intern’s desk that’s been abandoned all morning, not that you blame him. You consistently avoid President Business, too. “You had me scared for our marriage there.”

“It may be for the best you start looking into divorce lawyers,” James comments dryly, watching as you tape the box shut. Mostly. Lady Gaga’s still peaking through the crack a little.

“Whoa. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t fight for us.” The reply is almost absentminded as you cover Gaga with a bright pink Post-it—she’s remarkably eerie in the blue, whatever-it’s-made-of coat on past September’s issue of Vogue. “Besides. It’s possible my heart will yearn for you after the long, long six days Linda oh-so-graciously approved, despite July shaping out to be busy.”

His baby blues flicker from your face to the bright Post-it, fingers curling around the oak of your desk as he ponders different ways to snap you out of whatever realm of professional defiance you seem to exist in without forcibly shaking you by the shoulders. Though the latter is an appetising thought.

“Earth to James. Somebody’s spacing out again.”

James pushes the wooden ruler you use to nudge him out of his face before his stare slowly returns to your features, hard and narrowed, and most likely unimposing given that he’s talking to a whack-a-doodle. “Sorry, honey. Got lost in curating the perfect celebratory afternoon for your inevitable demise.”

“Oh.” A slight raise of your eyebrows accompanies the soft reply. The perfect celebratory afternoon for my inevitable demise? In his world, it could mean a gazillion possibilities. After a healthy beat, you settle on the most likely based on nothing, but vibes and the fact the man’s an asshole. “Bourbon, cigars, and a flock of hookers?”

A sardonic smile curls his lips as James straightens up and shoves his hands into the pockets of those damn Prada trousers. “Golf, caviar, and setting your desk on fire.”

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky imagine #bucky barnes imagine #bucky x you #bucky x reader smut #bucky series #bucky smut #bucky barnes x reader smut #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader series #bucky x female reader #insomniumstella #insomniumstella masterlist #the wicked games we play #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky story #bucky barnes story

246 notes · View notes

saffusthings · 24 days ago

Text

second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part thirty: daniel

word count: 6.5k (the longest yet!)

warnings: the chapter contains violence and gore. reader discretion is advised.

twenty-nine | thirty | thirty-one

“It’s an ambush! You guys need to get out, now!”

It hit like ice in the chest.

Lando didn’t flinch, but Max tensed beside him. Across the space, Yuki caught the movement, eyes narrowing.

“Something wrong?” Pierre asked, still smiling.

Lando didn’t answer. His hand had already shifted slightly inside his coat, fingertips brushing the handle of the gun holstered at his side. His gaze swept the site—not panicked, but fast and sharp. Calculating.

He saw it now. The strategically lengthy tirades, the disproportionately coy smile, the knives hanging from Tsunoda’s belt. The very way Pierre had come crawling out of the woodwork so many years after the two of them knowing each other, bearing grand promises of riches and partnerships one random night as if by some happenstance of the universe.

It had been clean. Too clean.

They’d been setting him up from the start.

For a second, there was silence.

A beat where everything held still—where the unfinished beams of the club echoed with the sound of wind and the faint hum of construction generators. Where the world hesitated.

But the moment Oscar’s warning hit his ear, Lando knew it was already too late to leave clean.

And then—

Gunfire cracked through the air like a whip.

Chaos shattered the night.

He didn’t move a muscle—but Max did. A flicker of instinct. He reached beneath his jacket just as the first gunshot cracked like thunder, shattering a window high above them. Concrete dust rained down like snow.

Max Fewtrell was the first to move, shoving Lando sideways behind a stack of cement bags just as bullets ripped through where he’d been standing seconds before. Lando rolled, coat flying back as he drew his weapon, ears already ringing with the sudden roar of violence. He could hear yelling—Pierre barking orders in French, someone screaming from the upper levels, the grinding roar of an engine kicking to life from outside.

Max was crouched low beside him, already firing back.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, reloading with quick, trained hands. “This is a setup. Gasly sold us out.”

“No shit,” Lando snapped, voice tight. He pressed a finger to his earpiece, voice low but sharp. “Oscar—”

“I’m– I’m pinned,” Oscar replied, breathless, the sound of a sniper rifle clattering. “They knew I was up here. One on the roof, at least. Maybe two?”

The space proceeded to explode into chaos.

From the shadows behind the scaffolding, two men emerged—automatic rifles raised. Ocon opened fire, bullets chewing into the rusted metal frames just a few feet from Lando’s head. Max shoved him hard behind a steel beam, returning fire in tight, disciplined bursts.

Another shot.

Closer this time.

Sniper–?

No, two of them.

Oscar was pinned.

Lando’s voice was calm in the comms. “We’re lit up. I want eyes on every goddamn angle. Now.”

Outside, Logan heard it and reacted instantly. Tires screeched as his car skid right to the construction fencing, engine still running as he jumped out with his Glock already in hand.

Pierre stood there, unmoved in the middle of it all, not flinching as bullets flew overhead. Just watching. A slow smile curling over his lips.

“I told you,” he said quietly, as Yuki ducked and slipped out of view. “Like old times, eh?”

Lando’s eyes narrowed.

“You dirty fucking bastard. You set this up!”

Pierre shrugged, the smirk never falling. “Hmm, well, not all the credit is for me.”

From the mezzanine above, another figure emerged—calm, tailored, hair brushed back like a goddamn crown prince.

Charles Leclerc.

The bastard walked like it was a catwalk, not a warzone. Confident. Inevitable. Behind him, his two brothers flanked him like twin lions, guns in hand, their eyes on Lando.

Charles’s voice rang out, cutting through the noise like a blade. “You are not stupid, Lando. You knew the drugs were not yours to touch. You thought your little poison had wings? Thought Noxium would not be noticed, would not clip into our market?”

Lando’s blood turned to ice.

The Leclercs.

This wasn’t just about territory. It was a message, a reckoning.

“Lando Norris, you made yourself a Reaper,” Charles said, tone dropping to something low and sinister. “Now I’m here to remind you who builds the coffins.”

Then, all hell broke loose.

Blood already smeared across one cheek, Logan crashed through the door like a thunderbolt, gun drawn, firing clean and fast. He shoved one of the Leclerc brothers – the younger one, Arthur– near the scaffolding before yelling, “They’ve got snipers in the east lot too. I knifed one, but there’s another crawling the perimeter!”

Another voice cut in—Carlos, gritting into his own comm, “We are three minutes out. Hold your ground.”

“They brought a whole bloody army,” Max spat, ducking behind a crumbling pillar. “What the fuck happened? What– What’d we miss?”

Lando’s eyes narrowed. His mind, even under fire, was already stringing the pieces together.

Pierre—too smooth, too cooperative. That sly grin, the way he stalled in the beginning. He hadn’t been offering a deal: he’d been buying time.

And now… now Lando understood why — Charles Leclerc.

He didn’t look rushed or angry. He looked like he’d been waiting for this – like he’d dreamed of it, like vengeance was a dinner he planned to eat slowly.

“Lando Norris,” Charles sang, casual as if greeting an old friend, a gun loose in his right hand as he searched to see where the response would sound from. There was something gleeful hidden in those dark eyes as he smiled, his accent curling like smoke. “You’ve been trespassing.”

Lando’s jaw clenched. “I didn’t touch any of your shit. I kept my hands to m’self.”

“You used to,” Charles said, walking closer to the sound of the Brit’s voice, hunting him down. “Clubs, casinos, protection—yes, those were yours. I left them to you, quite generous of me.”

Lando and Max panted under their breaths, exchanging a glance as they hear the sound of vintage Italian leather shoes echoing through the structure.

They did not come here to die today.

“But the drugs, Lando? Your precious Noxium? That’s our family’s lifeline. That was supposed to be ours. You knew that.”

A beat.

“You knew exactly what you were doing.”

And just like that, the game changed.

This wasn’t about territory. This wasn’t business. This was personal.

Pierre hadn’t betrayed Lando for profit. He’d done it for Charles. – the two of them childhood friends, tied in blood and sweat and secrets.

The entire fucking meeting had been a blood-stained invitation.

A time and place for the Reaper to bleed.

More of Lando’s men were beginning to come into view—Carlos barreling in from the back alley with Max Verstappen and Daniel Ricciardo at his heels. The air turned molten, full of dust and fire and bullet heat, as the fight exploded across the half-built club.

Lando didn’t flinch.

He stood up from behind the scaffolding, straining his stance, eyes locked on Charles across the smoke with a gun pointed directly at his face.

“You made your point,” Lando said. “Now let’s see if you can survive it.”

Carlos burst in through a side entrance, firing clean and close-quartered, and with Daniel Ricciardo coming in hot behind him. “They’re on all sides! There’s more behind the loading dock—three minimum!”

Oscar’s voice snapped through the earpiece, breathless: “I’m compromised! This idiot came for the high ground first—fucking amateurs, but I got my hands full. Someone need to cover Lando!”

Max reloaded beside him, jaw tight, knuckles bloodied. “We’ve got five minutes if we’re lucky. Less if the Leclercs brought every cousin they’ve got.”

Logan dragged a wounded shooter behind a stack of pallets and pressed Lando’s spare piece into his hand. “What’s the plan, boss?”

Lando stood, finally—face unreadable, coat streaked with dust, his hand steady on the grip of his weapon. His eyes locked with Charles’s above.

“You wanted a Reaper?” he growled, voice low and lethal. “You’re about to meet him.”

Gunfire erupted through the half-constructed club, lighting up the darkness like a battlefield. The acrid scent of gunpowder mixed with the heavy, oily stench of fresh concrete and steel, filling the air with a metallic tang. Every corner was a potential trap, every noise a chance at death. Shadows flitted across the space, their movements quick and deliberate. The chaos was alive, its pulse thumping in time with the gunfire.

Carlos crouched low behind a hole in the drywall, his hands working fast and fluid as he reloaded, exchanging one clip for another. The sharp, precise motions were second nature—no hesitation, no mistakes. Daniel, grimacing in pain, leaned against a load-bearing column to catch his breath, blood beginning to stain his shirt.. Still, his finger never left the trigger, a smug grin permanently etched into his face, like he was still having fun.

Across the battlefield, Yuki’s voice crackled over the opposing team’s comms. The orders were clipped, cold, spoken in rapid Japanese. They were well-organized, methodical—an efficient machine moving in perfect synchrony.

But Lando’s men were just as sharp.

Lando finally backed Charles into a corner, smirking as he pulled the gun from his holster. Charles was a smart enough man with enough experience to recognize that glimmer in the obsidian of Lando’s eyes.

It was the call of death.

A sign of the true Reaper.

For a split second, everything went quiet. Around them, the usual chaos felt like it slowed, or at least faded into background noise. The silence was only a moment, a breath, but it was enough to make the hairs on the back of Lando’s neck rise. It was the calm in the storm, the strange lull that only ever happens in real fights—everything paused for that single heartbeat.

Somewhere around him, he could identify the distant sounds of Logan holding the line at the loading bay, steady shots ringing out from his position. Oscar, with what was probably a broken rib, was still picking off targets from above, his shots sharp and deliberate. Daniel and Carlos surveyed in overlapping circles, ready for the next of their attackers to come from almost any direction. Max Verstappen had his hands full, the sound of each merciless blow Pierre received echoing through the surrounding structure.

Logan. Oscar. Daniel. Carlos. Max Verstappen.

Max.

Where’s Max?

That was when Lando Norris made his only mistake. He glanced beside him to check for Max Fewtrell – just a flick of his eyes, barely noticeable at all.

But it was enough.

From where he stood, Charles Leclerc saw it instantly. It wasn’t much—a small crack, a human moment, the briefest flicker of emotion.

But it was too late for Lando to take it back.

“Go for him,” Leclerc barked, the command bellowing even from where the Monagesque stood cornered. “The one he looked at!”

Instantly, both Lorenzo and Arthur Leclerc turned and began flanking from the left. Yuki Tsunoda circled from the right. The rest moved like a pack of wolves, closing in with a singular focus.

Lando’s stomach dropped.

“Shit– Fewtrell!”

Max had just ducked back into cover when he noticed the incoming attack. The men moved with precision, intent on isolating him, forcing him into a corner.

Without a second thought, Lando moved. He slid behind a piece of cover, coming up just enough to fire two quick shots— forcing Gasly’s rookie to drop to clutch at the new gaping wounds in his thigh. Lando sprinted, reaching Max just as bullets began to ping off the exposed rebar behind them.

Max coughed, wiping dust from his face. “Just for me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Lando shot back, grabbing him by the collar and yanking him closer towards Logan’s position. “Get moving. Don’t stop.”

They barely made it to safety. Barely.

But Lando wasn’t done yet. He was hit—a baton crashing into his ribs. He hadn’t seen Lorenzo closing in. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, sending him crashing back against the cold concrete floor. Pain exploded through him, but there was no time to dwell on it.

Bootsteps. One set, then another.

They were too close.

Lando blinked through the haze of pain, looking up just as a shadow fell over him. The silhouette of a dark figure, the distinct profile of his Monagesque rival with his pistol raised.

Ready.

For a heartbeat, Lando’s world slowed. The figure took a fraction of a second too long, but it was enough.

Then, instinct took over.

With a brutal twist, Lando wrenched a utility knife from his boot and drove it into the man’s calf. There was no finesse – just raw, brutal violence. Charles screamed in agony, and consequently, his grip on the gun faltered.

Lando knocked the weapon away with a vicious swipe, rolling to his feet, grabbing the gun as it fell. Two rounds rang out—straight into the man’s vest. Another figure lunged from the side. Lando ducked, the movement fluid, his elbow slamming into the attacker’s ribs before he shot him down, quick and efficient.

It wasn’t quiet enough.

A bullet ricocheted off the metal overhead, only narrowly missing Lando’s head. The noise echoed in his skull, ringing in his ears.

Sweat dripped down his face, mixing with the blood—his own, someone else’s. His arm shook, barely holding onto the gun, but he didn’t lower it.

Not yet. Not until they knew.

Lando stepped back, firing two shots into the ceiling—loud, commanding.

The message was clear.

Back. The. Fuck. Off.

The remaining attackers hesitated, then one by one, they began to pull back, retreating beyond the skeleton of the unfinished building like rats scurrying for cover. Lando blinked, and Charles Leclerc was already gone.

Oscar’s voice crackled in his ear, rough and breathless. “They’re, uh– They’re clearing. We can pull back now.”

Slowly, carefully, the team began to regroup. Every move felt like a struggle. The adrenaline was still coursing through their veins, but they were all battered, bruised.

Alive, if only just.

Even as they watched their adversaries disappear into the night, the air still crackled with the aftershocks of violence.

Carlos was the first to lower his weapon fully. His face was split open at the brow, blood crusting in a jagged line down the side of his temple. His shirt, ripped at the sleeve, clung to him like a second skin. He exhaled shakily, then staggered to one knee beside the busted crate he’d used for cover.

Oscar emerged next—limping, rifle slack in his grip, sweat-soaked curls stuck to his forehead. His mouth was a hard line, his eyes unreadable behind the dim flicker of overhead bulbs that hadn’t stopped buzzing since the first shot. He didn’t say anything. Just sat down against the nearest concrete pillar and pressed the heel of his palm into the ribs he’d likely cracked during the fight.

Logan was the last one in.

He slid in through the back corridor, bloody knuckles and bruises blooming along his arms like mottled paint. There was a cut just beneath his jaw that he hadn’t bothered to wipe. “I got two of ‘em,” he muttered, voice gravel. “Lost one. Maybe.”

No one answered.

Max sat crumpled on the ground, elbows propped on his knees. He kept his head down, hands open in front of him like he wasn’t sure what to do with them now. His shirt was half torn, the side of his face swollen and bruised. One of his fingers was bent at an odd angle, but he didn’t seem to have noticed yet.

Lando stood at the edge of it all, his black pistol still in hand, his shirt torn at the collar, his left cheekbone already beginning to turn a shade of yellow. His breathing was steady, but his pulse was loud enough to feel in his teeth. He hadn’t spoken since the last shot fired.

The silence between them was almost reverent, but it wasn’t quite relief yet.

Carlos coughed, winced, and forced himself upright. “Everyone—?”

Oscar glanced toward the far corridor. Then shook his head, once, sharply. “No one else came in after us.”

Logan’s lips parted, but he didn’t ask the question they were all thinking. He didn’t have to.

There were five of them here.

Just five.

Lando still hadn’t moved. His eyes scanned the wreckage—the spent shells littering the ground, the smear of blood across the broken wall, the shape of his own shadow in the flickering light.

He finally turned toward the group. His expression was quiet and composed, his eyes dark.

No one spoke for a while.

The dust settled like ash around them, and all they could hear was the distant thrum of city life bleeding back into the broken building—the sirens, the grind of tires, some fuckin’ bird chirping in the aftermath of what felt like a warzone.

Lando drew a breath, and it tasted like copper and regret.

His palm was still stained with someone’s blood. Maybe his, maybe not. Everything felt too wrecked to tell.

He turned.

Carlos was seated now, his head leaning back against the unfinished wall, his arm slung across his torso with a long-sleeve shirt acting as a makeshift bandage. His lip was split, those large brown eyes of his glassier than his boss had ever seen them. But he gave Lando a weak thumbs-up when their eyes met, and Lando didn’t have the heart not to give him a small smile back.

Carlos, who could’ve gone anywhere. NASA, Mercedes — any of the places that would’ve worshipped that brilliant mind of his. But he stayed—for his dad. He wanted to give the old man the life he’d always dreamed of, something to reward him for all he’s given up for a boy of the same name.

The Spaniard had definitely made Lando proud today.

Logan was also crouched nearby, his jacket torn, his knuckles split. His shoulders were tense, but his eyes kept darting, sharp and alert. He’d never let himself rest before the job was done. Lando remembers the kid he met years ago, straight outta Florida, all sunburn and bright eyes and nerves. The kind of kid who wanted to be someone. Lando had seen himself in that hunger. When Lando looked at him, Logan looked at him with a bright smile, eager to show how unaffected he was.

With their complementary shiners, Lando could see a bit of himself in Logan tonight too.

Oscar was still perched on the stairwell, holding his ribs. It seemed he preferred the higher vantage point, even now. There was blood on his shirt, darker closer to the part near the hem that covered his hip. Lando couldn’t tell how deep the wound was, but Oscar hadn’t let go of his rifle. He’d never even blinked when the chaos had hit. In fact, he was the reason they weren’t all dead.

Oscar was the reason Lando got the warning at all.

Then there was Max Fewtrell, slumped against the doorway as he pressed a cold cloth to the side of his head. He’d nearly been hit. No, he was hit—grazed across the temple, just enough to make Lando’s heart stop when he had seen the blood.

Fewtrell had always been different. It would be untrue to say he was just the same as the others. Even Lando knew, deep down, that he was different – not just a soldier, not just a friend. He was the only one who could get under Lando’s skin in a way that felt familial. He was the only one who could call him out on his shit and still get a small smile after. And today, Lando had almost lost him.

All because of one second – one look.

One look had almost cost Lando the only man he considered his brother.

He dragged a hand down his face, smearing dust into the blood on his skin, and counted again.

Carlos. Logan. Oscar. Fewtrell. Verstappen.

His gaze swept the room again.

Wait.

Where’s—

Where the fuck is Daniel?

He turned around, his eyes scanning the place again—back over the entryway, the busted scaffolding, the stairwell. He pushed himself to remember.

Where had Daniel been when the shooting started? He was right behind Lando, wasn’t he? Left side?

“Anyone seen Ricciardo?” Lando asked.

No one answers. Max looked up, blinking. Logan shifted uncomfortably. Carlos doesn’t move at all. Oscar just swore under his breath.

And that’s when it really hit Lando.

He didn’t see it coming. He missed the trap. He was smarter than that, for fuck’s sake – he’d known there would be one. But he let himself get cocky, and now someone who mattered —someone who trusted him— might be gone. Because they’d gone for his soft spot, and once again, he didn’t even realize it was exposed.

He stares at the cracked floor for a second. The sharp sting in his lungs returns, but it wasn’t from the smoke.

It was guilt.

“Keep eyes out,” he mutters, and then louder, firmer, “Find him.”

They’d only just begun to search—Logan darting toward a side hallway, Oscar cautiously peering around a corner, Carlos gritting his teeth as he pushed himself upright—when a figure emerged from behind an unfinished stairwell.

“Daniel?” Max’s voice cut through first, rough and tight with disbelief.

The others turned, and there he was.

The Aussie was dragging one foot behind the other, his shoulders hunched, his arms limp at his sides. His shirt was torn, stained dark with blood and soot. Cuts lined his jaw and temple. His face was pale, slack with exhaustion. But he was there. Alive. Moving—if just barely.

“Daniel, where were you, mate?” Fewtrell was already beginning to approach closer, concern overtaking the limp in his own step. “We were all—”

“I don’t know how it happened,” Daniel mumbled, the words tumbling out slurred and slow. His eyes were wide and glassy, not really seeing them.

“What?” Logan called, squinting toward him through the dark and the dust that had yet to settle. “Daniel—what are you talking about?”

“I didn’t know how to get it out,” Daniel said again, voice starting to hitch. His breathing was shallow now, labored. “I tried… heh, I tried—but, em,—”

Lando stepped forward, cutting through the rest of the voices. He moved fast, closing the distance and bracing Daniel by both shoulders, steadying him before he could collapse. His grip was firm, but his touch betrayed a flicker of fear—trying to keep Daniel upright, keep him here.

“Daniel,” he said, locking eyes with him. “What the fuck are you talking ‘bout, mate?”

Daniel wavered again. His knees buckled slightly, and Lando instinctively pulled him closer, adjusting his stance to hold him better.

And that’s when he saw it.

The hilt of a kris dagger protruded from between Daniel’s shoulder blades, dark metal glinting beneath the soot and blood. It was carved—elegant, almost ceremonial. A sickle curve, buried deep enough to split ribs and tear through anything in its path.

Lando froze, his breath caught hard in his lungs. The others hadn’t seen it yet, the wound still hidden from view. But he had.

Daniel was starting to sag forward now, strength draining from his limbs as his blood soaked through Lando’s hands. His eyes lost focus. His breaths came in short, wet gasps.

“Oh my god…” Lando whispered, arms tightening around him, desperate to keep him from slipping any further. “Daniel…”

Daniel blinked, as if trying to stay awake. His jaw trembled. “I didn’t know how to tell you, mate,” he whispered, broken and shaking. “Didn’t wanna ruin your win…”

Lando’s head dropped, throat closing up around the swell of panic. He shook his head, once, fiercely.

This didn’t feel like a win.

They didn’t go home.

There was nowhere to go. Not until they knew, at least.

So they dragged Daniel back to one of their safehouses, a cramped, peeling basement below a now-closed tailor’s. By the time they set him down, Oscar was already yelling for gauze and towels, trying to stop the bleeding that wouldn’t comply with his will. Carlos had the med kit ripped open before Oscar could even finish asking, and Max Verstappen pulled his navy hoodie off, balling it up and handing it over with a trembling hand that no one commented on like it was the only thing that might help.

Lando followed in silence, pale and smeared with blood all over. Even after he yanked that godforsaken blade from where it had embedded itself deep into the flesh of Daniel’s back, his hands never quite stopped shaking.

And Daniel?

Daniel was still cracking jokes, sense of humor still just as intact as the day Lando had found the only mechanic on Monte Carlo who was open at 3 AM. The Brit had searched every nook and cranny of this city in hopes of finding someone, anyone, who could save his precious car – that first McLaren he’d ever bought with his own money.

Daniel always did know how to fix the unfixable.

“'S not that bad, right?” he slurs, eyes fluttering open. “I mean— m'still prettier than Max,” he quips with a bad wink in the direction where he has to assume his old friend is.

Someone laughed — maybe Verstappen. Maybe it was a choked sob.

It was hard to tell, really.

Oscar worked fast, just as he always did. But even he hesitated, just for a second, when he peeled Max’s hoodie back so he could get a better look at the wound again. It wasn‘t just deep—it was designed to stay. The kris’s path was cruel and clever, curved to tear what couldn’t be stitched.

Still, no one said it, because saying it would make it real.

Carlos hovered nearby, quietly wringing a rag in a bowl of water that had long since turned red. Max knelt by Daniel’s head, talking to him softly in English when the familiar Dutch didn’t stick. Logan paced the length of the dimly lit room like a caged dog. Oscar wouldn’t stop moving, fidgeting with his makeshift tools, his sleeves, anything he could reasonably reach.

Lando didn’t have the heart to tell the kid off.

Instead, Lando just sat there, his hands coated in Daniel’s blood, his jaw clenched so tight it clicked.

Every so often, Daniel would stir – breath hitching, jokes fading.

Then one hour became two. Two then became four. When Max stroked his curls away from his forehead where they were matted with sweat, he could feel his friend’s skin grow colder. The silences began to stretch longer.

But still—at least he was breathing.

That was the spark – that was what kept them from falling apart.

“He’s strong,” Max blurted out, the sincerity of his words making him sound younger, more innocent. “He’s– He’s fucking strong, alright? He’ll pull through.”

“His color’s holding,” Carlos added, cautiously optimistic. “This is good, yes?”

Oscar didn’t say anything. He’d seen too much to lie.

Lando refused to blink. In all the hours they spend there, he refused to sleep, refused to even think of a version of this scenario where Daniel didn’t wake up and make fun of them all for being so damn dramatic.

From his seat by the head of the table turned makeshift bed, Lando just kept whispering, “You’re fine. You’re fine, Danny. We’re gonna get through this. You’re gonna be okay.”

But everyone else knew what a wound like that meant, what a life like this meant for each of them. They all knew what Lando couldn't say.

It was only a matter of time.

They all knew what business they were in.

No one got into this line of work thinking they’d make it to fifty with a pension and a neat little garden. Nobody had gotten here by accident. Not a single one of them could claim ignorance. They were in the kind of game where exits came in body bags, and grief was a cost you factored into the ledgers. They were gamblers, all of them—risking limb and life on a daily basis, trading safety for control, comfort for power.

But Daniel was different.

He always had been, really.

He knew the darkness, saw it clearer than most, in fact. But still—somehow—he stayed good, better, kinder. He always laughed harder, held on longer. Daniel Ricciardo carried hope like a flare he refused to drop, even when the wind howled and the rain came in sideways.

He was, despite everything, the best of them.

That made it worse. Because none of them were surprised that he’d gone down for them, only sickened by how easily it could’ve been anyone else. That it was him hurt in their place.

The truth was that, despite everything, none of them ever imagined it’d be Danny.

Not Danny Ric, with his crooked grin and dumb jokes and the kind of laughter that made you forget how goddamn dark it always was. Not Daniel, who remembered birthdays and brought back stupid souvenirs and called them all mate like it meant something.

He wasn’t soft—God, no. He was ruthless when he had to be. Everyone knew that Ricciardo could flip a man with a wrench and a grin and walk away whistling.

But still, he was hopeful. The great tragedy of Daniel Ricciardo was that he was the most hopeful of them all. He was the brightest, the one who cracked the darkest rooms open with his smile and made them forget, if only for a moment, that they were criminals. He knew the worst of them and still chose to be the best of them. He was the one who, even after watching what this world had done to people, still somehow believed they were worth saving.

So when he took the blade to the back—a fucking kris, curved and cruel and ancient like some sick ceremonial final blow—something shifted. Something broke, not just in his body, but in all of them.

He was light, in a world of shadows, and now, the light was flickering.

The way they moved—the urgency, the silence, the glances they exchanged—it was in the air like blood in the water.

Oscar got up to do the bandaging again. His hands were steady, but his jaw ticked with restraint. Max kept shifting on his feet like he wanted to hit something. Carlos leaned in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, eyes glassy but dry. Logan sat on the steps with his head bowed, silent.

Lando went to kneel by Daniel, stripped of the usual iron-clad armor he wears around his boys. There was no sharp grin, no cocky tilt of the chin – just open pain in his eyes as he watched one of his oldest friends fade in front of him.

Daniel’s hand was clammy in his. His lips parted, then closed again like he was trying to say something and forgetting what.

Lando leaned in. “Still with me?”

Daniel smiled, just barely. “Yeah, boss.”

It gutted him, that smile.

That fucking smile.

Blood loss. Organ damage. Shock. Oscar had said the words without flinching, clinical and grim. But Lando saw the way his hands shook when he stepped back. The way Logan had to steady him without making it obvious.

Carlos sat with his elbows on his knees, silent. Max leaned against the wall, arms crossed too tight, jaw locked. Even he looked like something in him was unraveling, thread by careful thread.

None of them were crying, but there was rawness in the air. This was part of the life. But that didn’t mean they had to like it.

Lando cleared his throat. “We’re gonna get them for this. Tsunoda’s gonna pay. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Yeah?” Daniel murmured, barely audible. “You better.”

“I will,” Lando promised. “Don’t you worry, yeah? They’re already dead.”

Daniel exhaled through his nose, the ghost of a laugh. “Tell Leclerc I said… ‘fuck you.’ In French.”

Carlos smiled, just a little. “Pretty sure he speaks English too, mate.”

They all chuckled, but just a bit – if only because Daniel would’ve wanted them to, even now.

Max Verstappen stepped closer and crouched down beside him. “You remember the job in Monza?” he asks.

“God…” Daniel sighed. “The bar fight?”

“You did start it.”

“Yeah,” Daniel breathed. “But I ended it too.”

Lando grinned despite the ache in his chest. “Damn right you did.”

More stories followed after that, each of them giving a piece of their memory, something bright, something bold, something that felt like it’d live on in the stars even after tonight. Each anecdote was an attempt at trading grief for something warmer, at holding on with words when their hands couldn’t seem to do enough.

It was Lando who took charge, just as it always has been. So they each spoke to him now — not over Daniel, but to him. Around him, as though he were already halfway out the door.

He was still breathing, but it was slower now. Softer, like even his body knew it was time to rest.

Daniel coughed again—wet, weak, red trailing from the corner of his mouth—and Lando stood.

He moved like he wasn’t thinking anymore. The muscles of his body moved purely on instinct, some muscle memory he developed over the year, the rhythm that helped him embody his role.

The Boss. The one who made the calls when no one else could.

He crouched by Daniel’s side, his own hand firm on the older man’s shoulder. Lando’s thumb brushed over his knuckles, his voice steady as a dying star.

“Daniel,” he said softly. “Stay with us.”

Daniel’s eyes fluttered open. “M’trying.”

“I know.” Lando swallowed, glancing briefly at the others, then back. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but he looked paler than he did a moment ago, almost sickly. “You did good. You hear me? You did everything right.”

Daniel gave the ghost of a smile. “Always do.”

Max huffed. “Liar.”

Carlos looked up. “Worst liar I ever met.”

Daniel laughed. It shook his whole chest and sent him into another coughing fit. Logan was there instantly, cloth in hand, wiping at the corner of his mouth.

Daniel blinked slowly. “We… Did we win?”

Lando nodded once. “We’re alive. You did that.”

Silence fell again. Then Daniel sighed, a long, low exhale like he’d finally finished something. His eyes slid closed again, lips parted. Still breathing, but lighter now, quieter.

“Is this it?” Logan asked quietly, not to anyone in particular.

But they all looked to Lando, because that’s what they did. That’s what Daniel had always done, too. They trusted Lando to lead.

Perhaps that was Daniel’s fatal mistake.

Instead of looking back at them, Lando stood slowly, his gaze on Daniel and his face unreadable. A long moment passed, Lando taking a deep breath before he spoke.

“Let him rest.”

They knew what that meant. None of them argued. None of them begged or made some desperate play for hope.

Instead, they took turns stepping forward. Each of them said their piece in quiet tones, fragments of affection, of memories. Carlos pressed a kiss to his forehead. Max Fewtrell squeezed his uninsured shoulder in a gesture that he could only hope conveyed everything he could barely bring himself to say — a lifetime of gratitude and camaraderie and unspent love in a single gesture.

Oscar took off his watch and set it beside him—the same way Daniel had done once, years ago, after Oscar’s first mission went sideways. Max just sat down beside him and said, “Thanks for being better than us, Daniel.”

Logan lingered the longest. The young boy held his hand, told him a joke that made absolutely no sense, laughed for both of them, then walked out without a word.

In the end, it was Lando that remained.

Lando stayed until the others were gone, until it was just him and Daniel and the silence that pressed against the windows like night fog.

He crouched down again, brushed back a curl from Daniel’s sweat-matted hair.

“I’ll take care of them,” he told him. Even though he wore a smile, his voice was raw now, lower. “I swear to God, I’ll take care of all of them.”

A pause. Then—

“I’ll miss you, mate.”

He waited.

No reply came — just the smallest, shakiest breath.

“Alright, mate. It’s okay now.”

Daniel’s eyelids fluttered, the last spark of awareness lingering. Lando raised his hand, pressing it to his forehead gently.

“Sleep.”

And so, Daniel did. As he complied with his boss’s command one final time, he finally sank into a long, long sleep, and the room, once full of ghosts and grit and blood and noise, fell silent.

Lando stood, let out one long, shaking breath and walked out the door.

Behind him, Daniel Ricciardo lay still at last.

He didn’t remember the turns he took to get there.

The streets blurred past in streaks of black and neon, headlights beaming through the fog, buildings bleeding into one another like a watercolor left in the rain. The ringing in his ears hadn’t yet stopped since the ambush, low and echoey. Blood clung to what remained of his button-down in thick patches, sticky where it soaked through the torn fabric at his ribs. His knuckles were raw, the skin rough and dark, and the gash at his eyebrow had reopened, leaking warmth down the side of his face.

But still, somehow, he made it.

His hand shook as he raised it to knock. He missed the first time, fingers grazing the metal plate: 307. He tried again, firmer this time. The wood felt solid under his palm. He leaned on it, barely upright.

When the door opened, she stood in the frame like a ghost from a better life—oversized hoodie, messy bun, the kind of comfort he didn’t deserve. Her eyes went wide. She didn’t move.

His name—the wrong one, but right enough for now—fell from her lips in a cracked, breathless whisper.

“Oh my god! Liam—!”

He swayed, shoulder bumping the frame. That was all it took to snap her into motion.

“Here– Come in. Just, come in—”

She reached for him instinctively, one arm around his back, the other catching his wrist. He let her guide him inside, his weight leaning heavy on her as she pulled the door shut behind them. The lock clicked into place, and for the first time all night, something inside him uncoiled a little.

She was already scanning him with wide, panicked eyes. “What the hell happened to you?”

Her fingers ghosted over the edge of his shirt, where the blood was streaked all across his side. “Are you—oh my god, are you shot?”

“No.” His voice was wrecked, low and frayed. “Not really. Just… tired.”

She didn’t believe him. He could see it in the pinch of her brow. But she nodded, just once, and steered him toward the couch. He sank into it like a man unspooling, body slumping under the weight of pain and adrenaline finally running out.

She crouched beside him, her eyes rapidly tracing every scrape, every bruise, every place he flinched when her touch came too close. Her hands hovered, unsure—his temple? His ribs? The blood at his collarbone? Where was she supposed to start–

He caught her wrist gently.

“This was the closest place, and I…”

“And you...?” she asked softly, worry swirling in those eyes he hadn’t seen in so long.

He swallowed, his voice shaky for a different reason entirely when he looked up to answer her.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

a/n: and so there it is — my pièce de résistance! this chapter is probably my favorite that i've written so far lol. i'd love to hear what you guys think!

214 notes · View notes