Sevikasslut

You leaned closer, a tired smile on your face.

“My body hurts so bad,” you complained.

Sevika turned to you, a little furrow forming between her brows, “since how long?”

“Since we’ve done the deed,” you answered truthfully, not accusatory.

Without a word, Sevika got up from the bed and walked over to the closet.

Your eyes followed, and you asked, “what are you doing?”

She didn’t answer and retrieved a tiny little bottle from inside. You stared, watching as she uncapped it and poured some sort of an ointment on two of her thick fingers. She rubbed it on both hands, warming it up.

Sevika gestured you to lay down on the mattress on your back, and you obeyed.

“What are you doing?” You asked.

“Giving you a massage,” Sevika simply said, cigar resting on the corner of her lip as she leaned down, “just relax for me.”

“O-okay…”

You let your tense body relax, breathing slowly as Sevika worked her hands on your body. She was gentle, rubbing and massaging your body gently as she watched you with the softest gaze ever.

Her fingers pressed around the knots of tense muscles, easing the tension away with her expert fingers. Her hands lingered in places that ached the most as if she just knew how you felt without you needing to word it out.

“That’s it, my sweetness.” Sevika smiled a little, mumbling while her lips still held the cigar.

Once she was done, she moved back and blew the smoke out through her nose before she helped you sit up with your back against the headboard of the bed.

“Thank you, baby,” you pulled the blankets around your shoulders, “can we go for a bath after you’re done with that?”

Sevika nodded, “of course, baby. That’s a must.”

You giggled, tugging her closer, “you always take care of me.”

“Shouldn’t be fucking you if I can’t take care of you after.”

Okay lmk how I did. This is my first actual fic and I’m very proud of it!! Also this is my first time trying to make it pretty looking so lmk how I did- I’ve reread this like 3 times and I feel like it sounds like butt free me bro

And you nodded.

She walked off.

Now you were standing in the middle of a store a little too expensive with a wad of cash that your girlfriend had just given you for shopping.

You sighed and kept walking, wondering what to do with the money. It wasn’t that you were confused— okay maybe you were— but that’s because you couldn’t decide what to buy since you could practically buy anything now.

-

You walked back in the lavish penthouse quietly, hands holding your bag tight but carefully as if you were guarding something very precious in it— which you were.

“Where were you?” Sevika asked, voice light, not interrogative as she watched the lights of the cityscape through one of the ceiling-high windows.

You gulped, “sorry, am I too late?”

Sevika laughed softly, “I’m not your mother,” she paused, surveying you with her relaxed grey eyes.

Then she saw your bag move. Her eyebrows furrowed. “What’s that..?”

“Oh,” you looked down, opening it and bringing out a puppy.

Sevika stared at it— brain completely blanking as she stepped closer. The puppy tilted its head, staring back at her intently as if trying to charm her.

Sevika opened her mouth, then closed it again. “You bought a dog…”

You nodded. “She’s so cute, isn’t she?”

“She’s tiny.”

The puppy squirmed, tail thumping harder, clearly enchanted by the tall woman with the scary voice. Sevika looked down at it again. The puppy looked up at her.

You answered. “She’s a baby.”

“Why is it staring at me like that?”

“She likes you.”

The puppy sneezed.

Sevika swore her heart just melted and without a second thought she took the little creature from your arms, cradling it as if it were something of endless value and precious.

“We’re keeping her,” Sevika said, tone final and concluding

You laughed softly, smiling.

The puppy reached up and licked Sevika’s chin, staring up at her expectedly. Sevika scratched the back of its little ears, a fond look in her eyes.

“She’s our little baby now.” Sevika said, and you couldn’t help feeling your heart warm over.

Ours. Yes.

You drop your hands into your lap like a guilty child.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, making a turn onto the main road. 

“You think I’m biting my nails because I’m hungry?”

“No. I know you only bite your nails when you’re overthinking. And I know you’re more inclined to talk when you’re not running on an empty stomach.”

You glance out the passenger window, taking notice of the rain that has thickened since you bolted to the car. The prison is already a smear in the rear-view mirror, tucked so far into nowhere it feels less like an institution and more like a secret earth is ashamed of. You imagine its architects deciding it should be placed where even guilt would have trouble finding it. 

“There’s a diner about half an hour up the road,” he tries again. “Good coffee. Bad pie.”

You consider it, and on any other night you’d say yes without thinking, like you’ve done countless times before. But you remember that tonight, you’re not heading home. You’re heading back to the hotel room you’re sharing with your boss. The same four beige walls that felt far too small last night.

You hadn’t realised that sharing a bed would also mean sharing melatonin. Though clearly Hotch got the better end of the deal, sleeping like a man immune to proximity-induced panic while you lay still, every muscle tense, your heart hammering as if trying to pound thoughts into words you had no business thinking.

“Can’t we make the drive back home tonight?” you ask, shifting to look at him. “I can drive most of the way if you want to doze off.”

“I think given the weather and your driving skills, that wouldn’t be a wise choice.”

“What’s wrong with my driving skills?”

“You once reversed into a mailbox.”

You scoff. “You weren’t even in the car when that happened.”

“No,” he says, unbothered, “but I did have to file the vehicle incident report explaining why the Bureau SUV suddenly had a dent in the rear bumper.”

You glance out again and he’s right. Sheets of rain blur the road, the wipers swiping furiously just to keep a sliver of the world in view. You’d sooner chew down a mouthful of nails than attempt to drive in this, and considering Hotch handled the entire drive here and carried most of the interview, it hardly seems fair to pester him to slog through another four hours just so you can sleep in your own bed. 

“You did well,” he offers obligingly, and you know he’s trying to patch up your bruised ego.

You hadn’t imagined your last few days with the BAU would involve revisiting what was meant to be a closed case. But new evidence had surfaced, linking back to one of your consults which, after this week, wouldn’t even be yours anymore. It would probably be passed on to JJ or Morgan, but you’d insisted on coming, unwilling to leave loose ends behind. 

That insistence had landed you on a two-day trip with Hotch accompanied by a night in a cheap, overbooked hotel, one bed, a sleepless night yesterday, and the creeping dread of repeating it again tonight.

“You’re lying. I barely got him to talk.” 

“You did more than you realise. We managed to get a name.”

We. You turn your head and catch the faintest hint of amusement tugging at his mouth. “You managed to get a name,” you correct. 

His shoulders lift in a slight shrug, eyes still on the road. “It was a team effort.”

“Well, I suppose it's not really going to be my problem anymore after this week.” You exhale, resting your temple against the cold glass.

“Do you need me to stop anywhere before the hotel?”

“Yes, actually.” You turn towards him with a half-smile, because if you’re going to be forced to share the covers with Hotch again, you’re not doing it sober. “Pretty sure there’s a gas station off the next exit, if you wouldn’t mind?”

He nods, and you go back to overthinking the bane of your existence until Hotch finally pulls into the saddest-looking gas station you’ve ever seen.

“Do you need anything?” you ask, unclipping your seatbelt and letting it snap back harder than necessary, purely because you know it irritates him.

His jaw tics. “You can take it off without assaulting the mechanism, you know.”

“So nothing, then?”

“Coffee. If they have it.”

“Sure.” You pause, then grin at him. “I’ll get you a drink.” 

You’re out of the car before he can clarify that he meant just coffee. The cold air immediately slides under your coat, no matter how tightly you pull it around yourself. The rain’s turned into that annoying misty kind—so light it shouldn’t count, but somehow it still sticks to your hair and makes you feel damp and miserable. You jog the last few steps to the door.

Inside, it smells vaguely of lemon cleaning wipes, which is funny, because absolutely nothing in here looks like it’s been cleaned. You don’t bother searching for the coffee machine since technically, you’re not taking orders from your Unit Chief anymore.

You make a beeline for the back fridges instead.

Rows of cheap wine stare back at you—the kind that would give Rossi a heart attack. You pick the worst looking bottle out of pure spite, already planning on texting him a picture just to ruin his evening. Then, for insurance, you grab a few miniature bottles of whiskey. On your way to the till, you snatch a bag of popcorn. The sweet kind.

Once you’ve paid, you head back to the car. Hotch reaches across to push the door open for you, and you slide in. The bag clinks in your hands, immediately giving away your intentions—something he’s clearly clocked, judging by the look he gives you.

“Sorry. The coffee machine was broken, so I got wine instead. Or whisky. Whatever floats your boat on this fine night.”

“Please tell me there's at least water in there.”

You reach into the bag and pull out a bottle, dropping it into the cup holder between you. “Have a little faith.”

He shakes his head in that disappointed-dad way he’s perfected over the years and shifts the car back into drive. The wipers groan across the windshield, and you take the moment to pull the questionable wine out of the bag to send a picture to Rossi. 

You get a reply just as Hotch is turning into the hotel’s car park.

Rossi: Is this a cry for help? Tell me that’s not going in your body. 💀🍷

You leave him on read, taking your clinking bottles with you as you follow Hotch out of the car and into the building. The two of you are quiet as you watch him fumble with the key to your room. Yes—key, not card, because it’s that ancient. Yet, for a man who can dismantle a Glock blindfolded, he still manages to miss the hole twice.

“Any time today would be nice.”

He exhales through his nose, slotting the key in on the third try. “You could always help.”

“Sure. Usually you just line it up and get it in the hole. Works for me most of the time.”

He goes still for half a second. Then, without looking at you, “You know there are moments I genuinely regret encouraging you to speak.”

The lock finally clicks and he pushes the door open for you. 

“Would you look at that,” you say as you brush past him, “you can find the spot.”

The room is exactly as small as you remember, and somehow the freshly made bed almost makes it look worse. Hotch had made it this morning while you were brushing your teeth, tighter and straighter than housekeeping ever could. Pillows fluffed and aligned, corners tucked. True military craftsmanship from a meticulous dork. 

A meticulous dork who is now taking off his jacket and folding it neatly over his go-bag and suddenly—though not surprisingly—your eyes are glued to the way his white shirt pulls across his shoulders.

You rip your gaze away and begin unpacking your haul. 

“You want the shower first?” he asks, and you glance at him, pretending it’s the first time you’ve looked at him since walking in.

“Nope. I want alcohol.”

He shakes his head, grabs his toiletry bag, and disappears into the tiny bathroom.

You’re about to enjoy the way this glorified paint thinner will probably strip your taste buds, when you realise there’s a slight problem. It’s a corked bottle and not a twist-off. You try using your nails to get it open, and then your sheer willpower. 

Unfortunately it does not respond to either. 

You give it one more useless tug before raising your voice. 

“Hotch?”

Water is running. He does not answer. 

You try again, louder. “Hotch!”

“What?” he calls through the door, voice muffled.

“Are you decent?”

There’s the faintest pause—long enough for you to smile to yourself because you can’t help but imagine him…not decent. 

“Yes,” he says cautiously. “Why?”

“I need help.”

“With what?”

“Alcohol-related emergency.”

You hear him sigh, followed by the water shutting off. A few seconds later, the bathroom door opens and he steps out, with only his belt missing. Interesting. He’s a belt off first kind of guy. 

He looks at the bottle, then at you. “You bought wine without a corkscrew.”

You hold it out to him. “Let me take this as a moment to remind you that I never handed paperwork in late, never took a sick day, never complained about overtime. I was, arguably, the model team member. This is the least you can do to show appreciation.”

He doesn’t argue. Just takes the bottle from your hands and sits on the edge of the bed with it.

Legs spread. Grey slacks pulling just slightly at the seams. Broad thighs taking up most of the mattress. He settles the bottle between them, and you do your absolute best to focus on the glass instead of the fabric creasing over muscle and the very distracting proximity of…everything else. 

He braces the bottle with one hand around the base and you forget how to form actual sentences. With his other hand, he uses his thumb to push the cork down into the bottle, veins flexing with each movement. 

The cork gives a soft, breathy sound as it starts to sink into the neck of the bottle, and you’re just standing there—useless, wine thirsty, and uncomfortably aware of the fact that this should not be as attractive as it is. 

He pulls his hand back as soon as the cork pops and sinks into the bottle, wiping his thumb absently against his thigh and you’re pretty much drooling at the sight, while he looks up at you, unfazed. 

“Happy now?”

“Mhm. Ecstatic. Guess you’ve got just as much trouble pulling out as you do finding the hole.”

“You know I can request to have you transferred earlier than Friday.”

“Go ahead,” you say, scanning the room for glasses. “Knock yourself out.” There are none. No glasses. No mugs. Not even a questionable plastic cup.

“You want to take your wine so I can go shower?” he asks flatly.

“You’re not joining me?” 

His eyes shift between you and the bottle. “How much was this?”

“Four ninety-nine.” You scrunch your nose as he brings it to his face and smells it. “Come on, you have to toast me. Rossi denied me a leaving party because apparently switching departments doesn't count as officially leaving.”

He lets out a slow breath. “You want a toast?”

“Yes.” You nod. “Or you could list your top five things about working with me. Or both. I have time.”

“Fine,” he resigns, moving along the edge of the bed to make space for you. “One toast.”

You grin as you drop down beside him, your knees touching. You watch as he brings the bottle closer to his lips and mulls over what to say. 

“To the fact you never did anything halfway,” he says earnestly and it catches you off guard. You were fully expecting something sarcastic like to the number of sex jokes you made on federal payroll. “Cases, paperwork, people,” he continues. “You were all in. Always.”

And then he tilts the bottle back. You shouldn’t stare, but you do. The way his mouth wraps around the glass, the slow swallow, the faint scrunch of his brows as the taste hits. He pulls it away with a barely-supressed grimace. 

“That’s awful,” he scoffs, handing it to you.

Your fingers brush when you take it, and you can’t help but wonder if his thumb still tastes like wine. You lift the bottle, deliberately pressing your mouth to the exact spot his lips just were, and you catch the way his eyes flick down to follow the movement before meeting yours again.

You take a swig, more than you should because it burns. “God—that’s fucking vile.”

He huffs a quiet laugh through his nose. “Told you.”

“Now you have to help me finish it. Otherwise I’ll die, and you’ll have to do the paperwork.”

“That’s manipulative.”

You shrug. “Is it? Thought extra paperwork would be your kind of foreplay.”

His lips twitch, and you almost catch the smile he’s trying so hard to suppress it’s making him look constipated. “You have a foul mouth,” he mutters, taking the bottle back and bringing it to his lips. 

“Is that the first of the five things you like about me?”

He pauses mid-sip, lowers the bottle just enough to give you that painfully patient stare. “We are not making a list.”

“So that’s a yes?”

He takes another swig, getting him out of answering. When he hands the bottle back, you notice his fingers linger a second longer than necessary, despite you having a firm hold on it. 

“Fine. No list. I’ll just assume it’s implied.”

“It isn’t.”

“It is.”

“It really isn’t.”

You roll your eyes, taking two big gulps that almost make your eyes water. 

The back and forth continues until the bottle is completely empty, along with the mini bottles of whiskey you picked up. The popcorn is gone too, aside from the sad trail of it now crushed into the hotel carpet from your failed attempt to open the bag like a normal person.

At some point, sitting upright stopped being doable. Your backs protested, your vision began to blur at the edges, and now the two of you were lying on top of the covers, side by side, legs still hanging off the edge of the bed.

“Are you still beating yourself up about earlier?” he asks, voice softer than it was before the cheap alcohol.

“A little,” you admit with a sigh. “I wanted to do one last thing before leaving. Not hand it back to you unfinished.”

“You softened him up. Made him think he was in control. It might not seem like much, but it helped.”

You huff and push yourself up onto your elbow, turning to face him. His eyes are a little glassy, and for once he looks relaxed. “Bet you’re going to miss using me as bait.”

He shifts his head to glance at you. “You’re only moving two floors down.”

“And what if my new boss doesn’t like to share?”

“You were always mine first,” he says it so casually, you’re not entirely sure he’s processed his own wording.

“Yours?” you let out a laugh, eyebrows lifting. 

“Ours,” he corrects, a vague flick of his hand. “The BAUs”

You’re fairly certain you like the sound of mine more. You look at him again, the alcohol throwing all discreetness out your system. He smiles back up at you in a way you don’t see often. His hair is all mussed, a thin layer of sweat making his skin glow. 

“What are you thinking?” he asks, pushing up onto his elbow to mirror you. 

You grin at him and he immediately regrets asking because he knows that look. He sighs and drops back onto the bed. “Never mind.”

“I think you need a shower.” You spare him your real thoughts.

“Thanks,” he mutters. “I don’t think I could even get my tie off right now.”

“Do you need a hand?”

He laughs quietly, rubbing a hand over his face. “I might.”

Sitting up takes more effort than it should. The room tilts a little when you move, but you manage to get onto your knees, wobbling and swaying, before Hotch reaches out and catches your wrist, stopping you from diving face first into his chest. 

“What’re you doing?” he asks, just as you swing a knee over his hips and ungracefully settle in his lap.

“Helping you get your tie off because you need to shower.”

He goes rigid beneath you, hands hovering near your waist like he’s unsure if he has permission to rest them on you. “You’re on top of me.”

“We can do this standing if you prefer?”

His eyes close for half a second, like he’s silently begging for patience. “No. Just—”

You catch the speed of that no and can’t help but smile, settling yourself against him. “Okay,” you breathe, leaning in. “Hold still.”

You’ve never actually taken a tie off someone before. Definitely not while tipsy. Which is probably why it’s going so badly. You yank at the knot once… twice… and somehow make it worse. “Why is this thing so tight? Are you into autoerotic asphyxiation or something?”

His hands finally come to rest on your waist. “Please don’t ever say that sentence again.”

“Have we just unlocked a secret turn-on category? It’s fine, I’m very accepting.”

He lets out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “It’s called a Windsor knot.”

“Well no wonder you’re so grumpy all the time—this Windsor knot is cutting off circulation to your brain.”

“You’re making it tighter,” he points out, voice sounding strained. He shifts, probably a poor attempt at comfort because all his movement does is press you directly against his groin.

Your fingers fumble with the fabric, because you’re too busy fighting the urge to move. To roll your hips. To test just how good the friction would feel. “Because you’re moving.”

“You’re on top of me.”

You tug at the fabric again. “I gave you the option to do this standing, didn’t I?”

His eyes shift to your lips, then slowly, he removes one hand from your waist. “Slide the narrow end through the loop,” he says, showing you. 

Fuck. He’s talking you through it. And you’re pretty sure you could get off on his voice alone, but you will yourself to focus. 

 “No—other side.”

You follow his direction, fingers brushing his throat. 

“Now loosen it,” he murmurs. His thumb presses lightly at the knot, guiding your hand. “Pull there.”

You do as you’re told, giving a gentle tug and the knot slides loosely apart. “Would you look at that! You’re tie-free.” 

You give it another tug, slipping it from his collar so you can inspect it. What you thought was just a diamond print now, up close, looks suspiciously like two Gs. You gasp. “Oh my god. You really spent two hundred dollars on a Gucci tie just to choke yourself?”

His hands are back on your waist again. “It was on sale.”

“You could’ve asked me,” you say, looping it clumsily around your neck. “I would’ve done it for free.”

“You’re wearing it backwards.”

“Well,” you breathe, setting your hands on his chest, the warmth of him not doing you any favours, “you’re the expert in expensive silk strangulation. Fix it for me.”

He looks at you intently. His pupils are blown wide, dark as ink, and you can feel exactly how hard he is beneath you. You wonder if he can feel how wet you are. Probably not—not through those overpriced, perfectly tailored slacks clearly designed to prevent situations like this from becoming obvious.

He reaches for the tie, fingers brushing your ribs as he takes each end. The back of his knuckles grazes the thin fabric of your blouse as he lifts the silk to straighten it. 

“You want it to lie like this,” he says softly. “Otherwise it twists.”

You don’t breathe. “Mhm.”

“Now it goes over and under…” His hands do exactly that, looping the fabric while all you can feel is the insistent throb between your thighs. The silk slides against you, his hands settling the knot at the top of your sternum, right between your breasts. 

“You can pull the longer end through here,” he murmurs and takes a hold of your hands, guiding them with his. His thumb presses to the knot to adjust it, dragging it higher. “See? Not that hard.”

You tilt your hips forward. “I don’t think that’s entirely true,” you whisper, fingers moving to the top button of his shirt, undoing it. You watch his Adam's apple bob around a swallow. “Do you want to know what I was really thinking about earlier?” you ask, working the second button loose, his white undershirt peeking through.

You glance up at him, and his eyes are fixed on the point where you’re straddling the hard line of his cock. “You’re going to tell me either way, aren’t you?”

“Mm,” you hum, dragging your thumb down the column of his throat, just to feel the way he swallows again. “I don’t have to.”

“But you want to.” His hands are back on your hips, fingertips pressing into your skin through your blouse.

You shrug, wetting your bottom lip. “I was thinking…whether you’ve ever actually thought about sleeping with me.” 

He stills briefly, like he remembers all the reasons why he shouldn’t be doing any of this, but also realises the two of you crossed that line half a bottle of wine ago. “I think you already know the answer to that.”

“Tonight doesn’t count. I mean before this. Have you thought about it?” There’s no shame in your voice, just curiosity.

His thumb slips beneath your blouse, making you roll your hips into him again. “Yes,” he grunts out.

“That’s it?”

“You asked a yes or no question.”

Your hand drifts lower, undoing another button on his shirt. “You could elaborate.”

“You really want me to do that right now?”

“Absolutely.” Your fingers pause, leaving his shirt half-open, and slide to the buttons of your own shirt. You toy with one absentmindedly. “Would it help if I took this off?”

His jaw flexes. He looks at your blouse. Then your mouth. Then your blouse again. “That’s not—” He cuts himself off, exhaling through his nose. 

“How about this,” you offer with a smile, “every time you tell me when you’ve thought about it, I take off a piece of clothing. Seems fair, don’t you think?”

“And if I don’t want to partake in this game?”

“Then I get off your lap, put on my most conservative pyjamas, go to sleep, you shower, and we never speak of this again.” You really, really hope that’s not the option he picks. “The choice is yours. You tell me what you want to do.”

He goes quiet, thinking—though with how hard his cock is pressing against you, practically straining in those slacks, you’re not convinced he’s capable of coherent thought. You’re hardly better. You’re fucking soaked, and technically the two of you haven’t even done anything remotely obscene. But apparently sitting on your boss’s lap counts as the world’s most effective form of foreplay.

“Rossi’s birthday last year,” he reveals. 

“I remember,” you nod and begin working your buttons down. “We stayed behind to help him clean up.”

“And you insisted on putting away the wine glasses—” He stops when your bra comes into view and swallows thickly before dragging his eyes to your face. “You climbed up onto the counter, almost fell and nearly shattered every glass in your hands.”

You laugh, shrugging your blouse off and tossing it on the floor so it can make friends with the popcorn crumbs. “I recall you having a pretty good view of my ass in the process.”

His eyes drop to the breasts spilling out your bra. “Not as good as the view I have now.”

“That’s one.” You toy with the strap of your bra. “Next.”

“The jet.”

You light up instantly.  “This’ll be good.” 

“We were coming back from Georgia and shared the sofa. You were lying on one end, I was sitting on the other.” 

“Do continue.”

“You move a lot in your sleep,” he goes on, eyes fixed on your face, though you can feel the tension in his hands at your hips. “Kept shifting… sighing… dragging the blanket up and then kicking it off again. And with every move, your skirt rode a little higher. I stopped looking when I realised I wasn’t just making sure you were covered. I was… staring.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” you coo sweetly, before attempting to climb off his lap without falling off the bed. His brows pull together as he watches you stand at the edge of the mattress, propped up on his elbows.

There’s a dark patch on his groin, and you don’t know if it’s from you, or him, or both, but it makes your stomach twist, makes you want to end this game so you could finally feel him inside you. 

But apparently you enjoy suffering—or making him suffer—especially when he’s looking up at you with his legs completely spread, those wide, helpless eyes and a face tinged pink. So you only smile, fingers sliding to the zipper of your trousers as you prompt innocently, “Did you like the tights I wore?”

“With the seam at the back,” he confirms just as you push the slacks down your thighs.

You hadn’t planned on playing strip—or confessional—poker with your Unit Chief, which is exactly why your underwear is nothing special. Plain grey cotton and embarrassingly damp. You freeze for only a second, then lift your chin like you meant for it to be this way.

“I don’t think I can keep going,” he says, his voice hoarse.

“You can’t last two more rounds?” you tease, kicking out of the fabric pooling at your ankles. “I won’t count the tie as clothing.”

His eyes drag over you like he’s in pain. “I mean if you keep this up for any longer, I’m going to finish in my pants like a teenager.”

You try very hard not to preen. “I’ll do you a deal,” you say, taking a slow step forward until you’re standing between his legs. “Make this one really good…” You lean in slightly, just enough for the tips of your fingers to brush his knee. “…and I’ll take everything off.”

He swallows.

“The last Christmas party.” His words come easily, like this specific memory had been on the edge of his mind for a while.

You nod. “You were my ride.”

“You had on that black dress with the slit up your thigh. You went upstairs to fix your lipstick and asked me to show you the bathroom.” He sits up, his hands coming to rest on the backs of your thighs. “And then your zipper conveniently decided to undo itself halfway down your spine.”

“That zip was very flimsy.”

“I put my hand on your back and you arched into it. Maybe you didn’t even realise you did it. But I did.” His thumb strokes idly against your skin, eyes half-lidded. “All I could think about was how easy it would’ve been to push that dress the rest of the way down… bend you over the sink and make you watch in the mirror.”

Heat pools low in your stomach. “And you didn’t.”

“You were tipsy and said you’d had too much champagne. So I zipped it back up and walked you downstairs.”

“Such a gentleman.” Your hands are already moving. You reach behind you, fingers brushing the clasp of your bra. “Well…a deal's a deal.” You take your time—partly on purpose, partly because your fingers are shaking the tiniest bit. The clasp gives, and you roll the straps lazily off your shoulders before letting fabric fall.

Hotch has gone completely still, the hands on your thighs frozen like he’s afraid to blink and miss something. The only thing moving are his eyes, dragging over your body so slowly it makes your skin burn. “You okay?”

His tongue sweeps across his bottom lip before he answers. “You know I’m not.”

“Will it make you feel better to do the honours?” Your hands cover his, guiding them up from your thighs to the waistband of your panties. 

He looks up at you, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him like this. Wrecked and glassy-eyed. He looks like someone who’d do anything you told him to. If they handed out awards for driving tightly wound, hyper-controlled men right to the edge of composure, you’re certain you’d win.

“Go on,” you whisper softly. “You’ve earned it.”

His fingers slip beneath the waistband and his touch is gentle as he starts easing the fabric down your hips. You glance down as he drags them lower, the inside of your underwear looking far worse than the outside. When you look back up, Hotch is already watching you, mouth curved into a crooked, boyish grin, validated that he’s not the only one soaking his undergarments. 

You step out of them the moment they hit the floor.

Hotch’s hands are on you right away, sliding up the backs of your thighs until they settle at the curve of your ass, pulling you closer.  He presses a wet kiss followed by a bite to your hip, your hands finding his shoulders to steady yourself.

“I want you on my tongue.”

“Yeah?”

He nods, laying back down and the room is tilting again. Whether from the cheap wine or the intoxication of him, you’re not sure. All you can do is follow, crawling up his body until your knees bracket his head. You don’t lower yourself down just yet.

He doesn’t touch you right away. Just…looks. 

“You need instructions?” you tease, threading your fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face. 

The bastard only laughs, the warm puff of air against your inner thigh making your breath catch. Then he’s lifting his head, and all you can do is watch—lips parted, hand still tangled in his hair—as his tongue finally makes contact with your pussy, dragging a slow stripe up your centre that makes your hips twitch. 

He pulls back with obscene patience, and you know exactly why, because a thin, pearly string of your wetness stretches from his mouth to you, and he has the audacity to look proud of it. 

He watches the strand break and you barely have time to process what’s happening before he’s hauling you down until you’re sitting on his face. His mouth opens wider to taste more of you, his tongue flattening and dragging through you, like he’s been dying for this. He absolutely has.

“Fuck!” you choke out, yanking at his hair, only for him to groan in response. Your hips stumble forward and for a second, you fear for the man’s airway with the way you’re practically smothering him between your thighs, but you realise he’s the one that’s pulling you down against him.

“So sweet for me,” he thrums, voice buried. You feel more than hear it, a vibration of sound right where you’re most sensitive. Your thighs tremble around his ears as he licks a messy path up you, then dips lower, tongue slipping inside, the bridge of his nose nudging your clit perfectly.

A whimper spills out before you can bite it back. You rock into him without meaning to, pulse skittering like it’s trying to outrun your body, that familiar feeling already building too fast.

And that’s when he slows. Doesn’t completely stop, just changes the pace in a way that has you letting out a strangled noise. 

“Really?” you pant, trying to catch your breath. “Is this your first time?” You lift yourself enough to look down at him. 

“Ask me nicely.”

“What?”

His chin glistens and he looks infuriatingly pleased with himself. “You’re used to demanding things.” His hands squeeze the sides of your thighs. “I think it’s time you learnt to be polite.”

Asshole. 

You let out a sharp breath, giving his hair a tug. “Please,” you bite out.

He smiles smugly, and then he’s lifting his head to suck your clit into his mouth. A whole parade of curses spill out of you—creative ones too, the kind you don’t even usually say out loud—tripping over each other so fast you barely recognise your own voice. 

And then he pulls back. Again. 

“Please what?” 

Correction: he’s a vindictive asshole.

You see exactly what he’s doing. You recognise his pettiness exactly for what it is. You tormented him first, made him spell it out for you, and now he’s returning the favour. He’s a desperate, competitive perfectionist who insists on winning everything, even the art of sexual torture. 

“Sadist,” you hiss. 

“Mm.” He turns his head and sinks his teeth gently into the soft flesh of your inner thigh. “Now be specific.”

You give him a dry humourless smile. “Please make me come. First with your mouth and then with your cock.” You drag a thumb along his jaw tauntingly. “Is that specific enough for you?”

His mouth is back on you again in seconds. No easing in this time. 

“Jesus—” you gasp, hands bracing on the mattress above his head for balance. The sheets bunch beneath your fingers, the material scratching against your palms. 

You feel his tongue circle and suck, like he’s trying to gauge every possible sound out of you, catalogue every single nerve you possess. Your thighs tighten around his temples, the drag of his stubble scraping lightly against your skin. 

He pulls you even lower, thumbs digging into your hips, like he wants to disappear into you entirely. The movement forces you down onto his tongue, and the wet, needy sounds he’s making against your cunt are so lewd, you swear you feel them echo behind your ribs. 

“Hotch—fuck!”

He hums at the sound, and then his hands shift, big palms sliding up your back, adjusting your angle to give him better access. 

“Okay—okay—slow down—” you whimper, even though your hips are doing the exact opposite.

“You asked nicely,” he mumbles into you.

Your laugh comes out breathless and shaky, your whole body tensing under the intensity of his tongue. “I didn’t think—ah—nicely would get me this.”

He answers without words, drawing a slow circle around your clit, and another moan tumbles out of you. You’re close. You can feel it in every part of you, in your thighs trembling around his ears, in the tight pull at the base of your spine. 

You gasp, head tipping back. “I—I’m—”

“You can come,” he says headily, tugging you closer. “Go on.”

You tense and wither against him. “Say it,” you pant. “Say you want me to.”

“I want you to.”

Your body caves forward, thighs clamping his head as your orgasm pulls you under so fast you forget to breathe, forget to think, forget everything except the feeling of coming apart on his mouth, wishing you could bottle it forever. 

It takes you a few minutes to come back to Earth. Earth being a cheap hotel room in the middle of nowhere. 

The first thing you register is the way Hotch’s thumb strokes your hip, then the press of his mouth to the inside of your thigh, another kiss, then another. You manage to lift yourself, and he immediately helps you, guiding your waist tenderly, letting you settle over him in your dazed state. 

“Hi,” you croak. 

He raises a brow, amused. “Hi.”

“Your face is shiny.”

A slow smile stretches across his mouth. “That would be your fault.”

“I can help with that,” you murmur, leaning down and running your tongue along the line of his jaw, tasting yourself on his skin. Your mouth then grazes the corner of his lips, and that’s when you realise—this man has had his tongue inside you, yet…you don’t know what he tastes like. The two of you haven't actually kissed. 

He must sense something is wrong, because his brows lift slightly, like he’s puzzled by the sudden stillness in your body. “What is it?”

You huff a tiny laugh, breath ghosting his cheek. “We haven’t even kissed.” You pull back, cupping his face in both hands, thumbs sweeping across his chin to clean the shine you left there. 

“You want to?” he asks like it’s a reasonable question, like he didn’t just have his mouth on the most intimate part of your body minutes ago.

“Aaron, you just had me sitting on your face. What do you think?”

“Aaron,” he repeats.

“That’s your name isn’t it?”

“Mm.” His hands tighten at your waist. “Say it again.”

“Are you going to kiss me, Aaron?”

For a second, he just stares up at you, like you’ve asked him something sacrilegious, something he's wanted for so long he’s almost afraid it's not real. His hands slide up your bare waist, settling at your ribs, giving them a gentle squeeze.

“Come here.” 

You meet him halfway.

His lips brush yours delicately, soft enough to make your stomach lurch in anticipation.

You pull back a fraction, just to see his face, and then you’re kissing him again, deeper, tasting something you’ve both been orbiting for years. His tongue slides against yours, the kiss swallowing the moan that slips out of you. 

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” you breathe against his mouth, the words almost a whine.

“Which ones are bothering you?”

“All of them,” you answer, fingers blindly racing to undo the rest of his shirt. “Sit up.”

He obeys with little afterthought, pushing up on his elbows so you can shove the fabric off his shoulders. You don’t bother folding it neatly, tossing it onto the growing pile of clothes on the floor, and you catch the tiny wince he tries (and fails) to hide.

“Arms up.” You grab the hem of his undershirt, tugging, and he sits up properly this time—bringing your bare, aching centre directly against the hard line of his cock.

The sound he lets out is a half-breath, half-groan at the contact. You don’t get the chance to tease him for it. You’re too busy hauling the undershirt over his head, and he has no choice but to help you strip it off. When it joins the rest of the discarded clothes, you press your hands to his shoulders, giving him a gentle push. He falls back without resistance, molten under your touch. 

You lean down, placing a kiss under his jaw, then another just below it, relishing in the way his breath stutters each time your mouth lands on new skin. His chest is warm under your lips, rising and falling in a rhythm that’s embarrassingly close to a pant. 

“Christ,” he mutters, and you grin against him, continuing to kiss your way down.

You press another kiss just above the waistband of his trousers, moving down to nudge the bulge beneath the fabric with the bridge of your nose. His reaction is instant. His hips twitch, hands shooting to your hair.

“Want me to stop?” you ask sweetly, glancing up at him through your lashes.

He shakes his head far too quickly. “Keep going.”

So you do. You kiss along the outline of him through the slacks, the damp patch dragging faintly across your lips with each pass. His thighs flex beneath your hands, his breathing falling out in tight, rigid bursts, the fabric getting warmer and wetter under your mouth. You drag your lips along the length of him once more, slow enough to be cruel, and his whole body jolts. 

That’s when you take pity. 

Your fingers finally move to his zipper, and you feel Hotch’s eyes on you as you ease it down. He lifts his hips immediately, allowing you to roll the slacks off him. The second they hit the floor, you’re already hooking your thumbs into the waistband of his boxers. He lifts his hips again—quicker and needier—as you drag the last piece of clothing down his thighs. 

And then he’s bare beneath you.

You sit back for a second, just to drink him in, mouth salivating at the flushed skin of his stomach, the tense lines of his abdomen, the way his cock rests hard and heavy on his stomach, precum sliding down the curve of him. You reach out without thinking, placing both hands on his thighs for balance as you crawl back up his body. Hovering over him, you lower your hips, feeling the head of his length nudge your inner thigh. 

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, almost like the words slip from him before he can decide whether he’s allowed to say them. His hands trace up your sides, thumbs brushing under your breasts.

That sentence almost makes you coy. Almost. But your body apparently didn’t get the memo, because your hand wraps around his cock, stroking slowly, and Hotch hisses through his teeth. He’s painfully hard in your palm, every throb pulsing against your grip. 

You press him back against his stomach and grind down on him.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes, voice shaking when the slick tip knocks directly against your clit. His hands grab your hips, fingers digging in. “I’m close, and I want to feel you. All of you. I don’t think I’ll be able to last if you keep doing that.”

You roll your hips again, a trembling little slide that makes your breath catch. “You will,” you whimper, leaning forward until your lips brush his. “For me.”

His jaw goes disastrously tight, eyes squeezing shut for half a second before they find yours again, throat constricting around a swallow—and you can’t help the grin that curls up in response. You almost regret leaving the unit, because Monday’s briefing would’ve been something, watching him give orders with a straight face while knowing he couldn’t even wait until he was inside you to come.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he rasps. His hand leaves your hip, slides up your spine, and gathers a fistful of your hair. He tugs it, just enough to pull a gasp from your mouth, and then lifts his head to press a wet, open-mouthed kiss against your jaw. 

You laugh, his exhale scorching against your skin. Your hand slips between your bodies, wrapping around his length again, and you pull away from his mouth as you shift upright. You rise onto your knees, finally guiding his head of his cock to your entrance, his precum coating your pussy, your thighs, his own stomach. 

“I think you’re enjoying this far more than I am,” you murmur—right before you sink down on him, only a fraction, enough to make you both tense at the contact. 

“Slow—” he manages, voice breaking around it. “Go slow.”

You pause there, barely taking the head of him, but it's enough for heat and pressure to spark low in your belly. “Slow?” you echo, tilting your head, pretending to consider it. “I don’t know… you weren’t exactly slow with me.”

His hands clamp down on your hips. “That was different.”

You give a faint roll of your hips, just enough for him to feel how wet you still are, how easy it would be to slide all the way down. His breath stumbles out of him, all of his authority stripped. 

“Different how?” you tease, tracing a finger down his chest, stopping right where his stomach flexes under your touch. 

His eyes flutter shut and when they open again, his pupils are blown, jaw clenching like he’s fighting the urge to thrust into you. “Different,” he repeats, “because I’ve been wanting this a long time.”

“How long?” you probe, sinking down onto him further, the stretch of him intoxicating. His head thunks back against the mattress, a groan lurching out of him. 

“Two—years,” he gets out, voice splintering as you take more of him. 

You still for a second. “Two years?”

“You’re surprised?”

“I mean… yeah? You don’t exactly flirt. You scowl. And file paperwork. And tell me I have a foul mouth.” You lower yourself another inch, slow enough to make him choke on a sound he’d absolutely murder himself for making in any other circumstance. You feel the stretch deep in your belly.

“Aaron,” you whisper, dragging your nails lightly down his chest. “Look at me.”

He does instantly. 

“You’ve been wanting this for two years?” 

He nods, and you sink down onto him, all the way, until the dark curls at the base of him brush your clit. He’s deep—too deep—in a way you’ve never felt before, his cock throbbing inside you as you bite down on a moan. 

“Don’t move yet. Just…give me a second,” he whispers, hands kneading the flesh of your ass.

Your fingers splay across his torso as you adjust to him. “Why didn’t you tell me? Or do anything about it?”

“Because I was your superior. Still am. For another thirty-six hours.”

“You’re telling me you waited two years because of HR?”

“Because it was the right thing to do.”

You shake your head, lift your hips, and take him again. He fills you up completely, the tip nudging deep enough to pull a choked sound from your throat. You’d imagined him like this—God, probably longer than two years—but it still doesn’t compare. 

“You feel so fucking perfect,” he pants, his right hand guiding your roll against him. “So, so perfect,” he mutters, voice fraying as you rise off him and then sink back down. 

His spare hand comes up to palm your breast, this thumb brushing the underside before his fingers catch your nipple and pinch. Your head tips back immediately, a moan spilling from you as the pleasure arcs up your spine. 

“That’s it,” he grits. “Just like that.”

Every time you sink back down, he stretches you just a little more, hits that spot just a little harder. Your thighs start to tremble with the effort. His right hand only tightens at your hip, guiding your pace, manipulating your angle because of course he knows what feels better. But it’s his other hand, the one that’s still on your chest, that begins to slide lower, drifting over your ribs, over your stomach, the curve of your pelvis.

You don’t even realise what he’s reaching for until his thumb finds your clit.

A helpless cry breaks out of you.

“There she is…” he coaxes, thumb moving in a circle motion. “So pretty and vocal for me.”

You pick up the pace at the praise naturally. His breath falters, hips stuttering every time you grind down and meet his thumb at the same time. 

“Aaron—” 

His head tips back, a vein standing out at his neck, jaw clenched so tightly the muscle jumps beneath his skin. His thumb slips against your clit with every shake of his body, but he doesn’t stop. If anything, he presses harder, circles tighter, chasing you towards the edge even as he’s sliding towards his own.

“Sweetheart, slow—slow down—”

You don’t. You do the opposite, rocking into him, burying him inside of you. You feel yourself clench around him.

“Fuck!” he groans, your name following. His hands fly back to your hips, trying to hold you still, but your body squeezes around him and his own hips jerk helplessly. The sound he makes next is loud enough you’re almost certain the entire floor hears it. Every muscle in his stomach goes taut as he throbs inside you, warmth spilling in hot waves as he comes harder than you’ve ever heard him breathe. 

One of his hands drags back down to your clit, despite the fact that his whole body seems to shake and twitch. He tries to keep his eyes open—tries to keep watching you on top of him—but his lashes flutter shut as you ride out the aftershocks pulsing through him. 

You feel the warmth of his release seep out of you, ropes catching your inner thigh, clinging around the base of his still-sensitive cock. He finally forces his eyes open, his thumb still on your clit.

“Are you close?” he rasps. 

You nod, legs shaking around him, barely able to hold yourself upright.

“Okay, baby… okay.” His breath stumbles, his whole body jolting each time you move, but his thumb keeps working you. 

“Aaron—” Your voice cracks, head falling forward as a wave of heat curls deep in your stomach.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Come on.”

You grind down again, chasing the high, and he groans at the contact, but pulls you flush against his hips so you can keep moving. Your hands slide across his chest, clutching his shoulders, needing something to hold as the pressure tightens like a fist around your spine. 

Your thighs clamp around his hips, your body clenching so fiercely around him that his head falls back with a quiet whimper. He tries to thrust instinctively, but he’s too sensitive. He trembles through the shock of it anyway, jaw flexing, teeth gritted as he tries to stay still for you. 

“Sweetheart—” he gasps, “I need—you have to—please—”

And that does it. The please. Hearing him say it. 

Your release slams into you like a freight train. 

Your whole body seizes around him, your nails dragging down his chest as your vision whites out, a sharp sob catching in your throat. The orgasm tears through you in violent waves, blinding and completely overwhelming. 

Your body finally goes limp, folding over him, your hands bracing on either side of his head as you lean forward. A thin string of drool slips past your lips as you gasp for air, your pussy still pulsing around his cock in tight, involuntary aftershocks.

Hotch’s arms come up your back immediately, palms splayed, rubbing slow strokes along your spine. 

“Easy,” he murmurs. “Easy…I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

You manage a shuddering inhale against his throat, your forehead pressed to the warm curve of his shoulder. You can hear and feel his heartbeat beneath you, syncing with your own like your bodies haven’t quite figured out how to separate yet. 

His hand moves up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. “There you go,” he whispers. “That’s it.”

Your lips brush the base of his throat when you exhale. “Don’t pull out just yet,” you mumble against him, wanting to keep him inside as long as you possibly can, unsure when—if—you’ll ever get this close to him again.

“I’m not going anywhere. You can have as long as you want.” 

You both go quiet for a moment, appreciating the soft ache of being filled and held at the same time. His chest rises beneath you with each slow breath, your body melting deeper into the lines of his. 

You lift your head up after a while, meeting his eyes. “Two years, huh?” 

He lets out a soft laugh. “Two years.”

“What’s the right thing to do now?” you ask, brushing the back of your knuckles along his jaw. 

“You need to go pee so I can get you cleaned up.”

You groan into his neck. “Gee, way to ruin a moment.”

“And then,” he adds, kissing your temple, “when your transfer is official… I can take you out to dinner…If you’d like that?”

“A date?” you ask quietly.

“If you want it to be.”

You pull back to look at him properly. “I’d like that.”

“Good,” he says with a smile, voice warm. “That’s what I was hoping.”

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✎ᝰ.

The next evening drifts in slow and quiet, settling over the apartment in soft, dusky layers.

You’d been anchored to the couch for hours, a half-empty bowl of popcorn resting on your stomach, a few stray kernels clinging to your worn sweats. 

The TV hummed a low, hypnotic lullaby, its shifting glow painting the walls in transient washes of blue and gold, reflecting nothing in particular from the muted rom-com.

The memory of Sevika last night—the closeness, the way her tongue had felt remains stubbornly at the edges of your mind, occasionally causing an ache to form low in your belly.

You shift, pulling the knitted blanket tighter around your shoulders. 

The popcorn edges are chewy, a faint buttery film clinging to your fingers. Still, you keep eating, mind drifting back to her. A soft groan, thick with longing and exasperation at your own inability to let go, rumbles in your throat.

Then your phone buzzes.

Amanda: Drinks tonight, please please please.

You blink at the screen, popcorn paused mid-air. You know her patterns by now: relentless, gleefully persistent, determined to drag you out of your cozy cocoon. 

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard.

You: We have work tomorrow morning Mandy

You groan as you hit send.

Almost immediately:

Amanda: See you at 9.

You stare at the words, eyebrows raised, lips twitching in disbelief. On a Sunday night? Your brain protests loudly, citing exhaustion, early alarms. 

But a slow, reluctant grin creeps across your face, tinged with a spark of anticipation you hadn’t realized you were craving.

You huff, scoffing at your own willingness. Fine. Whatever. She’s relentless; maybe it’s better to give in.

Rising from the couch, you stretch, brushing popcorn crumbs off your sweats before shuffling toward your bedroom. 

You flick on the light and head straight for the closet, digging through the mess—pushing hangers aside, shuffling through clothes—until a short dress catches your eye: simple, sleek, black, a little daring.

Lounge clothes hit the floor in a soft heap, and the dress slips over your skin with a cool, decisive weight.

You pause to take a long look in the mirror, and smooth the fabric of the dress over your hips, trace the lines with your fingers, and inhale sharply, bracing for the night ahead.

Sliding your phone into your bag, you step out into the evening, heels clicking against the pavement. The city is alive, lights sparkling like tiny promises. 

By the time you reach the bar, it’s buzzing with low conversations and clinking glasses, warm light spilling over polished wood. 

Amanda’s already there, perched on a stool, waving enthusiastically as you approach. Her smile is infectious, the kind that makes you relax almost immediately.

“Finally!” she exclaims, grabbing your wrist and pulling you in for a quick hug. “I thought you’d bail on me.”

“I was definitely going to,” you admit, smirking as you settle onto the stool next to her. “Work tomorrow morning, remember?”

Amanda waves a hand dismissively. “Details, details. Who cares?”

The bartender approaches, tattoos and tired eyes, and you order something mild—something you won’t regret in the morning, something that looks adult but tastes harmless. A small mercy for the version of you that has to wake up early.

As he walks away, Amanda immediately leans her head onto your shoulder with a dramatic groan.

“I needed this,” she sighs. “You have no idea how boring my week was.”

You scoff, nudging her off. “Says the woman who texted me an actual PowerPoint about her damn manicure last week.”

“I stand by that presentation,” she says, lifting her chin proudly. “It was educational. Informative. Inspirational.”

“And unhinged.”

“Correct.” She pokes your arm. “But you were off playing corporate spy or whatever in Kareshi, so you missed the whole saga.”

You raise a brow. “Saga?”

She launches into it instantly, eyes brightening. “Okay, so—I went in for a simple manicure. Simple. I wanted ballet pink. Soft. Gentle. Professional. Do you know what I got instead?”

You hide a smile behind your glass. “Considering it’s you? No.”

“A glitter bomb. A glitter apocalypse.” Amanda shudders theatrically. “The nail tech’s lamp broke mid-cure, and the replacement one had…issues. Like…hotspot issues. My middle finger literally smoked.”

You choke back laughter. “Smoked?”

“SMOKED. And then—because that wasn’t traumatizing enough—she got double-booked, and some woman with a chihuahua in a Gucci sweater started screaming about wait times. Meanwhile, I’m sitting there with one hand finished, one hand raw, wondering if I’ll ever regain use of my fingertips.”

You laugh, the sound melts into the low hum of conversation and the soft push of music vibrating through the bar.

Your shoulders drop. Your spine unwinds. 

And then a voice cuts through the din of the bar.

“Hey.”

You flinch slightly, your head whipping around, and there she is. Zara.

Your hand hovers over your glass for a beat longer than necessary. Even though you’ve done nothing wrong, you feel caught—as if the sudden stillness of the world just pressed down on you.

Zara crosses her arms, eyes flicking over Amanda before landing back on you.

“This is…” you start, your voice faltering. “Amanda’s my friend.”

Amanda’s grin is playful, maybe a little guilty, and you feel a twitch in your jaw at the obviousness of her amusement.

Zara’s gaze sharpens. “I didn’t know you were back from your work trip.”

You glance down at your drink. “I… got back last night.” you mumble, the words feeling thin and inadequate.

Her eyes drift lower, tracing the line of your collar bone, then land abruptly on your neck. You freeze. 

Fading hickeys, evidence you hadn’t bothered to cover up.

Zara lets out a low, derisive laugh. “Hm. Work trips usually don’t come with… those.”

Amanda glances at you, a familiar, mischievous smirk beginning to curl at the corners of her lips. 

Your fingers jump to your neck almost on instinct, rubbing at the skin with a sudden, desperate urge to erase them, praying your flush isn't as obvious as it felt.

“So… who did that?” Zara asks quietly. 

Your stomach twists into a tight, uncomfortable knot.

None of your business, you snap inwardly. You’re not with her; you don’t owe her a single explanation. 

Yet the defiant retorts forming in your mind catch, snag, choke in your throat before you can articulate them.

“It… it doesn’t matter,” you manage instead, the words coming out sharper, more defensive than you intend, betraying the turmoil inside.

Zara doesn’t miss a beat. 

She moves slowly, positioning herself directly in front of both you and Amanda, claiming the space, asserting her stance. Her arms still crossed, a formidable barrier, eyes sharp and assessing as they bore into yours.

“Are you… with someone?” she asks, a calculated strike, her gaze piercing through any remaining pretense of casualness. 

Your mouth opens, then closes, gasping like a fish, and you stammer: “N-no.” 

She scoffs, low and unimpressed, tilting her head in a knowing, almost pitying gesture. 

“How about that woman you were at the lounge with the night we met? The one you… sucked face with after making out with me?”

The words hang heavy in the air. Amanda’s eyes, already wide with a mix of shock and pure entertainment, practically bulge, a full-blown smirk curling irrevocably at the corners of her lips. 

Heat crawls up your neck, and your hand rises instinctively to brush across your jaw, embarrassment tightening low in your gut, leaving your chest hollow yet flaring, desperate to hide the evidence of your alleged indiscretion.

Your mind stutters. She saw that? You hadn’t even realized Zara had noticed, let alone witnessed your kiss with Sevika. 

Amanda, fully entertained, leans forward slightly, as if savoring every excruciating second, her eyes sparkling with unholy glee. 

An explanation tries to claw its way out of you, but when your mouth finally parts, all that emerges is a mangled, bewildered sound.

“Wait—what?”

Your voice, a ragged whisper, stumbles out, attempting to defend yourself, though you’re not entirely sure what you’re defending against. 

The full implication of Zara’s disappointment, sharp and personal, washes over you. This isn’t casual jealousy or a wounded ego; it’s something far deeper, far more significant than you’ve allowed yourself to consider. 

A flash of memory hits: that first hour you met her—her confident advances, the bold touch, the way she tried to take things further, every move screaming “hook-up.” 

You hadn’t even considered that she might want more.

Your chest tightens, a cloying, awkward weight settling there, as the uncomfortable truth clicks into place: she didn’t just want a casual encounter that night. She wanted you.

Zara lets out one last, dismissive snort, a sound laced with a finality that allows no pushback, no reconciliation. Then, she spins sharply on her heel, her movements abrupt and decisive. 

“Whatever,” she mutters, the word a cutting snub, already walking away, disappearing into the pulsating crowd without a backward glance. 

The space she leaves behind feels oddly empty, strangely hollow, yet still thick with tension.

Amanda turns toward you fully now, expression a perfect mix of curiosity, mischief, and sheer amusement. You roll your eyes at her, knowing exactly what she’s thinking.

But you’ve told her, firmly, to stop asking about Sevika, and for once, she respects the boundary, letting the heavy, pregnant silence hang between you, her sheer presence a question in itself. 

You exhale slowly, a long, drawn-out sigh, running a hand over your face, feeling the warmth of your cheeks. 

“Yes,” you admit, your voice low but firm, the words a surrender, a confession, and a liberation all at once. “I’m sleeping with Ms. Sevika. Yes, I took your damn advice. Yes, you are annoyingly, infuriatingly right. Now, please, for the love of everything, fuck off.”

Amanda squeals, cackling, throwing her head back in pure delight. 

You can’t help it—you smile despite yourself, warm and relieved, letting her energy sweep through you as you take a slow sip of your drink.

Time, after that, becomes a liquid blur. 

One drink folds into another, conversations tumble from animated debates into chaotic, joyful nonsense. The bar lights, once distinct, soften and blur around the edges of your vision, forming halos of honeyed color. 

You lean back, comfortably tipsy, letting the warmth of the alcohol mingle with the residual glow of the evening and Amanda’s boundless, unwavering excitement. 

At some point, inevitably, the night winds down—far too quickly, as always. You stumble out into the cooler, quieter street, your heels clicking a surprisingly steady rhythm against the pavement. 

You make your way home with a lazy grin plastered across your face.

✎ᝰ.

Monday arrives, unforgiving in its timing, landing heavy across your shoulders the instant your alarm drags you awake. You groan, twisting under the sheets for one last, useless moment of warmth before surrendering to the day.

By the time the sun begins to rise, you’re already moving, pulled into the rhythm of the hours despite yourself. Your footsteps echo softly in the apartment, the familiar routine of coffee, keys, and bag offering a hollow comfort.

The office is dim when you step inside, the sky outside still that pale, uncertain blue that belongs only to early morning — a color that makes everything feel suspended, halfway formed. 

You like coming in early sometimes; the quiet helps you settle. But today, the quiet feels wrong.

You aren’t even late — you’re early.

But Sevika is earlier still.

Her office lights burn behind the glass, sharp and purposeful, and her silhouette is a rigid cut-out against it: tall, unmoving, one hand braced flat on the desk, the other gripping her phone, knuckles standing stark against her skin—a silent tension you can feel through the glass.

You stop mid-step without meaning to.

This isn’t her usual morning focus. This is pressure. Tight. Heavy. The kind that doesn’t sit in her shoulders but in the walls around her — the kind that makes your own pulse pick up even though she hasn’t said a word to you yet.

And then something small, but sharp, catches your attention: she glances up from the spreadsheet for half a second, catches your movement in the corner of her eye, and immediately looks back down. 

No acknowledgment. No nod. Nothing. You flush slightly, even though you know better — she’s always been private, composed. But that split-second dismissal stings more than it should.

You force your feet to move again, quiet on the polished floor, slipping into your office as if stepping too loudly might set something off. 

You power on your computer, pretending you don’t hear her voice seeping faintly through the glass.

“—no, I said everything. I want the full forensic breakdown, not the preliminary summary.”

Her tone isn’t angry. It’s sharpened. Honed like a blade pressed too long and too hard against stone.

Your stomach pulls tight.

Kira.

It’s been weeks since the investigation started — weeks of rumors, meetings, sterile updates that reveal nothing and imply everything — but these cases take months. And yet the edge in Sevika’s voice… it’s different today. It’s not just professional tension.

A flicker of worry crawls up your spine — not just about the audit, but about the way she looks alone in that room. The way your chest tightens at the idea of her being that stressed and unreachable. An irrational part of you whispers, Is she shutting everyone out? Is she shutting me out?

You try to smother that thought before it fully forms.

Amanda slips in about forty minutes later, coffee in hand, eyebrows rising the moment she catches the sharp edge in Sevika’s voice.

“Oh boy,” she murmurs under her breath. “Tom said Ms. Sevika’s been here since six.”

You blink. “…Why?”

Amanda steps closer, dropping her voice even lower.

“Legal found more discrepancies. It’s not just the eight hundred grand anymore. Kira may have been diverting funds for longer.”

Your stomach sinks. “How much longer?”

Amanda shakes her head, eyes tight. “No one knows yet. They’re still digging. And… the board may have to get involved if this keeps widening.”

The words hit like a fist to the gut. 

The board. That’s not just bad news. That’s everything breaking. You feel your chest tighten, a sudden metallic taste in your mouth. The office seems to shrink around you, the quiet clicking of keyboards suddenly deafening.

Oh fuck.

You force yourself to swallow, rubbing your palms up and down your thighs to steady the trembling of your fingers. Your eyes flick toward Sevika’s office. The rigid silhouette hasn’t moved. She hasn’t stepped out. The blinds of her composure are fully drawn.

Which somehow feels worse than anger. Worse than raised voices or slammed doors. Silence from Sevika is a different kind of storm — the kind that builds inward instead of out. 

It makes something uneasy flicker in your heart: a small, stupid sting at being completely shut out of whatever’s happening behind that door.

You reach into your bag for your notebook, but your fingers brush a small wrapped box. 

Right — Amanda’s gift. Something you’d picked out at the stand in Kareshi. You almost forgot it existed. 

“Mandy,” you murmur, pulling it out. “Got you something.”

Her eyes widen. “For me?”

“For keeping me sane. And because you asked.”

And because offering warmth feels like the only thing you can control in a morning like this.

She opens it, the lacquered koi hairpin catching the overhead lights — and her whole face brightens.

“Oh my God— it’s gorgeous.”

“It’s supposed to bring luck,” you say, smiling faintly.

“Fuck, we need that today.”

You exhale a soft laugh you didn’t expect to find in your lungs.

And for a moment — just one fragile, welcome moment — relief threads between the two of you, cutting cleanly through the tension like a sudden breeze through a stuffy room.

✎ᝰ.

Emails stack. The entire office feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for something to break — and you can’t tell if that something is the investigation or Sevika herself.

Your inbox dings. The alert is small, almost innocuous, but it makes your stomach hitch. One new message: 

From Sevika.

Bring me the updated reports. 11:30. —Sevika

Your throat tightens, dry and scratchy.

By 11:30, the silence has etched itself into your bones. You gather the updated reports she requested, smoothing the pages once, twice, like neatness can shield you from the inscrutable air in her office.

You knock gently.

“Come in.”

Her voice is clipped, low — the kind that vibrates with barely contained tension.

You step inside.

She doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t even glance. Her eyes stay glued to the screen, one hand extended toward you in a silent command.

You move closer, trying to keep your own breathing steady.

“These are the updated—”

"I know what it is," she snaps, the words sharp, slicing through the air with a precision that steals your breath. "I'm the one who fucking requested it."

The unexpected ferocity of her retort hits you like a jolt. A wave of heat washes over your face, followed by stunned disbelief. 

Anger, hot and bitter, blooms instantly in your chest—a visceral, immediate reaction to the sheer disrespect.

Her head snaps up at the sudden, harsh bark of her own voice, as if the echo in the room finally pricks her awareness. 

For a fleeting moment, her eyes, when they meet yours, hold a flicker of something like alarm—a dawning realization of her own outburst.

You glare, furious, the sting of being treated like this surging up through every nerve ending. 

Without a second thought, without a word, you thrust the reports onto her desk, the papers scattering slightly, a visual manifestation of your own disarray.

“Wait—” she starts.

But you don’t stay to hear it. You pivot, shoulders rigid, jaw tight, and walk out of the office, every step fueled by the heat of your indignation. 

She’s under immense pressure, yes; standing at the bottom of a pile of corporate chaos with nothing but her bare hands is a lot. But that? That was fucking unnecessary.

You slam the door softly behind you, letting yourself fume for a second before walking across to your own office. 

You drop into your chair, trying to anchor yourself in other tasks, to shove the sting of her words into the corner of your mind. 

Your fingers tap against the keyboard, your jaw still clenched, chest tight, as your mind replays her words over and over.

Half an hour later, anger still simmers beneath the surface, hot and burning, but now it’s mixed with something else—a hollow ache behind your ribs that wasn’t there a moment ago.

It’s not just what she said. It’s the way her head jerked up afterward, the fraction of a second where you glimpsed the fracture in her control. The exhaustion etched into her face, the raw, fleeting vulnerability that followed.

Your anger begins to lose its edge, replaced by a sinking, unsettled worry. Your chest tightens further at the thought, a mixture of fear and helplessness you don’t know what to do with.

You force yourself back into your work, though the motions feel distant, mechanical, your mind already drifting elsewhere. 

Every muted click of the mouse, every low hum of the office seems amplified, almost waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And then, out of the corner of your eye, you glimpse movement through the glass.

Sevika rubs her temple — not the usual tired gesture, but deeper, almost desperate, like she’s trying to push the pain back into her skull by force.

For a heartbeat, her hand trembles. A tiny shake. Barely there. But unmistakable. 

You stop breathing.

She never does that.

Not after fourteen-hour days. Not after board meetings that would make other seasoned executives cry. Not even when she’s furious. 

She is control incarnate—the kind of person who bends the chaos of the world to her will with quiet precision. And yet now… now this slight quiver betrays her.

Your stomach twists, a sick, knotting mix of fear and awe. Seeing her, normally so composed and immovable, show even a flicker of vulnerability feels like watching a skyscraper tremble at its foundation.

Something is wrong. And she’s carrying it alone.

The thought presses against your gut, heavy and urgent, even as your rational mind whispers to step back, respect her space. But your heart refuses. The urge to reach across that distance, to do something, anything, wells up in a tide that doesn’t listen to logic.

By lunchtime, you’re torn in two directions: knock on her door and risk adding to the weight already dragging her under, or leave her alone and pretend the low, uneasy squeeze beneath your sternum doesn’t spark every time you glance at her through the glass panels.

You hover in your chair, cursor blinking on your screen like it’s mocking you. Lunch might help her. Something warm. Something grounding. Something that’s not another spreadsheet or legal update or crisis wrapped in a manila folder.

Your fingers itch to move toward her office, but your mind drifts back to the sharpness of her words earlier, the sting of anger that hadn’t belonged to you but had cut through anyway. 

The echo of her clipped “I know” still lingers in your mind, a reminder that even the strongest people can wound unintentionally. Should you even be attempting this now?

You exhale slowly, feeling the knot in your stomach pull tight before easing as the decision solidifies within you.

Giving her space right now is probably the safest choice—for her, for you. For no other reason than the memory of her tone alone, you can’t bring yourself to add another layer to the morning’s tension.

So you settle on a compromise: wait for her to reach out. Let her set the pace. If nothing else, it protects the small thread of calm you’ve managed to gather in the past few hours. 

You rise from your chair, smoothing your shirt, fingers tracing the fabric almost obsessively to keep your hands busy. Your nerves buzz under your skin—too awake, too aware of every heartbeat. 

You walk out of your office and head down to lunch alone.

✎ᝰ.

The cafe buzzes with warmth and noise, a sharp contrast to the suffocating silence upstairs. Steam clouds the air, plates clatter, someone laughs too loudly near the espresso machine—everything here feels alive in a way your floor absolutely does not.

You stand with your tray, waiting for your salad. You’re so deep in your thoughts you don’t hear Amanda approach until her voice hits your ear.

“Hey—how’s it going?” she asks, tilting her head as she slides her tray next to yours.

You startle slightly. “Oh, I’m fine,” you murmur, not entirely convincing yourself.

She quirks an eyebrow, a small, understanding smile crossing her face. “Sure you are.”

You both collect your food, and then slide into the corner table together, the soft lighting doing nothing to hide the way your shoulders sag.

Amanda settles, then props her chin on her hand, studying you for a moment. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitate, fork brushing absently over your salad. “… Ms. Sevika hasn’t said much to me today. And when we did talk… it wasn’t pleasant. At all.”  The memory of Sevika’s dismissive tone still pricks at you.

She frowns slightly, considering. “Wait—aren’t you two just… sleeping together? What’s the big deal?”

You pause mid-bite. 

A wave of heat washes over you, and your gaze snaps up to meet hers, a sharp, wounded glare cutting across the table. 

The words, though perhaps not intended cruelly, strike with an unexpected force—blunt in a way that hurts.

Amanda notices, her expression thinning at the lips, realization dawning. “Ah—sorry. That came out wrong.”

You swallow, the lump in your throat making it difficult. The sting of her words, however unintentional, remains. 

You offer a small, dismissive shrug, your gaze dropping back to your salad. You poke at a stray piece of lettuce, the urge to dissect the situation, to explain the unspoken complexities of your relationship with Sevika, suddenly vanishing. “Just… let’s change the subject.”

Amanda exhales, nodding, then unloads everything immediately: gossip, confessions, weekend drama, exaggerated rants about people you barely interact with. Chaos, but the harmless kind. The kind that doesn’t collapse anyone’s career or involve legal teams or frozen bank accounts.

It’s a relief. A lifeline.

You laugh at her dramatic reenactments, tease her for her choices, toss a crouton at her when she gets too smug. And somewhere in all of it, your body remembers what it feels like to breathe without a weight on your sternum.

For a little while, you almost forget the heavy glass wall upstairs, the dimmed privacy setting, the silhouette that wouldn’t look at you long enough to speak.

Almost.

Because even while Amanda talks, even while you smile, a part of your mind keeps drifting back toward the executive floor—toward the way Sevika’s shoulders looked when she rubbed her temple, toward the tiny tremor in her hand, toward the way she spoke to you.

It sits in your ribs, quiet but insistent. A little ache you can’t exhale out.

The cafe’s warmth sticks to your skin as you step into the elevator. You press the button for the upper floors, and the doors slide shut with a soft whoosh. 

The confined space tilts slightly, the mirrored walls reflecting your own tension back at you. Each floor that ticks by is a slow, measured climb, a countdown to the quiet intensity that’s waiting.

When you return to your office, Sevika’s office is dimmed to privacy mode — full frost, the glass gone opaque white, erasing even the faintest outline of her.

No silhouette. No movement. A full shut-out.

It’s ridiculous, you tell yourself. You’re her assistant… and someone she’s fucking… but you’re not not her confidant, not her anchor, not someone entitled to her private storms. Your job is logistics, schedules, crisis-routing. 

A flicker of motion draws your eye: Tom, badge in hand, slipping into her office. Her door closes behind him, smooth and silent.

Something pins you with a hollow ache, that prickling twinge of exclusion, the same ache you’d felt earlier in the morning. 

You tell yourself it’s rational: she’s running a meeting, probably briefing him on the Kira situation. It’s work. 

Still. Watching the door close, knowing she’s letting someone else in while you hover on the outside—it scratches at the raw edge in your chest. 

A quiet, poisonous thought slips in: Maybe she doesn’t need you right now.

But why does it bother you this much?

You shake your head a little too hard, trying to dislodge it. Focus on your inbox, on the unread emails, the overdue vendor signatures, the three meeting requests waiting for her approval. But the tasks blur together, your cursor blinking accusingly at you.

Time drags. Five minutes. Ten. An hour. Her door never opens. Her light never flickers. Privacy mode never lifts.

By six, your eyes ache and your brain feels wrung out. The office is nearly empty, the overhead lights glowing softly as you gather your bag.

You glance at her office one last time. Still sealed. Still silent. 

You leave the building with a heaviness that clings to your shoulders all the way home.

✎ᝰ.

Your apartment doesn't just feel quiet tonight; it's a vacuum, sucking the energy out of the air. It’s a profound, aching stillness, not the peaceful kind that invites relaxation, but the kind that acts as an echo chamber for the maelstrom within your own mind. 

Every thought, every unresolved worry, every unaddressed task from the day seems to amplify in this oppressive silence, creating a pressure that presses in from all sides.

You move through the motions automatically — dropping your bag, kicking off your shoes, stepping into the shower. The spray hits your skin, a welcome assault of heat, steam clouding the small enclosure. 

For a fleeting moment, there’s a sense of reprieve, a gentle melting of the day's hard edges. The warmth permeates, promising comfort. But the water, no matter how scalding or soothing, can't scrub away the tenacious grip in your skull.

A steel band seems to tighten around your temples, a constant, low thrum beneath the surface of the warmth, refusing to loosen its hold. Not really.

Afterward, eating feels like another task you’re not sure you have the energy for. You grab something simple from the fridge, anything that doesn’t require thought, and pop it into the microwave without really paying attention.

You take a bite. The texture registers, the warmth too, but the taste just… doesn’t. Everything is muted under the metallic edge of your own anxiety.

Your tongue feels numb, your body moving on autopilot. Each mouthful sinks heavy, and your stomach tightens around it, knotted and uneasy, protesting every swallow like it wants nothing to do with the food you’re trying to get down.

By the time you curl up on the couch with a blanket, the apartment feels like a space you’re only half inhabiting. You stare at the TV menu, thumb hovering over the remote, but nothing holds your focus.

Your phone sits beside you on the cushion.

You aren’t checking it. Except that you are. Every few minutes, your eyes flick toward the screen. Waiting for… something.

A message. A ping. A missed call. Some sign that today’s distance wasn’t personal. Wasn’t about you.

But the nausea curls up anyway, tight and persistent. 

A lump starts to form in your throat, unexpected and embarrassing, and you swallow it down hard. It’s a reminder that even when you try to analyze and compartmentalize your feelings, your body can still betray you.

You know it’s not about you—she’s stressed, the Kira situation, the board—but knowing doesn’t stop the hollow ache, the lump rising in your throat yet again. 

And worse, you feel selfish for feeling this way. For letting one day of distance, one single day, derail your calm, make you overthink every glance, every word. You hate it. Hate that your mind latches onto the absence like a claw, hating yourself for caring this much when you know rationally you shouldn’t. You swallow hard, wishing both the nausea and the guilt would just vanish.

You drag in a slow breath. And then you feel it—hot, unwelcome pricks at the corners of your eyes. You blink, forcefully, trying to hold back the tears that aren’t supposed to be here. 

In a moment of desperation, you reach for your phone, thumb hesitating over the contact for your mom.

Maybe she can offer some words of wisdom, some grounding perspective to remind you that the world isn't always this heavy and overwhelming. 

Your thumb hovers over the call button, trembling slightly, when—sharp, precise—there’s a knock at your door.

Your heart stutters so hard it feels like it misses a beat.

You stand too fast, blanket falling to the floor, and cross the living room with your pulse in your throat. You hesitate for a moment, before opening the door.

Sevika waits there. 

You freeze for a fraction of a second. 

What do you even say? Ask if she’s okay? Ask why she was distant today? Ask why she spoke to you like that? None of it feels safe—or even appropriate. So you say nothing. You just look at her.

Then you release your hold on the door and step back, a small, hesitant shift that’s enough to tell her she can come in. Your arms fold across your chest as you move out of the way.

Sevika steps inside, slowly, and closes the door behind her.

Her gaze meets yours, and for a moment, she mirrors your own uncertainty. A flicker of something guarded crosses her face, as if she, too, is searching for the right words. Then, the tension in her shoulders seems to ease, replaced by a quiet resolve.

“I was an asshole today.”

Yes, she was. And it stung. You’ve been swallowing that all day.

But the moment you see the strain in her expression, the words you should say slip right out of reach.

What comes out instead is softer, instinctive—

“Sevika—it’s fi—”

“No,” she cuts in, low but firm. “It’s not. I snapped at you. I shut you out. I hurt your feelings.”

The words hit you like a physical touch. You weren’t prepared for that kind of honesty.

You feel tears sting the back of your eyes so fast you have to look away, jaw tightening as you try to tamp down the sudden swell of feeling rising in your throat. 

Embarrassment, relief, ache — all tangled and suffocating.

When you finally look back up, Sevika is moving toward you.

“Please, don’t do that,” she says, voice barely above a breath.

Her thumb brushes under your cheek. You didn’t even realize a tear had escaped.

Her touch is gentle. Careful. More intimate than anything you shared in the office, in the suite, on the boat, or in her bed.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, thumb sweeping once more, slower this time. “You didn’t deserve any of that.”

Your vision blurs, a quiet, helpless inundation. Before you can even attempt to rein it in, driven by an instinct that bypasses thought, you lean forward and wrap your arms around her.

She stiffens. Just for a second.

Then she exhales and her arms fold around you, pulling you in with a quiet urgency that steals the air from your lungs. Her chest rises and falls against cheek, tension bleeding out of her in slow, reluctant waves.

Relief hits you so hard it nearly knocks you off your feet.

She tilts her head slightly, just enough to see your face. Then she leans in and presses a soft, quick kiss to your lips.

Not hungry. Just… reassurance. A promise she doesn’t have the words for.

Sevika turns away before you can read too much in her expression, runs a hand over her face, and moves toward the couch. 

She sinks into it heavily. 

You hesitate for a moment, taking in the slump of her shoulders, the way her head tilts slightly forward as if the weight of the world is pressing down. You just want to reach out, offer some quiet comfort in the middle of everything she’s carrying.

Slowly, you move over and settle beside her on the couch, careful not to crowd, just close enough that your presence is tangible. 

The fabric of the cushions sighs under your weight, and the faint scent of her — sharp, woody — drifts into your senses. Your hand hovers for a heartbeat, then brushes against hers, letting it rest there lightly.

“Do you… want to talk about it?” you ask softly, voice tentative.

Her jaw tightens immediately, before she releases a shallow exhale. 

“The shit with Kira… it’s not just about the money,” she admits, voice raw around the edges. “It’s reminding me of something I don’t… want to revisit.”

A pause.

She exhales, long and slow, her gaze fixed on a spot on the floor rather than on you.

“Selene,” she murmurs. The name lands heavy, like it’s still bruised somewhere inside her.

You wait, unsure whether to speak. She doesn’t look at you.

“She took from me.” A pause. “Personally. And from the company.”

Your breath catches, just slightly. “You mean… money?”

A humorless laugh slips out of her—quick, bitter. “Yeah. Money. And other things I shouldn’t have let her anywhere near.”

She doesn’t specify what. She doesn’t have to. There’s something in the way her shoulders tense, something in the way her voice thins around the edges, that tells you the truth: Selene mattered. Selene got close.

Carefully, you ask, “Were you… involved?” 

Sevika doesn’t answer. Not directly. But the quiet between you stretches long and charged, and she doesn’t deny it. She just exhales, like the memory itself is a knot she can’t untie.

“I covered it up,” she says instead. “Protected her. And she walked away without looking back.” The words scrape out of her like they still hurt.

You sit with it, letting the pieces fit themselves together. “And Kira…” you start.

“That girl meant nothing to me,” Sevika snaps—not cruel, just sharp, defensive, like the thought itself irritates her. She drags a hand over her jaw, staring past you. “She’s just an employee. But her bullshit—it hits the same damn nerve.”

You understand now. Kira wasn’t close. Not like Selene. But her actions still dug into the one place Sevika had walled off, the place nobody has touched since. Because she doesn’t let people get close. 

“She just—” Sevika sighs, defeated in a way you’ve never seen on her. “She took advantage of the fact that I trusted her to do her job. And it reminded me why I stopped trusting anyone in the first place with anything.”

Silence folds over the room. 

“That’s all,” she finishes quietly, shutting down the conversation. “I’m done talking about it tonight.”

You nod, understanding.

The old wound. The one she buried under steel and silence. The one that left her feeling foolish, exposed, ashamed. The one where she trusted someone — cared for them — and they used that trust to gut her.

And now Kira’s mess is dragging those memories to the surface. The theft, the breach of trust, the board breathing down her neck — it all echoes the same betrayal.

This isn’t about spreadsheets or audits. This is her heart remembering what it felt like to be cracked open and left to bleed.

She is fighting a ghost, and the threat of Kira is merely the shape that trauma has chosen to wear tonight.

The realization settles between you like a dim lantern glow, unsteady but honest, guiding your next small move rather than pushing you to fill the silence.

You shift closer slightly, letting your shoulder just brush hers. The tension in her body is still present, but the lines in her posture soften fractionally. 

Your hand drifts up, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear before settling lightly on her thigh. You don’t even know why you do it—your body moves before your thoughts catch up. 

Maybe it’s the lingering echo of relief from her apology, the way her thumb traced under your cheek, the way her quiet “please don’t do that” felt like it mattered in a way you didn’t expect. Maybe it’s the small, magnetic pull of her vulnerability, rare and fleeting, and now entirely present.

Her breath stutters at the contact. Not dramatically, not a gasp that would betray her composure to anyone else—but a tiny hitch, barely noticeable unless you’re watching for it. And you are. 

Every microsecond of her reaction is magnified, reverberating through you.

She looks, her eyes are darker, softened at the edges, and there’s a flicker of something fragile behind them, like a candle trembling in a draft. Vulnerable. The kind of moment you know will be gone if you blink.

You exhale, barely audible, and whisper, “Relax.” Your voice is more than a suggestion—it’s a plea, even to yourself, to slow down, to let this small bubble of safety exist.

You let your hand slip away from her thigh before either of you can think too hard about it. The moment holds, suspended, warm and delicate… and then you shift, sliding off the couch.

Sevika’s brow furrows. “What are you—”

You’re already lowering yourself to your knees in front of her.

Her voice cuts off instantly. Not sharp. Not warning. Just still—like you’ve triggered a switch she doesn’t know she has. Her gaze follows you down, curious in spite of herself.

Slowly, you reach for her shoes.

She doesn’t move, but her posture tells the truth: her shoulders ease back, her breath levels out, the smallest shift of someone acknowledging the change without fighting it. She isn’t commanding you. She is letting you. Letting herself.

Your fingers work carefully at the heel of the first shoe, slipping it off with steady motions. You place it aside with a soft thud. Then the other. Her socked feet settle against the carpet, and she exhales through her nose, something between relief and disbelief.

You glance up at her. “There.”

Her gaze is heavy on you—not expectant. Just… watching. The kind of look that says she’s trying to understand why you’d do something so gentle for her.

You push yourself back to your feet. “Are you hungry?”

Her tiny shrug isn’t indifference—it’s exhaustion wearing a thin disguise.

You smile, small but certain. “I’m taking that as a yes.”

Before she can argue, you head into the kitchen. 

The fridge light spills out onto your hands as you grab what you need—something simple, warm, comforting. The quiet of the apartment fills in around you. 

Behind you, she doesn’t move; you can feel her presence fixed on the doorway, listening to the small sounds of you taking care of her. Soft clinks, quiet motion, domestic warmth she never lets herself expect.

When you return with the plate, Sevika has sunk deeper into the couch, one arm draped over the backrest, her posture loose and unwound. You offer her the food.

She takes it without speaking, fingers brushing yours—brief, warm, involuntary.

You sit beside her—not pressed close, but near enough that your shoulder is within reach if she wanted it, far enough that she has space to breathe. 

She gives you a sideways look, something weary-soft, something grateful she won’t say out loud.

You grab the remote and turn on the TV. “Anything particular?” 

Another shrug, though this one is slower, lazier—almost content.

You pick a show. Something easy. Background noise more than anything.

Sevika eats quietly, the faint clink of the fork the only sound between you until the TV hums to life. Her knee shifts slightly, brushing yours—not a mistake, not an invitation, just… presence.

Sevika finishes the last bite, setting her fork down with a soft clink against the ceramic. She starts to rise, stretching lightly, but you reach out before she can move.

“I got it,” you say, gently. 

She hesitates for a fraction of a second, then allows it, leaning back slightly as you lift the plate from her hands.

The slight warmth of the dish still rests in your palms as you carry it to the kitchen. The tiles are cool under your bare feet as you set the plate in the sink. 

A small clatter echoes, fading quickly into the quiet thrum of the apartment. You run a hand along the edge of the counter, fiddling with a stray utensil, twisting it absently between your fingers for a moment.

You glance back toward the couch. Sevika’s posture is relaxed now, her arm still draped over the backrest, but the subtle tension in her shoulders is back, the kind of tension you know won’t fully vanish easily.

You finish rinsing the plate and set it aside, then make your way back into the living room, approaching her slowly.

“Do you… want to shower?”

She tilts her head slightly, a small nod, and a quiet, clipped, but sincere. “Thanks.”

You gesture toward the bathroom. “Come on.”

She moves smoothly, almost mechanically, but you notice the slight hesitation in her step, a shadow of vulnerability that makes your throat catch. 

You pause at the doorway, noticing the way she tugs absently at the sleeve of her shirt before moving toward the shower. 

“Wait,” you say softly, and she glances back at you.

You slip into your bedroom, quickly rifling through your drawers until you find what you’re looking for. An oversized t-shirt, soft, neutral, something that you hope will hang comfortably on her frame. You hold it out to her.

Sevika takes it, a small smile flickers across her face. 

“Oh—towels are in the cabinet under the sink,” you add quietly.

“Thanks,” she murmurs.

You give a quiet nod and retreat, leaving her to the bathroom. 

You retreat to the living room, letting yourself fall into the couch. The TV flickers quietly, washing the space in dim blues and greens while you exhale and wait.

When she emerges, the t-shirt clings more than you expected, stretching over her shoulders, chest, and defined biceps.  Her slacks are still on, unbuttoned, and the faint line of her happy trail catches your breath. 

You look away quickly, heart thumping.

Sevika pauses, sensing it, and turns toward you, a quiet question in her eyes. Then she moves to the couch, sliding in beside you.

Her lips find yours. Gentle at first, testing, soft. And then hunger builds, a slow, deep pull that makes your heart thrum and your hands fumble to hold onto her.

She tastes of warmth and quiet, the edges of her restraint fading as she leans into you, letting the moments you’ve shared—small acts, quiet gestures, soft presence—fold into this one.

Sevika pulls back slightly, just enough to break the contact, a small, grin tugging at her lips. She sinks against the couch again and lets out a low, ragged sigh—somewhere between amusement and exhausted relief.

Your gaze, unable to resist, drops instantly back to the focal point of your earlier distraction. 

The t-shirt has ridden up slightly with the friction of the kiss, revealing the sharp, defined line of her V-cut abs, carved muscle contrasting with the soft, shadowed skin of her lower abdomen where that faint, tempting trace of her happy trail disappears beneath the unbuttoned slacks.

You swallow, and mutter under your breath, “I’m such a fucking Pervert.”

Sevika’s eyes follow the movement, a flicker of heat in their depths, as if silently daring you, almost coaxing. The corner of her mouth quirks slightly, a subtle, almost faint invitation that requires no words.

Then, without overthinking it, you slide off the couch and find yourself kneeling in front of her again.

Her hand comes down almost instantly, brushing along your jaw—rough, warm, hesitant. She doesn’t push you away, but she doesn’t pull you closer either. It’s not possessive; it’s protective, almost fearful, like holding onto you might anchor her somewhere she isn’t ready to fully be.

She keeps you in place with that gentle touch, as though lifting her hand even an inch would let you slip away, or worse, let the world back in.

Guilt glimmers in her eyes, and it catches something deep in your chest. You’re hit by the sudden, quiet weight of understanding: she’s never this exposed, never this untethered, not to anyone, and now you’re the one she allows it with, even in fragments.

“You don’t have to fix my day,” she murmurs, voice rough and ragged around the edges. “I shouldn’t even be here. Not when I’m like this.”

Your pulse quickens, and the urge to be closer, to make her forget everything for just a moment, threatens to overtake reason.

“I know,” you whisper, leaning into her touch, letting your forehead rest lightly near her fingers. “But you are.”

Her jaw tightens again, a subtle, almost undetectable flex, and then slowly, painstakingly, loosens. Iron tension melting into soft surrender. 

Fifty minutes ago, she was a tempest—sharp, controlled, nearly impossible to reach. Now, she is the quiet aftermath: still heavy, still unmoored, but softened, just enough that your chest aches with the gravity of it.

And then she lets you stay. Lets her hand steady you. Lets herself need you, just a little.

You feel the heat of relief and the faint sting of confusion collide inside you, a jolt of emotions you’re only just starting to understand. The small, rare trust she’s offering—it’s intoxicating, frightening, and somehow heartbreaking all at once.

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You: Orphan raccoon. Needs bottles every 3h or he won’t make it through the night. I’m bringing him home.

The three dots appeared almost instantly, his reply coming faster than you thought a federal agent in the middle of a case could type. You could practically hear the deep, exasperated inhale through the screen

Hotch: Absolutely not.   Hotch: Under no circumstances is that animal coming into the house. Hotch: I’m serious. We are not doing this. That is a wild animal.

You grinned, already halfway to the car with the warmed carrier.

You: Already in the passenger seat. Seatbelt on. See you in a couple of days 💕

A solid minute of nothing passed while you were strapping yourself in and then making sure the tiny baby was okay. Then:

Hotch: We are discussing this when I get home.

Which, translated from Hotch-speak, meant: I know I already lost this war, and I hate that I know it and have no control over the situation whatsoever.

Two Days Later, the front door opened at 11:17 p.m. precisely; you’d recognize the quiet snick of his key anywhere, carefully letting himself into the house, trying his best not to make a sound.

Jack was asleep on the couch, head in your lap, one protective arm flung over the fleece-lined nest you’d built out of an old laundry basket. Inside, the raccoon, now dubbed “Bandit” because Jack had insisted that he needed a name and you had been too tired to fight it, despite trying to explain that naming him creates attachments, and that the little guy needed to be rehabilitated and go back into the wild, was in the middle of a milk coma, little pink tongue still half-out, paws twitching from whatever baby raccoons dream about.

Empty bottle number 3 of the evening lay discarded on the coffee table next to a pile of burp cloths that definitely hadn’t been there yesterday.

Hotch stopped dead in the doorway, briefcase still in hand.

He took in the scene like he was profiling a crime scene, which if you asked him, he definitely was: the dim lamp light, the scattered formula tins, Jack’s abandoned Xbox controller, your unbrushed hair, the fact you were wearing his stretched out and faded law school hoodie like a dress… and then, finally, the actual masked bandit snoozing happily on a heating pad.

He blinked once. Twice. A third time for good measure, because clearly he was imagining the scene he had been met with.

“No,” he said, voice low and dangerously calm, maybe a little too calm given the wild animal in his living room. “No. This is not happening.”

Jack stirred at the sound of his dad’s voice, sat upright, and beamed, still half asleep, like Christmas had come early. “Dad! Look! He likes belly rubs!”

Hotch's gaze flicked from his son’s pure joy to the raccoon to you, and you watched the internal battle play out in real time behind those dark eyes.

You offered the tiniest, most innocent smile you could muster. “He’s had three perfect feeds, two poops, and zero bites. We’re basically pros.”

“That,” Hotch said, pointing one accusatory finger, “is a North American rabies vector with opposable thumbs and his mother probably has a history of property damage.”

“He’s twelve ounces, Aaron. His crimes are limited to spilling formula on my bra and wetting his bed.”

Jack giggled at your comeback. Bandit, sensing new attention, gave a sleepy chirp and stretched, revealing the white milk mustache on his snout.

Hotch pinched the bridge of his nose so hard you worried for the cartilage. “Guest bathroom. Heating pad. Laundry basket with the mesh lid. And the moment he’s weaned, he’s going to the outdoor enclosure at the rescue. Are we clear?” He countered, trying his hardest to get the animal out of his house.

It wasn't that he was totally against you bringing clients home, but when you'd bought the house and discussed the possibilities, he'd meant a dog or a cat, even a parrot would've been better than this.

“Crystal,” you said sweetly.

He knew you were lying. You both knew.

Four Nights Later, you’d finally crashed hard around 3 a.m. after the midnight and 3 a.m. bottles, positive that the 6 a.m. feed was a problem for Future You. Except when you shuffled downstairs, bleary-eyed and already dreading the syringe of kitten milk replacer, you froze on the bottom step.

Hotch: Unit Chief, permanent frown on his face, the man who once stared down the barrel of a serial killer's gun without flinching, was perched at the kitchen table in the low light of the rising sun, still in his boxers and an old t-shirt.

Bandit was cradled in the crook of his left arm like he’d done this a thousand times, which he kind of had when Jack had been a baby.

A clean tea towel was draped over his shoulder. The bottle, warmed to exactly 100°F, because of course he’d checked, was angled perfectly, and he was swirling it gently between sips to keep air bubbles down, the way the rescue’s vet techs had taught you when you started working there. You'd come home excited that day, telling him every little detail from your first day.

His voice was barely audible as he spoke to the raccoon, that soft murmur he used when Jack had nightmares.

“Easy, little man. You’ll hiccup again… there you go. Good job.”

Bandit’s tiny black hands clutched Hotch's thumb. His little tail flicked happily as he gulped down the milk.

You must have made some sound, half laugh, half sob, because Hotch's head snapped up. For one glorious second, his face was completely open: soft, rumpled, and utterly besotted. Then horror crashed over it like a wave.

“This isn’t—” he started.

“Oh, it one thousand percent is,” you whispered, padding closer.

“He was crying,” he said defensively, shifting the kit higher against his chest. “Loud, repetitive distress vocalizations. I thought he might be cold. Or constipated. I don't know. I was… assessing.”

“Mm-hmm. Assessing with burping techniques and everything.”

The raccoon chose that moment to release an enormous milk-bubble burp directly into the tea towel. He, with the reflexes of a seasoned father, immediately shifted to pat his back in perfect circles.

You leaned over the back of his chair, resting your chin on his shoulder, close enough to smell formula and warm raccoon on Hotch's skin.

“You’re using the football hold. That’s advanced-level bottle feeding, Hotchner.”

“I read the rescue’s care sheet,” he muttered, cheeks actually pink, as if he were embarrassed to tell you. “Three times.” You just found it endearing that, despite his protests, he was still trying to support your work with these creatures.

Bandit squeaked, abandoned the bottle, and attempted to climb Hotch's chest like a fuzzy mountaineer. He instinctively cupped the kit’s butt to keep him from sliding and hurting himself.

“Admit it. You love him.” You bit your lip so hard it hurt.

“I do not—” Bandit shoved his whole face into Hotch's neck and started making tiny contented huffing noises. Hotch's traitorous hand came up to cradle the back of the raccoon’s head, thumb stroking the soft fur between his ears. “—He’s… adequate.”

“Adequate,” you repeated, grinning so wide your face ached.

He sighed, the sound of a man who had profiled serial killers and negotiated with terrorists but was finally, utterly defeated by twelve ounces of orphaned trash panda. “He grabs my finger when he’s sleepy,” he admitted in the smallest voice. “It’s… objectively cute.”

“You’re a raccoon dad now, honey.” You pressed a kiss to his temple.

He closed his eyes like he was praying for strength. “If Morgan or Rossi ever finds out—”

“He will never let you live it down. I’m fully prepared to blackmail you for extra foot rubs.”

Bandit yawned, revealing a tiny pink tongue and two minuscule front teeth, then promptly fell asleep wedged under Hotch's chin, paws tangled in the collar of his T-shirt.

Hotch looked down at the sleeping kit, something achingly tender crossing his face before he could school it back to neutrality.

“—He stays until he’s fully weaned and climbing like a maniac,” he said at last. “Then an enclosure in the backyard. Then soft release in spring.”

You rested your forehead between his shoulder blades, smiling so hard it hurt. “Of course.”

He knew you were lying again.

And this time, he didn’t even pretend to mind.

You smiled finally— very forced, very tight and very exaggerated, “what can I get for you?”

“I’m not here to play games today, sweetheart,” she leaned against the counter, elbow on the top, “how ’bout you hop off the job for a bit, come into the back and we can play a little game…”

She let her words linger, the sensuality of it not exactly subtle. You rolled your eyes as you cleaned a glass, you set it down and filled it with whatever liquor one of the rowdier tables had ordered.

“You’d think after years of getting rejected to the face you’d grow a brain,” then with the survival instinct of a housecat, you flicked her forehead, “apparently not.”

Her hand snapped up, grabbing a hold of your wrist— not tight but firm. “Careful, doll,” she put your hand down slowly, “you play with fire you get burnt.”

“Well, I don’t know what you’re implying— shove this up your ass, be quiet, and stop asking me out,” you put a bottle of vodka on the counter top, giving her that no-nonsense stare, “I’m too busy this shift— I’ve got important people coming and—”

Just as you said that, Sheriff Grayson walked in the bar.

You sighed, “there we go, now come on, go go go!”

But much to your surprise, Grayson came and stood right there beside Sevika. Your eyebrows furrowed. Sevika smirked softly, tilting her head.

“You were saying?” Her fingers closed around the neck of the bottle regardless.

Your eyes travelled between them both, unsure. You blinked, “u-umm… I don’t really— I—”

That’s when the doors opened again, revealing the Noxian warrior— Ambessa Medarda herself standing right there. You could’ve fainted. You grabbed the counter, forcing yourself to focus. Suddenly, the bar had gotten very much quieter. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears.

“Sevika? What’s going on?” You managed to ask, but your voice shook and gave away just how astonished you were.

Sevika leaned closer, her mechanical arm holding the edge of the table and organic hand curled around the bottle. You could smell the smoke on her breath— usually whenever she tried to get close to you, you always denied proximity and pushed her away but today you remained still, frozen with shock. Ambessa and Grayson watched you with amused looks, you couldn’t tear your gaze away from either of them.

“Room with you, doll,” Sevika whispered, “I know you want it, quit playin’ hard to get, you ain’t that,” she licked her teeth, “come on, your—” she nodded to your friend standing behind you, wiping a glass— well, he was wiping a glass. Now, he was just as shocked at everyone else in the bar. “—buddy to take over.”

And with that, the trio left for the back. You stared after them for a bit before you shoved everything to his hands and followed after.

The room was dimly lit. Sevika and Grayson were on either side of the room, leaned against the wall as if they had all the time in the world. Ambessa remained at the centre, carefully tracing the glove line of her hand as her eyes shifted to hold gaze with yours.

“I presume none of the two of them have offered any context,” Ambessa said, eyes never leaving yours.

You swallowed thickly, and when you tried to speak your voice came out high-pitched, like a croak, or maybe a squeak. But it definitely wasn’t your voice. You cleared your throat, cheeks now red. You could feel Sevika’s stare on you— that stare that said “I’ve waited too long to see you all flustered like this.”

You didn’t put up a fight, instead, you tried to put on a brave front— “okay, let’s play a game,” you unbuttoned the first few buttons of your shirt, slowly advancing down. All their eyes followed your hands’ movements. “Every one of you get to fuck me— but the one who manages to make me feel the best wins.”

“Well, that’s quite the competition,” Ambessa purred, her big rough hand raising and resting on your waist as she watched you tug down your shirt, revealing your bra-clad tits.

“Only fair,” you gave her a brief smile, revealing more skin to the three women who looked like thirsty animals in heat, as if they’d pounce on you any second and rip away any clothing on you to shreds— only if they could.

Your bra and top dropped to the ground and you saw how Grayson’s lips parted. You bit your bottom lip— subtle but just the right bit of playfulness.

“Like what you see?” You ran a hand down your own waist, unbuckling your belt. It fell to the floor with a dull clinking sound from all the charms on it— your skirt and panties were quick to follow.

You were bare now.

And they were gawking at your naked body unashamedly.

You didn’t need to ask them to start. Before you could even collect yourself, Sevika stepped forward, boot heavy on the ground. Her hand reached your jaw, warmth against your skin as she tilted your head up murmuring a barely audible little “c’mere, beauty,” and she kissed you.

You let out a small squeak into the kiss, hands hovering awkwardly as if unsure if you were allowed to touch the mechanical parts of her body. One of Ambessa’s hands found one of yours, her other hand squeezing and kneading your ass cheeks as if she was testing the softness on each curve.

Grayson joined in— husky laugh leaving her as she came up from behind Sevika, her hands groping your tits. That’s when you realised it wasn’t even just you— it was between these three women as well. Grayson kissed Sevika’s jaw, Ambessa kissed yours. You tried to hump against Sevika’s thigh, and that made Ambessa press her pelvis against your ass— no, she didn’t have a dick, but the authority in every little action of hers was enough to make you feel absolutely helpless and vulnerable.

You were now on your hands and knees as Sevika’s hands smoothed out your ass as if she was soothing you for what was to come. Her strap was obscenely big and the bulbous head pressed against your soak entrance— a clear image of the big strap head trying to fit in your tight cunt.

You grunted as she slowly pushed herself inside. Grayson climbed under your body, her mouth finding your tits.

You gasped, “G-Gray!”

The name slipped out like second nature. She didn’t scold you. She focused on making you feel good, her warm tongue running over your hardened nipple as she twisted and tugged the other. It stung and felt too good, a little too much. Grayson’s attention to your tits never wavered, her mouth leaving hickeys and teeth nipping against the soft skin as if she was giving you something personal to remember her by.

You felt Sevika bottom out— a small hiss of pain left you. Sevika paused, “too much?”

You shook your head and pushed back against her strap, making a loud wet sound out. That made your cheeks redden but you didn’t stop, “keep fucking me,” you whispered.

Sevika squeezed your ass, “as you say, sugar,” she pulled back, the tip of the strap bumped against your clit and swiftly enough— she repositioned it to your slit and slammed herself entirely inside in one thrust.

It made you gasp, tears springing to your eyes.

Grayson chuckled, your tits bouncing on her face as her arms came around your torso slowly, “that’s it, princess, you take us so well…”

You could barely register what either of them said— that’s when you felt the bulbous silicone head of another strap poking your bottom lip.

You glanced up— Ambessa.

You swore you almost had a nosebleed right then and there from the sight of her body alone.

It was the epitome of perfectly sculpted muscle, you stared hard at her and when you realised you were gawking at her abs— you mentally slapped yourself and told yourself to look away but no matter how hard you tried, she looked too scrumptious to miss.

Ambessa, finding it amusing, held the shaft, “come on, little one, y’know what to do,” she probed your mouth again.

You looked up, eyes meeting hers. Sevika’s pace slowed as she watched the interaction as well— invested. You held the shaft with one hand, hand over Ambessa’s comically bigger one and licked the tip first while maintaining eye contact.

Ambessa’s breath hitched as she watched the way you slowly took the length in your mouth. You closed your eyes, passionately almost, your nose getting tickled slightly by Ambessa’s bush when you deep throated the entire toy. It made Sevika’s pace almost halt from surprise alone. The way you stare up at Ambessa was both stunning and filthy at the same time. The kind that stole the warrior’s breath away and made her feel the need to fuck your face dirty the same time.

You started pushing back as you continued sucking Ambessa’s strap— that seemed to knock the other two women to their senses and Sevika slammed herself in again. You moaned around the strap, vibrations travelled down the silicone, and the base ground against Ambessa’s swollen clit. Grayson bit the spot just above your collarbone making you choke on the length in your mouth but you didn’t let that stop you.

“She’s such a fucking catch,” Sevika muttered, slapping your ass and grabbing a handful of the flesh, squeezing.

Grayson nodded, “yeah, she is, she’s unique— different from every lady I’ve ever come across, I’d say,” perhaps she just meant to say ‘freaky’ but didn’t want to come off as offensive.

“She’s a little freak,” Sevika said, her words not devoid of affection when she reached down and pried the belt out of her fallen pants.

She looped the leather in a way it formed a loop and leash. She looped it around your neck and tugged to see if it was secure. It was— so she leaned down and whispered—

“If it becomes too much, you tap twice, mm’kay?”

You nodded, mouth full of Ambessa’s strap.

Sevika yanked the belt back. At first you gagged, but the tightness of your throat only made it harder to suck Ambessa’s strap but oh, you wanted to be a good slut for them. You wanted to be able to take them like the pro that you were. You weren’t about to tap out. Not yet. Not so soon. You pulled back a little, drool running down the corner of your mouth.

Grayson watched you, shocked for a bit, “oh, good Lord, she’s actually doing this…” she whispered as she watched the way you devoured Ambessa’s cock despite getting constantly choked by the strap.

“She’s clenching, too,” Sevika laughed softly.

Ambessa didn’t pass any comment but her hand remained in your hair, gently stroking back your sweaty strands. “That’s a good girl, would you look at that?” She whispered, her voice low and raspy. It made you want more friction to your stupidly wet cunt.

Sevika slapped your ass once again, sticking inside her thumb. “Oh, Janna— she’s got a lewd little hole back here too, just swallows my finger in,” Sevika thrusted her thumb slowly— letting it sink in just enough to give you that burning sting before Sevika pulled it back.

“W-wait, d-don’t just— oh, fuck,” you were beyond red in the face when you felt Sevika playing with both your holes.

Ambessa chuckled, “it’s alright, you can take it, can’t you, sweet one?”

You didn’t know what to answer with— ’yes’ sounded too slutty. ‘No’ sounded like you were quitting and you were not a quitter. Not when you got to sleep with three amazing women at once. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and you wouldn’t have traded that for nothing.

So, instead of verbally answering, you kissed her strap head and took her back in your mouth.

“I have a feeling this’ll go on for a while now.”

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