❣︎Angelina❣︎

✦ MEET THE WRITER ✦

Hello! My name is Angelina but im fine with Angel or Lina! Im 19 and im hoping to post writings JJK & COD focused mostly and also what i feel like! some are stories, some are my feelings, some are both!

[ BEFORE YOU FOLLOW]

This space is strictly 18+ due to the mature themes in my stories and thoughts. Hate is absolutely not tolerated. I am a POC writer, I only write black reader, If you cannot respect that 👋🏽.

All works are linked below.

01. PILLOW TALK

Short, soft micro-fiction and gentle moments. For those who want quick comfort. ✦ husband sukuna — wakes up from surgery and demands his wife ✦ “teach me” — megumi fushiguro

02. WHITE NOISE

Longer fluff pieces. Soft, comforting, and deeply familiar narratives.

03. TOUCH STARVED

Brief, private glimpses into hidden moments. Quiet and shielded from view. ✦ domesticated — simon “ghost” riley

04. AFTER HOURS

Private, locked-away pieces meant to stay behind closed doors. Proceed with caution. ✦“through the lens” — Choso Kamo

05. TO BE CONTINUED

Ongoing series and multi-part stories that unfold slowly over time.

✦ you followed anyways” — Suguru Geto

✦ “Under his watch” — Choso Kamo

06. OPEN WOUNDS

Angst and emotional moments that hurt. For those who prefer the sting.

content warnings: alcohol use, weed/drug use, intoxication, sexual tension, suggestive content, crude language, college party atmosphere. MDNI 18+

A/N- so guidelines for me last time so hopefullyy🤞🏾 it works this time

When you got there, the party was already buzzing, loud music thudding through the walls, the air thick with weed, alcohol, and the heat of too many bodies crammed together in a frat house. It clung to your skin the moment you stepped inside. The whole place felt hazy–like a fever dream. People were scattered everywhere, leaning in doorways, dancing in the middle of the room, taking shots, and playing beer pong in the kitchen, etc.

You used to feel out of place in these situations, but now you feel comforted. A little drunk, a little too warm, and suddenly aware of the empty ache under your skin that always showed up when you were like this—restless, needy, and wanting something to take the edge off. Something softer, slower, weed.

The though leaded you to steer through the crowd to find Shoko, where you left her in the crowd. “Shoko,” you muttered, leaning in close enough so that she could hear you over the music. “I need to get high, like right now.” Shoko rolled her eyes and looked at you, amused. She scanned the room until her eyes landed on a man who stood off to the side with a look that gives dont speak to me.

“There,” Shoko smiled, “Geto’s over there.” Before she could second-guess it, Shoko was already guiding you forward, nudging you right into him with a half-shove that made you tumble just enough to be embarrassed about it.

He looks down at you, his brow lifting slightly. “Oh, hi,” you said, and immediately hated how unconfident you sounded. “I heard you sell.” He studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable. He tipped his hand towards the door and walked out, expecting you to follow.

The air was colder out there, but it didn't exactly help. Not when you were standing so close under him that you could smell him. He smelt like cologne, weed, and something warm and masculine that you couldn't place.

You glanced up at him again. “I heard you sell,” you repeated, this time more confident and a little irritated that you had to repeat yourself. “How much for 2 grams? And could you roll it for me? I'll pay more I just suck at it.” It looked like he was trying not to laugh at you. “Thirty, but I’ll do 25 for you”

The alcohol made it hard for you to acknowledge that he was giving you a discount. “Oh, okay.” You got the money out of your bra and handed it to him. He looked at you for a second, then nodded to the house. “Come on”

What you didn’t expect was for him to lead you upstairs into his room, away from the noise and the crush of bodies. You slipped your shoes off and sat on his bed, the alcohol giving you confidence, and he followed suit. He ruled up like he'd done it a hundred times before. His hands were steady. You couldn’t help but zone out on the veins up his arm, practically drooling until his voice snapped you out of it.

“So you really don’t know how to roll?” he asked, not looking up from what he was doing. You let out a small laugh. “I mean, I do it’s just like I don’t like to, and I suck.” he smiled lazily and passed the blunt to you. The first hit went down rough and hot, and then the second one made everything feel softened around the edges. The room blurred in the floaty way, the way that made everything feel syrupy—like it was melting into skin and breath.

He handled it better than you, of course he did. You barely smoked, only when things got stressful or when the ache came back. He had a kind of composed patience that only made him seem so much hotter once you were cross-faded enough to notice. The smoke curled lazily and grey towards the ceiling, turning the dim corners of the room soft and out of focus. The heavy, low-frequency thud of the bass from downstairs wasn’t ever music anymore—just physical vibration humming through the mattress, steady and slow.

When Geto set the blunt down, the sound of the blunt being stubbed out in the background. He didn’t move fast. Everything was thick—he shifted his weight, the mattress dipping, and reached out to brush a stray lock of hair away from your face. His fingers were warm, slightly rough, and the feeling of his skin against your temple seemed to linger there long after his hand drifted to your neck. His hand gave a heavy touch that made your eyelids feel impossible to keep open.

“You're quiet,” he murmured. His voice was a low, dry rasp. It sounded like he was feeling the weight of the high. He leaned in closer, his chest pressing slow and heavy against yours. His weight was anchoring. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, just breathing you in for a long minute. The scent of him fading into the dry, herbal smell of the smoke and clean skin filled your head until there wasn’t room for anything else.

His lips dragged slowly along your collarbone. It wasn’t a sharp bite or dramatic kiss, it was just a warm, open-mouthed touch that made you hum deep from your throat. Without a word, his hands found of him shirt, sliding up underneath the fabric. His palms were warm against the cool skin of your ribs, his fingers moving in warm, lazy circles that sent heat right in between your thighs. There was no rush. The silence between you was thick and comfortable, broken only by your breathing.

When he nudged your legs apart, sliding his knee between yours, the friction of denim against your bare skin felt almost too intense. You shifted, a gasp escaping you as he settled. “Look at me,” he whispered, his eyes half-closed and heavy-lidded. You opened your eyes, the room blurred around him, but his face was perfectly clear.

His hand slid down, his fingers parting you. Everything felt sensitive, swollen, and slick with a deep ache. When his thumb made a slow, dragging circle over your clit, you let out a shaky breath. Your head rolling back into the pillow. The sensation was building slowly from a distance before finally falling over you.

“Slow,” he murmured, more to himself than to you, his thumb still circling in that lazy antagonizing rhythm. He unbuttoned his pants slowly and deliberately. The click of his belt sounded muffled in the air. When he guided himself against you, the broad heat of him resting at your entrance made your hips twitch upward instinctively, seeking the friction.

He pushed himself inside you slowly, feeding you a fraction of an inch at a time. The feeling of being stretched and filled was a high inside of a high, too warm and slow. You wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder with a shaky breath. Then he started moving. It wasn’t fast, just a slow, heavy thrust. He took his time with it, pulling back and pushing back in deeply. Making your toes curl. The rhythm was addictive, matching the low bass thudding under the bed. You lost track of time, it had felt like you’d been in the room for hours. Your skin is slick with sweat.

He sighed against your ear, his hands gripping your hips to pull you against him as his pace picked up just a little. It still wasn’t fast, just deeper, his hips rolling into yours until you couldn’t take it anymore.

“Geto,” you whispered. “I know,” he breathed, his voice raspy. “Stay right there.” When you came, it wasn’t a shock. It just washed over you, heavy and slow, your body clamping down around him. That completely broke his control. He let out a low groan and thrusted in one last time as he came inside you.

Okay guys which one do you want your going to get both it’s just which one do you want first?

cws-alcohol use/hangover, emotionally abusive parenting, hair/appearance shaming, social anxiety & sensory overload, mention of past abusive relationship, unwanted touch, class/status pressure, bodyguard–client power imbalance.

part one part two part three

When you finally wake up a few hours later, Choso isn’t in the room. For a second, your hazy brain panics until you remember the slow drag of his fingers through your hair, the low tone of his voice telling you to sleep. Your body still feels heavy and warm from it. You don't know

whether to feel comforted or embarrassed. You roll onto your back and grope blindly along the nightstand for your phone. Your fingers close around it, and the screen lights up. Your eyes sting as you squint at the numbers.

5:30 p.m.

You groan. You have no idea what time the event actually starts—just that your father called it “important” and your mother had a meltdown over seating charts. Which means you’re supposed to be there, and you're probably already late.

You force yourself upright slowly, the room slightly tilting as your hangover catches up to you. Your head throbs dully at the base of your skull, and you can still taste the cheap liquor in your mouth. Choso’s jacket is still draped over the back of your vanity chair. The sight of it makes you wanna hide back in your bed.

You don’t know what time he left you, or where he is now. He could be downstairs with the staff, talking to your father’s security team, pretending last night never happened. You also don’t know if your mother is home, if she noticed you stumbling in with Choso half-dead this morning, if any of the staff had told her.

You rub your eyes and slide off the bed, toes curling against the cold floor. Sadly, you have to find Choso, or your mother, or both. Preferably, Choso first. You take a deep breath and head to the door. As soon as you open it and step into the hallway, you’re face-to-face with him. You watch as he comes up the stairs, one hand on the railing and the other holding a small water bottle and a pill container.

“Cho?” Your voice sounds rough even to you

“Why are you out of bed?” He asks, more exasperated than surprised. You roll your eyes but don’t fight him when he turns you around with a hand on your lower back and steers you back into your room. Sitting on the edge of the bed, you watch him pop the cap on the container and tap two pills into his palm.

“Open,” He mumbles. You know better than to argue. You part your lips, and he places the pills onto your tongue before tilting the water bottle to your mouth. After you take the pills, a silence falls on the room. It’s unspoken between both of you that you need to speak on this morning. “Are you okay?” He breaks the silence. You nod quickly. It wasn’t like he had done anything wrong. “We can forget it happened.” You push the words out. You didn’t want to forget about it. You knew how you felt about him, but you were just too embarrassed. A flicker of hurt flashed on his face. It happened so quickly you barely noticed.

“Yeah,” he started. You hated how professional his tone turned, how he sounded the same way he did the first day you guys met. “It’s a charity event, it begins at eight.” You nodded slowly, your mind somewhere else. You watched as he stood from your bed. “I’ll be outside if you need anything.” He didn’t let you answer before shutting the door behind him

You force yourself off the bed and make your way to the bathroom. You twist the shower knob until the water pounds against the tile, slowly fogging up the mirror. While it warms, you sit on the closed toilet lid, elbows on your knees, forehead in your hands.

Your thoughts won’t slow down. They loop between this morning and tonight, between Choso's careful hands and your mother's sharp voice, between the feel of his fingers in your hair and the memory of being fragged through nights like this since you were old enough to balance in heels.

You peel off your clothes and step under the spray. The water is almost too hot, burning your skin, but you don't turn it down. You tilt your head back and let it beat against your face, trying to rinse away the pounding in your skull, the taste of cheap liquor, the look on Choso’s face when you told him you could forget it happened. You didn’t mean it.

You press your palms to the cool tiles, eyes squeezed shut. You can still hear the way his voice softened when he asked if you were okay, how gentle he’d been, how fast he went back to being professional the second you gave him an out. Like you were a schedule to keep, not the girl who clung to him in the dark a few hours ago.

This is what tonight will be, you remind yourself. This is what it’s always been. You get dressed. You smile. You stand where you’re told, and you say what you’re supposed to say. Your mother counts your mistakes—your father counts the people who matter.

No matter how perfect you get, it’s never actually for you. You stay in the shower until your fingers wrinkle and your headache dulls to something manageable. Eventually, you turn off the water and step out, wrapping yourself in a towel. The mirror is completely fogged, just a vague shape staring back at you. You drag your hand over the glass, clearing a small oval: wet curls, tired eyes, faint traces of last night's mascara.

“You look exhausted,” you mutter at your reflection, hearing your mother’s voice instead of your own. You can almost see the way her mouth would pinch, the way her gaze would flick from your dark circles to your posture to whatever else she could pick apart.

You know how this goes. She’s been training you for nights like these your whole life. Correcting your posture with a dig of her fingers between your shoulder blades. Critiquing your smile until it doesn’t reach your eyes anymore. Practicing small talk in front of a mirror while she stands behind you, telling you when your laugh sounds “too desperate” or when you sound “bored and ungrateful.”

You start your makeup with mechanical precision. Primer. Concealer over the bruised-looking half-moons under your eyes. Foundation smoothed over until your skin looks like it belongs to someone else—someone who slept, someone who isn’t hungover and spinning over the stoned bodyguard down the hall.

Contouring, highlighter, the careful swipe of blush that makes you look a little more alive. You paint on the same neutral eyeshadow your mother approves of, the same thin line of eyeliner that doesn’t look “too dramatic,” the same gloss that goes well. Every stroke is a muscle memory your body performs. You always become the girl your mother wants in front of these mirrors. Polished. Controlled. Presentable. Never quite enough.

Her comments run through your mind as you work, like white noise in the background. Chin up. Shoulders back. Don’t slouch, you’ll look lazy. Smile like you’re happy to be there. People can tell when you’re pretending. You’re so close, if you would just try a little harder—you blink and refocus on your reflection. Your makeup is done. Your expression is empty. The voice in your head disappears.

You drop the products back onto the vanity, the clink of plastic on marble louder than it should be. For a second, you imagine walking downstairs with your hair still damp and curly, face bare, wearing the first thing you grab out of your closet. You imagine the way your mother’s voice would cut into you, the way your father would look at you like you’d sabotaged his entire career.

You exhale slowly. The fantasy is over. You move to your closet and sift through the dresses already picked out for nights like this. Your fingers skim past sequins and silk until they land on the one you know your mother would choose if she were here—a sleek thing that fits you perfectly and makes you feel like you’re wrapped in someone else’s expectations. You step into it, sliding the fabric up your body. It clings in all the right places and none of the comfortable ones. You wrestle the zipper up your side, but it snags around the midpoint, the angle too awkward for your sore arms and stiff shoulders.

“Of course,” you mumble, glaring at your reflection. You tug again. The zipper doesn’t move. You think of Choso’s jacket still hanging over the back of your chair, of the quiet way he’d said open when he gave you the pills, like he’d done it a hundred times before and would do it a hundred times again. Warmth flickers in your chest, chased immediately by embarrassment.

You could call for a maid. You could struggle a little longer and probably get it. You could show up with a crooked zipper and let your mother notice. Instead, you open your door. The hallway is mostly quiet, the house humming with that low, distant energy it gets before a big night. Staff is moving somewhere on the lower floor. The faint echo of your father’s voice on the phone. You step out, bare feet on cool wood, fingers clutching the top of your dress.

“Choso?” Your voice comes out softer than you intend. It felt weird calling him anything but Cho. He appears at the end of the hall before you can decide if you want to leave, dressed in his usual dark suit, tie straight, expression composed. Professional. If you didn’t know better, you’d think this morning was a dream.

His gaze sweeps over you automatically, checking exits, corners, and shadows out of habit, not hunger like it used to be. Then his eyes land on your hands pressed against the half-zipped dress, and something in his face shifts. “Hey,” you say, trying for casual and landing somewhere near breathless. “Can you—” You gesture vaguely at your back. “It’s stuck.”

For a moment, he just looks at you, like he’s weighing something you can’t see. Then he nods once and closes the distance between you with measured steps.“Turn around,” he says quietly. You do. The air feels suddenly thinner. You gather your curls and pull it over one shoulder, exposing the line of your spine, the vulnerable dip between your shoulder blades. The house feels too big and too silent around you.

“Sorry,” you don't know why your aplogizing, it just felt like you were inconveniencing him. His fingers brush the warm skin at the top of the zipper as he finds the metal tab. Even through the layers of fabric, his touch makes your breath catch. He works the snag loose with practiced care, not tugging, just coaxing the zipper upward until it slides smoothly into place.

“There,” he murmurs. His knuckles graze your back one last time before he lets go. You swallow, your pulse fluttering at the base of your throat. You know he’s stepped back without turning to look—you can feel the distance he puts between you like a draft.

“Thanks,” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper. “No problem.” The words are simple, but his tone isn’t as flat as it was earlier. It’s softer around the edges, like he hasn’t quite put all his walls back up. You turn to face him again. Up close, you can see the faint tension in his jaw, the way his eyes linger on your face like he’s scanning for something—regret, maybe. Fear. Confirmation that forgetting was what you wanted. “You look…” He trails off, clears his throat, looks away for a second as if rerouting himself. “You’re almost ready. Your parents are downstairs.”

Of course they are. You smooth your hands down the front of your dress, more to ground yourself than to fix anything. His gaze flicks back to you at your tone, but he doesn’t comment. “I’ll walk you down,” he says instead.

That’s not part of his job description, not really. He could just as easily meet you at the car or blend into the background like he always does. But he falls into step beside you as you start toward the stairs, a quiet shadow at your shoulder. The closer you get to the main floor, the louder everything becomes—clinking glassware, muffled conversations, the faint strain of music from whatever playlist the staff put on to “set the mood.” Your shoulders tighten instinctively. You picture your mother standing by the door, eyes sharp, taking you in from head to toe.

Just another performance. Just another night where your worth is measured in how well you play your part. You pause at the top of the staircase, fingers curling around the banister. For a heartbeat, you look sideways at Choso. He’s watching the entryway, the staff, everything but you. Still, strangely, you feel less alone.

You start down the stairs together, heading straight toward your parents and the event you’re supposed to be perfect for. Your mother looks upset already. You slide into your heels that are waiting for you at the door. “Mother,” you greet her with a small, forced smile. “Your hair,” she starts, “It’s unkept. Why didn’t you prepare yourself accordingly? You know you represent us.” Your mother had taught you at a very young age that your natural hair was unkempt and unprofessional. She had never had her hair in its natural state—she always had a relaxer.

For the longest, you followed in her steps, straightening your hair at any chance you got. You had learned that when your hair was in its natural state, your friends had treated you differently. That was a long time ago—you had since learned to love your curls and your heritage despite what your parents had taught you. It was so hard for you to grasp that your parents, who gave you the black heritage that you were now so proud of, hated it. “Mom, I didn’t have enough time.” You could tell she wanted to argue, but you were going to be late if she did. “Fine, let's go.”

You exhale through your nose and step past your mother, the sting of her words settling under your skin like pins. Your father barely glances at you, just checks his watch, and nods once in approval that you’re, at the very least, on time. “Car’s waiting,” he says, already turning toward the door. As you straighten, your balance wobbles for a split second—then steadies when you feel a presence at your side. Choso is already there, holding the door open, gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder like you’re just another part of the route. “Ready?” he asks quietly, not quite looking at you. “Yeah,” you say.

Your mother sweeps out first, your father close behind. You follow your steps measured, your dress smooth. Choso falls into place just a half-step behind and to your side, that same careful distance he always keeps. To anyone watching, he’s nothing but security. To you, he’s the only thing in this house that feels remotely like a choice. You square your shoulders the way your mother taught you and walk toward the waiting car, toward the lights and noise and people you’ll smile for. Choso’s footsteps stay in time with yours, steady as a heartbeat, as you leave the house and everything you actually feel behind.

By the time you pull up to the club, the sky is already a soft, fading blue, the last of the sunset bleeding into the treeline. The building rises out of the manicured lawns with white pillars, wide stone steps, and warm golden light spilling through tall windows. Strings of fairy lights wind around trimmed hedges and railings, glittering against polished brass fixtures and carefully arranged flower beds that probably cost more than your first car.

You can hear the event before you see it. The low thrum of music leaks through the closed doors, mingling with the murmur of conversation and the occasional too-loud laugh that cuts through the air like glass. Valets move in quick, rehearsed lines, opening doors, helping guests out of their cars, offering clipped smiles. You watch a woman in a beaded gown step out of a black town car ahead of you, her perfume reaching you from here.

The car door opens, and cool night air rushes in. You smooth your hands down the front of your dress, pulse already climbing as your brain tries to catch up with everything at once—lights, movement, the smell of expensive cologne and champagne, and some kind of meal that always tastes the same no matter how fancy they make it.

“Let’s go,” your father says, already halfway out, adjusting his cufflinks like this is just another Tuesday. Your mother follows, checking her reflection in the car window, fingers fussing at a nonexistent flyaway.

You shift forward, your heel catching slightly on the car mat before you steady yourself. A hand appears in your line of sight—steady, familiar. You place your fingers in Choso’s palm as you step out. His grip is firm but careful, making sure you don’t wobble on the stone. “Watch your step,” he murmurs. His eyes are already scanning the entrance, the valet stand, the knot of guests clustered near the doors. To anyone else, he’s just security doing his job. To you, he’s an anchor in a place that makes you feel like you’re coming apart at the seams.

The noise swallows you the second you step inside. Chandeliers drip from the ceiling like upside-down gardens, throwing light over polished wood floors and white tablecloths. A live band plays something jazzy and forgettable on a small stage near the far windows. Waiters weave through the crowd with trays of champagne flutes and tiny, artfully arranged bites of food you already know you’ll hate—the kind that looks pretty and tastes like nothing.

Your parents move through the entryway like they own the building. In a way, they do. People turn as they enter, smiles blooming, hands lifting in practiced waves. Names start blurring together immediately. You paste on your smile. It’s automatic at this point, the way your cheeks lift, and your eyes soften just enough to look engaged, not too eager, not bored. You let your mother lead, following a half step behind as she draws you toward the first cluster of family friends. Her fingers brush your elbow in that subtle, guiding way that means stand here, say this, don’t embarrass me.

“Oh, darling, you remember the Pierces,” she croons. “They haven’t seen you since you were… what, fifteen?” You don’t remember them, not really. But you remember the script. “Of course,” you say, turning on the charm. “It’s so good to see you again. How have you been?” They laugh, they comment on how much you’ve grown, how beautiful you’ve become, how proud your parents must be. You nod, you laugh in the right places, you pretend to care about their recent trip to the coast and their son’s internship at some firm your father pretends not to secretly sneer at.

You feel your real self sliding further and further back, replaced by the version of you built for rooms like this—polished, agreeable, endlessly pleasant. The one who doesn’t flinch at the way older men look at you a second too long or the way older women size you up like they’re mentally pairing you off with their sons. When a waiter appears at your elbow with a tray of crystal flutes, you reach out automatically, fingers brushing cold glass. The smell of it hits you dry, sharp, the memory of last night’s cheap liquor still clinging to the back of your throat.

You let your hand hover for a second, then curl your fingers back, forcing a light laugh. “I’m pacing myself tonight,” you say. “Long event.” The waiter smiles and moves on. You keep your hand wrapped around the empty air, pretending you’re holding something, just so you don’t look out of place.

You’re too busy trying to keep your breathing even to think about where Choso is. He slipped into the background the second you stepped inside, blending into the perimeter with the other security. You catch flashes of him sometimes—in a reflection, a gap between shoulders, the dark line of his suit near a doorway, but you don’t let yourself look for him. Not really. You’re already overwhelmed.

Name after name. Handshake after handshake. Compliments that feel like evaluations. Your cheeks ache from smiling. The music feels like it’s getting louder, the room brighter, the air thicker. Every laugh you force out feels a little more hollow. And then you hear it.

“…we simply had to come,” a woman says, her tone familiar in a way that makes your stomach pitch. “We haven’t seen you all in ages.” You know that voice. You know the cadence of it, the polished warmth, the way it always sounded so kind even when everything around it hurt. Your brain catches up a second too late.

Fuck. It’s them.

You don’t have to turn to know it’s your ex’s parents. The air around your mother changes—brighter, sharper. Her smile widens. Your father’s posture straightens almost imperceptibly, the way it does when someone who matters walks into the room.

“Look who it is,” your mother breathes, delighted. “This is such a wonderful surprise.” Of course it isn’t. People like them don’t just show up. They’re invited. “Come, say hello,” your father says, his hand pressing lightly at the small of your back, steering you forward. You move because you have to.

They look exactly the same. Maybe a little older, a little more tired around the eyes, but still wrapped in money and comfort, in that particular kind of confidence that comes from always being the most important people in any room. Your ex’s mother’s smile sharpens when she sees you, her eyes sweeping over your dress, your hair, your posture in a single practiced pass.

“There she is,” she coos. “We miss you, dear. It’s been far too long.” You force your lips to curve. “Mrs. Kins,” you say, your voice smooth despite the way your pulse spikes. “It’s been a while.”

“You remember how close our families used to be,” your mother adds, like it’s a fond joke. “We could hardly get them apart back then.” Your father laughs. “He was such a good influence on you,” he says, like it’s a simple fact. “You were so… focused, so driven, when you two were together.” You feel the words like a slap. You remember the nights you cried yourself to sleep. The arguments he turned around on you until you felt crazy. The way he made you feel small, ungrateful, and difficult. The grip of his hand on your wrist that one time, hard enough to leave a bruise you covered with bracelets for a week.

“I always liked you better back then,” your mother says lightly, like she’s talking about a dress you stopped wearing. “You smiled more.” His mother hums in agreement. “They balanced each other out so well,” she says. “We were all so disappointed when things ended.” You can’t breathe. The room feels too hot, the chandelier lights too bright. The music and voices melt into a buzzing in your ears. You grip your clutch a little tighter to keep your hands from shaking.

“Well,” your father cuts in, jovial, “there’s always time for paths to cross again, isn’t there?” He chuckles, like the idea is charming instead of suffocating.

You can’t look at them anymore. Can’t look at the people who watched you shrink and called it maturity, who saw you breaking and called it discipline. “It’s good to see you,” you manage, the words scraping your throat on the way out. “Excuse me, I—should go check on something for my mother.”

You don’t wait for permission. You slip away the first moment there’s a gap in the conversation, sliding between clusters of guests, past a table overflowing with appetizers you can’t even look at. Your heels click against the floor, too loud in your own ears. You just need a second. A breath. A corner. You’re almost clear of the crowd when a hand lands on your shoulder.

It’s a familiar touch in the worst way—fingers warm, pressure just a little too firm, like they’re reminding you of who’s in control. You freeze. Your body reacts before your mind does, stomach lurching, heart hammering against your ribs. Slowly, you turn.

Your ex stands in front of you, dressed in a dark suit that probably cost more than your monthly rent would if you paid it yourself. He looks good in the way he always has—polished, put together, the kind of handsome that photographs well. His smile slides into place, the same one that used to make your friends swoon, the same one you once thought meant safety.

“Hey,” he says, as no time has passed at all. “Been a while, hasn’t it?” Around you, the room keeps moving. Laughter, music, clinking glass. But everything inside you narrows to the point where his hand touches you, to the echo of his parents’ voices in your ears. Across the room, Choso shifts his weight near a pillar, eyes sweeping the crowd. He sees the way you’ve gone still. He sees who has you stopped. He doesn’t know why your shoulders have crept up around your ears, why your fingers dig into your clutch like it’s a life raft, but he knows something’s wrong.

From where he stands, you’re just one more person in a sea of expensive clothes and forced smiles. But he can read your tension from a distance. The way your posture locks. The way you don’t lean in. He starts to move. You drag in a breath that tastes like champagne and nerves and memories you’ve spent years trying to bury.

“Yeah,” you say quietly, meeting your ex’s eyes even though it makes your chest hurt. “It has.” And the night you’ve been dreading really begins.

Cws-Mature themes alternate universe age gap heavy sexual tensin office setting pwer dynamics dominance & submission voyeurism/watching fingering overstimulation

A\N- guys, be nice. This is my first time writing Aaron Hotchner, but I just watched the secretary, and I had to write something inspired by it.

The office was nearly empty. Everybody else had gone home for the night, but you couldn’t. You stupidly had put off this paperwork until the last possible moment, which was tonight. It felt like you were alone, the office silent aside from quiet sounds of the printer, somebody flipping through pages, and a pen scribbling against a page. Everybody minded their own business– except for you, of course

The last thing you should be doing is watching him. The report on your desk was due tonight, and it wasn’t going to finish itself, but yet you found your eyes wandering towards the glass office at the end of the room. Towards him, He sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, reading through a file with the same concentration he gave everything else.

Everybody watched, it wasn't like you were the ceep. They watched him lead briefings, solve cases, and they watched him walk into a room and somehow make everybody sit up straighter. The difference between you and them was that you watched when nobody else did.

You watched when he loosened his tie when it got late, you watched him rub the bridge of his nose when he read, and you noticed that his focus never really broke. Too focused on your thoughts, you didn't notice him leaving his desk and heading for you.

“Still here?” His voice was low, tired, but it snapped you out of it immediately. You gave an awkward smile. “Unfortunately,” Something that almost looked like a smile reached the corner of his mouth. He glanced down at your report, then back up at your face. “You’re not getting much done on that, are you?” You couldn’t tell if you were in trouble. He doesn’t leave—Just stands there, leaning in close enough that you can smell his cologne.

He backs up slightly, like he's fighting the urge to do something he shouldn’t, then leans back into you and speaks, “Maybe if you half the amount of the time that you spend staring at me on your work, we wouldn't be here at ten o’clock.” The embarrassment hits hard, you hadn’t thought you were being obvious—but then again, who really could hide anything from him. How long had he been watching? Had he been waiting for everybody to leave?

“Come inside,” he didn't wait to see if you would follow. He just turned, his dark leather shoes clicking against the floor as he made his way towards the office. Your legs felt heavy, like you were moving through a body of water. Despite this, you picked up the thin, half-empty folder from your desk and followed him.

Your heartbeat was so loud you half expected him to point it out. When you stepped into his office, you expected him to make his way to his seat and lecture you about timelines and whatever else you had done wrong.

You were wrong. The second you walked into his office, he shut the door—the sound of the lock sounded like a gunshot in the silence. “Put the file down,” He murmured. You drop it onto the nearest corner of his desk, fingers trembling just enough to make the paper rustle as you place it down. You try to keep your eyes on the paper, try to be professional, be a good employee even though nothing about this seemed professional. You could feel his gaze on the side of your face, it felt so heavy, you doubted he was even blinking.

“Look at me,” He didn’t even have to raise his voice—he spoke in a low, gravelly tone. The one that he used when he was in control of a room. You finally turned your head, forcing your eyes up to meet his. He had his hands tucked casually into his pants pockets, like he was just another day for him. He leaned against the edge of the desk—his eyes focused on you, as if he was analyzing you. “You’ve been distracted all evening,” he said, voice dropping slightly lower, “every time I looked out the window, you were watching me.” You couldn’t explain yourself before he started again. “ You watched me read, you watched me move, you’re doing it right now”

You swallowed hard, your tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth. “I was just—”

“Did I tell you to speak?” he interrupted you, taking one step forward. The distance between you completely vanished. You could smell him, his cologne mixed with the faint smell of coffee. He reached out, his thumb and his pointer catching you right under the chin, forcing your head up. His fingers were warm, his grip firm enough to let you know he was serious, but gentle enough to make your knees go weak.

“The difference between you and the rest of the team,” he whispered, his eyes dropping to your lips for a second before looking back onto yours, “is that they know when to look away. You don't. You’re a little creep, aren’t you?” The word hit you like a punch, and a chill ran right down your spine. A creep? Hearing it come out of his mouth—so calm, casual, with that deep, flat authority. The same voice he used to command entire rooms made your face burn hot.

He didn’t let go of your chin. If anything, his thumb tilted your face up just a bit more, his eyes tracking the way your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath. He liked the way you reacted. You could see it in the slight softening of his jaw, the way his gaze stared anchored to you.

“Look at how quiet you got,” He murmured, his thumb brushing slowly against the soft skin of your jawline. “Nothing to say now?” The silence was getting to you, “I’m–” he shook his head, “I told you not to speak.” He let go of your chin, but before you could even think about taking a step back, his hand slid down to the collar of your shirt. His fingers brushed against the bare skin of your collarbone, sending a violent jolt of electricity straight through you. Slowly, he took the edge of your collar between his fingers and tugged at it downwards, not enough to rip it, just enough to force you to get closer.

He leaned down just enough that his breath was warm against your ear, his voice a low, gravelly sound that made your knees buckle “You’ve been sitting out there for hours, neglecting your work because you’re too busy projecting whatever little fantasies you have onto me” he whispered, his hand shifting from your collar to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling into your curls “you want to watch me so bad? You want to see what happens when the door is locked?”

You couldn’t help the small, desperate nod you gave against his hand. “Good girl,” He pulled back just enough to look down into your blown-out pupils, his face completely rid of his usual professional mask. There was a dark, heavy look there now, something completely raw. “Then you’re going to stay right here. You’re going to do exactly what I tell you to do, and you aren’t going to take your eyes off me for a single second. Do you understand?”

He didn't wait for you to answer with words. The desperate, breathless look in your eyes was enough of an answer. He let out a low sound of approval, his hand tightened in your curls for a second before letting go. The sudden loss of his touch made you cold, but before you could even blink, he reached out and took you by the waist. His grip was tight, hands sinking into your hips with a possessive weight that made it clear you weren’t going anywhere unless he allowed it

With one smooth tug, he moved you forward to lift and guide you backwards until the backs of your thighs hit the edge of his desk. The wood was solid and cool against your skin, a sharp contrast to the heat coming off his body. “Sit” He ordered, his eyes never leaving yours.

You scrambled up onto the edge, your hands pressed flat against the dark wood on wither side of your thighs steadying yourself as you sast on the desk. He reached up, his long fingers wrapping around his tie. He wasn’t rushing, He loosened it slow, methodical movements you had been watching all night—but this time, it was meant for you too see. He pulled the band completely over his head and tossed it onto the desk behind you, followed by the first three buttons of his white shirt.

The view made your mouth go dry. Your boss was standing in font of you, unwravilling right in front of you. It was weird to see him outside of controlled and focused. “You like seeing me like this?” he murmured, leaning forward until his hands planted flat on the desk, caging your thighs in on both sides. He was so close you could feel the heat coming from his body “This is what you wanted when you were staring at me, isn’t it?”

“Yes” You whispered, the word slipping out before you could stop yourself. His eyes were dark and angry like you haad done something wrong, like you had disobeyed. He didn’t check your speech this time. Instead, one of his hands left the desk and slid up your inner tigh, his plam hot and heavy through the fabric of your clothes. He pushed his hand upward with a slow pace that made your breath hitch in your throat.

He stopped just short of where you desperately wanted him him to be, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your bottoms, anchoring you to him. “Then look at me” He commanded, his voice dropping into a rough, dominant tone. He leaned in, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin right beneath your ear “keep your eyes right on me while I show you exactly what happens to creeps who don’t finish their work”

Your fingers dug so deep into the grain of the oak desk that your nails nearly cracked against the wood. The moment his fingers slid beneath the fabric and found your bare skin, the absolute heat of him made your whole body arch. You were already dripping, completely ruined just from hours of watching him through the glass, and he knew it.

He didn’t use a light touch. His fingers were heavy, blunt, and instantly demanding, pressing directly into your slick center with a hard, sliding pressure that made your hips twitch violently. "Ah—"

"Hush," he mumbled, cutting off your gasp by shoving two fingers straight inside you. The sudden, thick stretch of him filling you up so fast made your eyes snap wide. You swallowed a scream, your head slamming back against his glass window with a dull thud. He didn’t slow down, his fingers curling inside you, hitting a spot deep and sensitive that a shiver wrecked your entire spine.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice dropping to rough and jagged you had never heard him use in a briefing. He leaned his weight forward, his broad chest pressing your torso back until you were half-flat on the desk, your legs spread completely wide around his waist. "I told you to keep your eyes on me, you’re a big girl you can do it."

You forced your eyes open through the tears of friction. He was looking right down at you, his jaw clenched so tight the muscle was ticking, his eyes completely dark with heat. He began to move his fingers again. bottoming out inside you until the wet, smacking sound of his palm hitting your soaking core echoed loudly in the empty office.

He used his other hand to pin your wrists flat against the desk above your head, locking you down. Every single thrust of his fingers was deliberate, driving higher and higher, stretching you open until you were sobbing, your hips blindly thrusting against his hand to beg for more speed.

"You like how that feels?" he murmured, leaning down so close his lips brushed yours, tasting the salt of your sweat. "You like being taken apart on my desk?"

"Yes—please, please—"

"Then take it," he whispered, his thumb finding your swollen clit and pressing down hard, rubbing in a tight, circle at the exact same time he drove his fingers all the way inside you.

The dual stimulation was too intense. Your vision went blurry at the edges. Your inner muscles clamped down on his fingers, pulsing in tight, waves as your orgasm hit you. You whined against his mouth, your hips shaking as you came directly on his hand, soaking his fingers.

He didn't look away for a single second. He watched your face twist, watched your chest heave, his thumb keeping up that brutal, steady friction right through your climax until your loud, breathless whimpers finally began to quiet down into ragged breathing.

Hotch stepped back, but he didn't give you permission to move yet. Without the heat of his body anchoring you to the desk, the cool air of the office hit your damp skin, making you shiver, your legs still draped awkwardly over the edge of the wood.

His dark eyes stayed locked on yours, heavy and unblinking, as he slowly adjusted the cuffs of his crisp white shirt. He rolled them neatly back down to his wrists, buttoning himself back up into the Unit Chief without ever breaking that intense, suffocating connection between you.

He picked up your messy, half-finished folder from where it had fallen on the floor, and placed it right on the desk between your open thighs.

"Fix your clothes," he murmured, his voice returning to that smooth, professional tone, though it was still rough around the edges from how hard he'd just had you.

You scrambled off the desk, your knees shaking so badly you had to catch yourself against the leather chair. Your underwear was damp, your skin was flush, and your chest was still heaving, but you hurriedly pulled your clothes back into place, your fingers fumbling with your own buttons under his dark, watchful eye.

Once you were presentable, he tapped his index finger against the folder. "You aren't leaving," he said softly, the authority in his voice pinning you to the floor. "Sit right there in that chair. You are going to type out the rest of this report, word for word, exactly how I want it. I'm going to sit right here, and if I see your eyes wander from the screen even once, we are going to start this entire evening over. Do you understand me?"

You swallowed the lump in your throat, your voice a tiny, whisper. "Yes.."

Cam girl reader ends up working for her biggest fan without even knowing

Part one! Part two

[ WARNINGS ]

18+ themes, Mature content, Strong language, Angst & emotional themes, Violence & military themes, Slow burn, Potentially triggering subjects, inappropriate relations with coworkers, praise, dom/sub undertones if you squint and spin while reading.

“Same as yesterday?” you asked lightly, rolling your stool closer. “Any headache? Nausea? Dizziness?” He sat on the edge of the exam bed, back too straight, hands braced on his knees like he was waiting for orders instead of a checkup. “No.” You arched a brow. “That was fast.”

“Drank the water.” His gaze flicked to your hands as you reached for the blood pressure cuff. “Rested.” You hummed, unconvinced, but you didn’t push. “Arm.” He extended it, the fabric of his sleeve tight around corded muscle. You wrapped the cuff around his bicep.

The machine whirred softly. Your office smelled faintly of your lotion and cheap coffee, antiseptic buried under everything that made this space yours—pink pen, pink clipboard, pink stethoscope. His eyes drifted to it where it lay coiled on the counter. “Blood pressure looks better,” you said, glancing at the reading. “You actually listened. I’m impressed.” He let out a low huff that might’ve been a laugh. “Don’t get used to it.”

He went still when the cold diaphragm met his chest through his shirt, the weight of your palm steadying the fabric. You’d done this a thousand times with a thousand men, but there was always something about Ghost—about the way he watched you, like he was waiting for you to mess up or surprise him. “In,” you murmured. He inhaled. “Out.” He exhaled. The exam was routine. Simple. Nothing you hadn’t done before.

His eyes tracked every move you made, cataloguing details he’d never let himself look at this. The same hair clip you wore in every stream, now pinned at the side of your head. The tiny star sticker on your pink clipboard, barely visible in the edge of last night’s camera frame.

The light gloss on your mouth that, under his laptop’s glow, looked exactly the same. You were right here, and somehow, you were also there. “Temperature’s normal,” you said finally, pulling the thermometer away and noting it on his chart. “Heart rate’s fine.”

“Sure about that?” he muttered under his breath. You glanced up. “What?”

“Nothing.” His jaw tightened behind the mask. “We done?” You hesitated. Something in his voice had an edge to it you hadn’t heard yesterday. “Yeah. Just…try not to push it too hard for a day or two. Heat exhaustion isn’t a joke” He stood in one smooth motion. You watched the way his shoulders rolled, the way the black fabric of his shirt stretched across his back, the mask hiding everything but those sharp eyes.

You’d wondered, in a quiet, stupid part of your brain, what he looked like under it. He headed for the door, hand reaching for the handle. “Ghost?” He stopped. You paused, suddenly unsure why you’d called him back. “Uh…if you start feeling off again, just come back. Don’t…wait it out.” He didn’t look at you when he answered. “Wouldn’t dream of it, love.” The endearment slid out unplanned, by the time you’d found your voice again, he was already gone.

He lasted two days.

Two days of pretending things were normal. Two days of training, debriefs, pretending he wasn’t hyper-aware of every time you crossed the courtyard, of the faint sound of your laugh drifting down the hall when some private said something stupid in your office. Two nights of staring at his laptop and not opening the site. On the third night, it all broke. The base was quieter. Late enough that even Soap had shut up. Ghost sat on the edge of his bunk, mask off for once, elbows on his knees, knuckles pressed against his mouth.

He told himself he just wanted to confirm, one more stream—just to prove his brain was making connections where there weren’t any, his fingers moved on their own, first the VPN, then the Login, Homepage and there you were—Green circle. Live.

The feed loaded, and his chest went tight. The same room with the same baby-pink sheets, the same posters and magazines. The camera was angled a little differently tonight—closer, more focused on your thighs where they pressed together.

Simon wasn’t usually a silent viewer, but tonight was different. He didn't speak in chat, nor donate, he just watched. He watched you arch a little, watched your hand trail down your own thigh in a way that hit him straight in the gut, watched you tilt your head, lips forming a pout you probably didn’t even realize you did at work when you were concentrating.

The tip menu flashed whenever someone dropped a bigger amount. Tiny, compared to what he usually gave, his cursor hovered over your private message icon—He didn’t type in chat this time, he just opened your DMs instead.

vilagantnorth: You busy after this?

He watched your eyes flick, almost imperceptibly, to the corner of your screen where your PM notifications lived. You kept talking—something about moving to the next thing, you absent-mindedly removed the lace, but your main focus was on the notification above. You: Depends you: for you? maybe Vilagantnorth: Need to talk. You: u know how weird that sounds coming from a man who pays me to moan his name He exhaled sharply through his nose. vilagantnorth: It’s important.

There was a long pause. On camera, you changed positions, sliding higher on the bed, pink sheets wrinkling under your knees. You leaned into the performance, voice dropping lower, hips rolling in a way that had the chat losing its mind as you rode the pink toy–you looked into it but you weren't, not like you usually do–your mind was elsewhere.

he knew you were thinking, considering. Your reply came through after you’d ‘finished’ at least chat thought you did you: fine you: stream ends in 20 you: don’t ghost

He almost snorted at that, almost.

vilagantnorth: I won’t.

The twenty minutes came faster than you expected. You amped it up for the finale—well-practiced motions, filthy words you’d said so many times they felt like a second language. The donations rolled in, your income for the night steadily climbing, but the whole time, there was this tiny, annoying weight in the back of your mind. You’d done private messages. Of course, you had. Some men tipped big enough that it felt… polite to answer a few of their questions. Mostly surface-level. What you liked, what you wouldn’t do, the occasional “how was your day, baby?” that felt almost sweet when you didn’t think too hard about it.

But no one ever wanted to talk, not like that—And Definitely not him. You ended the stream with a practiced smile, blowing a kiss to the camera. “Alright, that’s it for me tonight,” you teased. “Don’t miss me too much.” The room went quieter when the live icon disappeared. No more scrolling chat. No more donation sounds, just the hum of the base around you and your own heartbeat in your ears. You slid off the bed and padded over to your desk chair, tugging your cam top down a bit more as you sat. The screen was still open to the site; your messages pane blinked with one new DM.

vilagantnorth: Still there?

you: yeah you: so what’s up?

You expected something vague. Kinky. Maybe some long-winded confession about how he was in love with you despite never seeing your face, what you got instead made your stomach lurch.

vilagantnorth: You work on base.

You stared at the words. You read them again—Hands suddenly cold, you typed back trying to make this a joke.

you: lol what

vilagantnorth: You do. vilagantnorth: Same room, Same stethoscope. C’mon, honey, you gotta be smarter, don’t you think?

You swallowed, all you could think right now was—Damn this nigga is federal, your eyes flicked around your room as someone might suddenly be standing there, watching.

“Fuck,” you whispered, throat dry. You’d been careful about your face. Always. But your background? Your stuff? You’d gotten comfortable.

you: you’re on base??

The reply was almost immediate.

vilagantnorth: Yeah. you: u a private? you: u better not be 18 I swear to god

Vilagantnorth: what do you think love? You: With the way your acting a fucking private Vilagantnorth: you think a private could spend as much as i do on you? No im an lieutenant.

You stared at the word until it blurred. “Lieutenant,” you said out loud, but it came out more like a croak. Your mind went to the few lieutenants you actually saw regularly. Their voices. Their builds, Your stomach dropped.

you: prove it

vilagantnorth: Open the door.

You froze, fuck no– you were not opening the door, this is how people get kidnapped and locked in somebody's basement, and if they were telling the truth–nobody would question a lieutenant.

you: ? vilagantnorth: I’m oustide.

You just sat there. The logical part of your brain screamed no, absolutely not, block him, quit, change your username, move countries, but your body was already moving. You didn’t do things like this, you weren’t an adrenaline junkie although it may seem that way, but YOU AREN’T! Your heart was beating so hard you felt it in your throat. You closed your laptop with a soft click, as if that would somehow shove this other life back where it belonged, and then you unlocked the door.

Who stood there, shocked you. Simon–or ghost as you know him stood there with his mask on, hoodie thrown over his usual gear, hands tucked into the pockets—Broad as the fucking doorway, the hall’s dim lights threw his skull into sharp contrast.

“Lieutenant,” you breathed. When he was up close, without the fluorescent infirmary lighting, he looked bigger. More dangerous. Like the kind of men you always saw kink posts on, but never had the guts to meet with one. He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you, down your body, up again. You were still in the lace set, you had slid it back on–not for him, just because you planned on taking OF content after streaming. He’d seen it from one angle for hours, and now he got the full view. Your mouth was dry, you didn’t really know what to say–this was technically your boss. “Um. Do you—” but before you could get it out, he cut you off

“Can I come in?” His voice was low, rough. Not a question so much as a warning: this was your chance to say no and you should’ve, but instead you stepped back, and let out a breathy “Yeah.” He crossed the room, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. Your room suddenly felt even smaller. Walls closer. Air thicker.

You wrapped your arms around yourself on instinct, acutely aware of how much skin you had on display, especially around somebody of authority. “So,” you said, trying for light and landing somewhere near strangled, “this is awkward.”

He looked around once. Took in the posters, the pink sheets, the fairy lights. The desk, the still-warm laptop. The stethoscope draped over the chair. Then his eyes came back to you.

“You’re her.” It wasn’t really a question, you didn’t understand why he stated the obvious, but whatever. “and you’re the one who sends me 5k in the span of two weeks.” Silence stretched between you, and of course you broke first. “How long have you known?”

“Two days.” His gaze dropped to your thighs, then jerked back up to your mouth. “Since that stream the night I get sick.” Your head spun. “And you just — what? Decided to ambush me in my room?” He took a step closer, instinctively, you took a half step back. He stopped.

“Didn’t like the idea of half the world seeing what I see every time I’m in your office,” he said quietly. “Didn’t like knowing they were thinking about you when I—” He cut himself off, jaw flexing. “Didn’t like it.” You stared at him. “That’s kind of the job description. And you pay for it, so—”

“You don’t need them.” The words landed between you with more weight than they should’ve. You laughed, a sharp, disbelieving sound. “You don’t get to decide that. You’re a client, not—”

“I’m more than a client.”

You shut your mouth because he wasn’t wrong, and you hated that. He was your boss, or at least one of them–you technically weren’t told not to have a Porn account, but also, it’s more of an unstated rule. He’d been there from almost the beginning. When the tips were small, and you were still figuring out your angles. When you were nervous, and your equipment was cheap, and your confidence came and went.

He’d been steady, big numbers, specific requests that never crossed your lines, messages that were never gross, never demanding. You didn’t know him, but you’d still gotten used to him.

“That doesn’t mean you get to tell me what to do with my body, Or my money. Nursing school is not cheap. Life is not cheap. This pays the bills.”

“You’ve got a job now.” He nodded toward your stethoscope. “A good one.”

“So?”

“So you don’t need to do this anymore. You only need me.”

“That is,” you said slowly, “the most possessive shit I’ve ever heard. Who the fuck do you think you are?”

He didn’t look sorry.

“Do you want me to quit? Cause it’s not happening, not for you,” you asked, because you needed to hear him say it out loud.

“Yes.” No hesitation. “I don’t want anyone else hearing you like that. Seeing you like this.” His gaze dragged down your body again, hot enough that your skin prickled. “Want it for me.”

You laughed again, but it came out weak. “And what, you’re just going to replace the whole internet?”

“If that’s what it takes.” Your heart was a drumbeat in your ears– you always had a comeback– but you couldn’t seem to find one. “Ghost—”

“Simon.”

You blinked. He’d never told you his name before. “This isn’t how it works,” you said, but it sounded like you were trying to convince yourself now. “you don’t just show up and tell me to stop.”

“You can say no,” he replied. “I’ll walk out that door. Won’t bring it up again. Won’t say a word to anyone.” You believed him—it was dumb and naive, but you did. “And if I say yes?”

“Then you shut that account down,” he said hoarsely. “You keep your face yours. Your body yours. And if you still want—” His gaze flicked to your mouth. “If you still want all that attention, all that…relief…” His voice dropped. “You come to me.”

“That’s a lot of trust,” you whispered.

“Alread gave you my life,” he said. “Every time I walk into that infirmary.” You stared at him. Then, slowly, you walked past him. You went to your desk, flipped your laptop open, and pulled up your account settings. Your cursor hovered over the “Deactivate” option. Your hand shook.

His reflection was a dark shape in the screen behind you.“This is insane,” you murmured.

“You don’t have to.” You exhaled. Then you clicked. A confirmation box popped up. You typed your password with numb fingers, hit enter, and watched your dashboard blink out.

Just like that. When you turned around his eyes were on you like you’d just jumped out of a plane and he was the only damn parachute.

“There,” you said, heart pounding. “Happy?”

He crossed the space between you in three long strides. You backed up until your spine hit the wall. He stopped in front of you, close enough that you could smell sweat and gun oil and whatever soap he used. His hands lifted, hovering by your arms like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch.

You tilted your chin up.

His fingers finally settled on your arms, rough palms hot against your skin. He didn’t drag you in. He just held, thumbs stroking slow lines over the soft give of your biceps like he was testing how much you’d let him take. “Say it,” he murmured. Your throat tightened. “Say what?” His gaze moved over you like a hand—lingering on the dip of your collarbone, the swell of your chest in lace, the rich brown of your thighs where they pressed together.

“What you want from me,” he said. “Not from the screen. From me.” You tried to scoff, but it came out thin. “That’s not how this usually works. People tell me what they want. They pay, I—”

“I ’ve paid,” he cut in, voice low. His hands tightened just enough that you felt how easy it would be for him to pin you there. “Enough to know the difference between a show and when something’s real.” Your pulse jumped under your skin. He slid one hand up, big palm curving around the side of your neck, thumb resting over the frantic beat in your throat. No pressure, just weight, just heat. It made your knees wobble anyway.

“You want me to walk out?” he asked quietly. “Forget I ever put it together?” The thought made your stomach drop. No more green circle. No more DMs. No more rough voice in your ear while you pretended not to care who he really was. “…No,” you admitted.

His thumb stroked once over your pulse, like he was rewarding you. “You want me to keep wathching you spread yourself out for a bunch of strangers who don’t know your real name?” Your cheeks burned. “That’s my job,” you muttered. His other hand dropped to your waist, fingers spanning almost your whole side. Against the warm brown of your skin, his knuckles looked pale and stark, the contrast making every point of contact feel more intense. He eased you a fraction closer, your body brushing his.

“I know your job.” he said. “Sat through enough of your shifts to see how hard you work befor you evre turn a camera on.” His gaze dipped, tracking the way your chest rose under the lace as you breathed. “I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about you. Here. Off the clock. Saying my name because you want to, not because someone dropped fifty quid.”

Heat rolled through you, pooling low between your legs. “Simon,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

The sound that came out of him was almost a growl. His fingers flexed at your throat, staying gentle, but you felt the barely‑leashed strength there. “Again.” he rasped. “Simon.” This time it came out breathier, your lips parting around it. “Good.” The praise dropped into your stomach like a stone in water, heavy and hot. Your back hit the wall fully, shoulder blades pressed to cool cinderblock, his body a solid wall of heat in front of you.

“This is a lot,” you managed. “you know that, right?” “I know.” His forehead dipped until the edge of his mask brushed your hairline, the cool material a sharp contrast to your warm skin. “That’s why I told you you can say no.”

“And if I say yes?” you whispered. He didn’t look away. “Then you’re mine when you sound like that,” he said simply. “Not the chat’s. Not the lads’ imaginations. Mine. On my base. In my hands.” Your instinct was to argue, to bite back, but the words died on your tongue. His thumb swept the side of your neck again, and instead of pushing him away, your body tipped forward, closing the last sliver of space between you.

Your palms flattened against his chest. Heat bled through the fabric of his hoodie, through your rings, up your arms. His chest was solid—broad and unforgiving—and when you shifted, the line of him between your thighs made your breath catch. “Okay,” you said, voice small and wrecked.

“Then…don’t walk out.” His grip tightened like a lock clicking into place. “That’s my girl,” he breathed. The words went straight to your head. Your knees went weak; he felt it, one hand dropping from your neck to your hip, dragging you flush to him so he could take your weight. Your lace‑covered stomach met hard muscle, your nipples brushing his chest, already tight from adrenaline and the way he was looking at you. “I ’ve listened to you long enough to know when you’re faking and when your voice really starts to shake”

His mouth found the corner of yours first, a testing brush—barely there, gone before you could really lean into it. He waited. You chased him. The kiss landed messy, mouths not quite lined up at first, your teeth catching his lower lip through the fabric edge of his mask. He adjusted, angling his head so he could really kiss you, his lips firm and sure against yours. It was hungry and controlled all at once, like he’d been holding this back for days and was determined to savor every second now he’d let himself have it.

You melted into him, fingers curling into the front of his hoodie, tugging like you could pull him inside your skin if you tried hard enough. Your body fit to his like it had been waiting for this—soft to hard, curves pressed along lines of muscle. The lace dragged against the cotton of his shirt, every tiny movement lighting you up. He made a low sound into your mouth when your thigh slid along his, a rough, unguarded noise you’d never heard in the infirmary. It rumbled through his chest and into your hands.

“Simon,” you breathed. “That’s it,” he murmured. One of his hands left your hip, skimming down over the curve of your ass, fingers squeezing just enough to make you gasp. Your body arched into him, instinctive and desperate. Your skin was hot, the warm brown of your stomach and thighs glowing under the fairy lights, like you’d been poured into that lace just for him.

His fingers traced the edge of the fabric where it met your hip, the rough pads of them gliding over the softer skin there. He didn’t push it aside—yet—but the way he followed the line made it clear he was thinking about it. “Been sitting in your office,” he said against your mouth, “trying not to stare at this.” His hand squeezed again, dragging you against the hard line of his thigh. “Wondering how it would feel if I have you up on that exam bed instead, legs open, all that pretty skin on display for me not a bloody webcam.”

A choked sound left you, half protest, half need. “You are so—” Your words cut off when he rolled his thigh up between yours, the pressure hitting you exactly where you were aching. Your fingers dug into his shoulders. Your hips rocking once, helpless, chasing the friction.

“There she is,” he murmured, satisfaction bleeding into his voice. “Knew you were in there somewhere under all that attitude.”

“Don’t start,” you warned weakly, but you rolled into him again, heat sparking low in your belly. He stilled his leg just enough to make you feel how much you’d been moving. “You want me to stop?” You hated him a little for asking. Loved him a little for it too. “No,” you mumbled, His hand at your neck slipped higher, fingers threading into your curls where they’d started to escape your clip. He wished to pull, tilting your head back so he could drag his mouth down the line of your jaw, lips and teeth scraping over the soft place just under your ear. Your whole body shivered. The sound you made was embarrassingly close to the ones he’d paid to hear, but there was no camera now, no tip menu—just you, your body, his hands.

“Thought about this,” he admitted, breath hot against your skin. “About how you’d feel under my hands—warm, soft, all that glow under my palms instead of my bloody screen.” His free hand slid around to the front of your hip, thumb brushing the damp heat at the edge of the lace. “Knew you’d be a mess up close.” “Simon,” you whined, hips jerking. “Yeah,” he rasped. “just like that. Say it while you’re still thinking straight, love. Won’t last bloody long.”

You swallowed hard, the room spinning a little. Your back was pinned to the wall, his body caging you in, big hands caging every line of you like he was memorizing a route he never wanted to forget. Your skin felt too tight, nerves singing everywhere he touched you—and everywhere he didn’t yet. “Do you trust me?” he asked, voice suddenly quieter, serious. You thought of every time he’d sat on your exam bed and let you poke and prod at him, every time he’d followed your instructions without argument when it came to his body, his health, his life.

“Yeah, I do.” His forehead pressed to yours again, just for a heartbeat. “Then let me take care of you,” he said. “No camera. No audience. Just us.” Your answer was a shaky little nod. “Good,” he said, and there was something like relief in it. His thumb stroked your jaw one more time. “Because I’m not walking back out of here without tasting you.” The bottom dropped out of your stomach in the best possible way.