#nick fowler

Polished shoes, trimmed suit, and a whisky that sloshed ever so subtly in his hand as you entered his office. Void of any other person, just the two of you with the minuscule squeak of his leather chair and the subtle scent of tobacco.

You didn't sit, not because you weren't asked to, but because you knew the rhythm, how Nick Fowler moved, the dance of an office meeting that starts with him sat down with his eyes on the cold drink in his palm.

"Do you know why," he started, voice low, a hum you could feel in your chest. "I asked you in here? Right now?"

Your hands clasped together in front of you, shuffling your feet, inhaling, waiting for an impact you don't know will come.

"I do." You answer.

"Tell me."

His eyes find you then, blue, unwavering. Expression simple, cryptic almost in its vacancy. Swallowing, you comply with a faint quiver of anxiety.

"The mission—"

Nick cuts you off, swirling the amber in his glass. "What mission?"

"Venice, Italy. Touristy place. The guy we need, Max, is on the run and found himself in Europe," you swallow around your nerves. "We slide in, make friends, be sweet, and get what we came there for."

"Which is?"

Swallowing again, your eyes slide from the veins on the back of his hand, to the edges of his suit, the collar of his shirt, his pink lips and finally to his stare.

"Fifty grand."

You flinch subtly as he stands, placing his glass aside on the polished oak, sighing. His fingers graze the wood while he walks around his desk, dragging, until he finally stops mere inches in front of you. Polished shoes bracketing your feet.

Before you could look up yourself, his hands hold your cheeks, thumbs grazing the underside of your chin until you share a breath.

"You should be grateful I chose you. You understand?"

You nod and repeat the affirmation under your breath, a mere sigh as you try your best to hold his stare. He keeps pressing, his gaze boring into your own, licking his lips, so close you could almost taste him. He held it down hard, tipping his head, clenching his jaw, willing you to snap at any moment.

When he spoke next, it came softer. An insurmountable gentleness that made your lips part. "No one else is worthy of my touch. I chose you for a reason, a reason I barely even understand myself. But do not make me regret that."

"I won't." You say stiffly. "I won't make you regret it."

"Am încredere în tine, draga mea."

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He didn’t give your partner the same treatment, from what he told you. 

Put a bullet in his head. 

“You know, I remember every single thing you’ve ever said to me.”

You didn’t respond to that. What could you say? He was the head of the CIA, and you were a lowly agent. 

It didn’t make sense why he’d pay attention to or care about you. 

“Like when we met and you complimented me on my tie.” He smiled gently. “You said it matched my eyes.”

You bit your tongue. It was a small compliment. But it seemed to mean more to him. 

“And like when you said you felt so happy you could die when we were stuck in the elevator.”

“I didn’t say that,” you said softly. 

“I know,” he said, smirking when he brushed a thumb along your cheek. “Just making sure you’re paying attention to me.”

As if he’d let your attention drift elsewhere. 

“What did you say?” he asked.

You bit your tongue when his hand slid to your throat and rested there. 

“Tell me,” he ordered.

“I said ‘green’, Sir,” you whispered, breaking character because you had to. 

Green was your safeword. 

He smiled. “Happy anniversary.” 

Today was your six month anniversary. 

Six months of roleplaying and him fucking you like a man possessed. And taking care of you after like you were something for him to cherish. He always put you back together after he broke you. 

And he was going to do it again tonight. 

Nick can do whatever he wants. Love and thanks for reading. ❤️