Anonymous asked: sender kisses receiver to pretend they're in a relationship. - @VelvetCompulsion
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Niccola knew exactly what he was doing the second he moved closer. Not because Kilgrave was subtle, Gods knew he was still learning subtlety, but because she had trained him herself.
Every adjustment in posture. Every calculated shift of expression. Every deliberate pause before speaking. She had spent months drilling those instincts into him behind closed doors in places ranging from underground firing ranges to the warmth of his bed in her guestroom. She had taught him how to blend. How to lie convincingly. How to weaponize eye contact. How to make people underestimate him.
And now he was using every single lesson against her...
The realization hit at the exact wrong moment.
They stood near the center of the gala floor beneath low amber lighting, surrounded by the dull roar of expensive conversations and clinking crystal glasses, while Niccola had taken notice that Viktor Petrov’s attention had sharpened dangerously toward them.
One mistake. That was all it would take.
Kilgrave shifted beside her, and she recognized the movement immediately; hesitation hidden beneath confidence...A tell. Tiny. Almost invisible. But she noticed because she always noticed him.
It was nerves. Not fear of the mission. Fear of failing her.
The thought struck unexpectedly hard...
Because beneath the couture black suit and carefully rehearsed charm, Kilgrave was still new to this world. Still learning where to place his hands. Still learning when to speak and when silence carried more power. Still looking toward her, however subtle, for reassurance after every successful maneuver.
And Gods help her, the Irishwoman had become dangerously fond of watching him learn...
...Then his hand settled against her waist. How did the warmth of his hand cause her temperature to rise by 5 degrees so quickly...?
Steady enough to fool anyone watching; not steady enough to fool her.
Her breath stalled, trapped in her chest for a moment as she forgot how to breath...
The movement itself should not have affected her this much. Physical contact during assignments was routine. Manufactured intimacy was one of the oldest tricks in intelligence work. She had played lovers, wives, mistresses, strangers tangled together in dark corners for information extraction more times than she could count.
But never with him...
Because Kilgrave approached intimacy the way he approached everything...with the intense concentration of someone desperate to get it right.
...And somehow that was worse...
Her eyes lifted instinctively toward his, prepared to silently correct him if needed, only to falter when she found him already looking at her.
There it was again. That..."unbearable" focus...like she was the only thing in the room capable of anchoring him. Her stomach tightened painfully as the flutters threaten to take over.
He leaned closer then; not abruptly, not perfectly smooth either, but carefully...as though recalling every instruction she had ever given him about selling authenticity: Don’t rush. Let tension build. Make them believe you want each other.
Her own words came back to haunt her...
Because the moment his mouth touched hers, the Irishwoman realized with acute clarity that Kilgrave had listened far too well...
The kiss was not polished enough to belong to a seasoned operative. That was what destroyed her composure. There was a fraction too much feeling behind it. Too much effort hidden beneath the performance. Too much intent.
She could practically feel him trying to remember everything she had taught him while simultaneously forgetting half of it the second she responded. And she did respond. GODS!
A part of her hated herself for that immediate instinct while another part of her reveled in it...and that part won!
Her fingers caught lightly against the front of his jacket before she could stop them, grounding herself against the sharp rush of adrenaline that swept through her body. The scent of him was suddenly everywhere; close enough to cloud her thoughts, hazy enough that she could no longer separate operational awareness from the frantic pounding of her own pulse.
The kiss was supposed to be tactical. Controlled. Brief.
Instead, the entire room tilted sideways because Kilgrave kissed her like a man trying very hard to appear experienced while secretly craving approval. And Niccola...was melting underneath of it like a wax candle that had been left directly in the sun's embrace until there was only a puddle left.
Violating...it should have been...
...yet exhilaration was all that bubbled forth in that moment.
Especially because she could feel exactly where his confidence slipped for half a second, right at the moment she softened against him. A tiny hesitation. A silent question.
Am I doing this right?
The fact that he still sought validation from her in the middle of a mission should have reassured her. Instead it shattered something deep within her chest that left her aching...
Because Niccola suddenly understood she had made a catastrophic mistake somewhere during training. She had let this become personal.
Somewhere between late-night briefings and bruised knuckles wrapped after sparring sessions, between correcting his shooting stance by placing her hands over his and hearing his low sarcastic remarks crack through otherwise unbearable days, she had stopped viewing Kilgrave as merely an assignment, someone to be rescued...
And her body was betraying her for it.
And even worse....he had no idea how much her body was betraying her in this moment.
He had no inkling of what he was doing to her as she stood there beneath crystal chandeliers trying desperately to remember she was Director of Interpol's Black Ops division, not some...lovesick fool being unraveled by the first convincing kiss of her career.
Yet...
Conversations continued uninterrupted around them as if something life-altering wasn't upon her but...this also meant that the cover was holding even though she still felt Petrov's eyes upon them. She forced herself to remember that fact before she completely lost hold of reality.
Slowly, far slower than usual, she pulled back just enough to breathe again, though the distance barely helped. Her Amethyst gaze flickered upward unwillingly, meeting the amber of his once more, and immediately regretted it.
He looked quietly stunned with himself. Not arrogant. Not smug. Almost surprised that he had managed to pull it off. The realization nearly made her heart stop altogether.
Because that expression, that brief flicker of uncertain triumph, was so disastrously genuine that the Irishwoman had to fight the overwhelming urge to cup his face within her grasp right there in front of everyone.
Instead, she did what she did best...
...She buried the feelings raging war within for the "greater good".
Her composure slid back into place piece by careful piece, though it felt far less stable now than it had minutes earlier. Still, she let one hand smooth over the front of his tie with fondness, maintaining the illusion for anyone observing them.
The gesture would read as affection. Only he would feel the faint tremor in her fingers. And only she knew the terrifying truth behind it...
...Niccola no longer knew where the performance ended and where true intentions began...
