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kathlare · 2 months ago

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miss possesive

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary: Amelie navigates the subtle tensions created by Magui's presence, firmly establishing her place by Lando's side and with his family.

Wordcount: 10.3 k

Warnings: smut

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May 25th, 2025 - Monte Carlo, Monaco

The hum of morning was soft and golden as it poured through the slats of their bedroom curtains, casting sunlit stripes across the bed where Benny was curled into a loaf at the foot and Björn lay dramatically sprawled on his back, belly up and legs askew like the little menace he was. The scent of sea air mixed with freshly brewed espresso from the kitchen drifted through the slightly cracked window, and somewhere outside, seagulls squawked over a yacht.

Amelie stood in front of the vanity mirror, slipping a dainty earring through her lobe, her hair still slightly damp from her quick shower. She tilted her head, fixing a loose curl and adjusting the charm necklace Lando had gotten her last week in Milan.

And then she saw it — the silhouette in the mirror.

Steam billowed faintly from the en suite bathroom door as it opened, and out stepped Lando, towel slung low around his hips, another in his hands as he rubbed it over his wet curls. His skin glowed with the kind of sun-kissed tan that Monaco always blessed him with, and droplets of water slid down his chest, carving paths through freckles and faint scratches that probably came from wrestling with Björn or her nails last night. Probably both.

But that wasn’t what made Amelie smirk.

No, it was the neck.

His neck.

Covered in varying shades of red and violet—blossoms of her handiwork. Hickeys trailed from his jawline down to his collarbones like a path of breadcrumbs, bold and utterly unapologetic.

Amelie arched a brow, catching his reflection through the mirror.

—Well, well, well,— she purred, turning slowly with a crooked smile. —Looks like someone got mauled last night. Should I be worried?—

Lando didn’t even flinch. Just sighed and kept drying his hair, curls springing into unruly chaos with each swipe.

—I warned you,— he said casually. —Told you I had media stuff today.—

—You told me,— she echoed, stepping toward him, eyes glittering with mischief. —You just didn’t stop me.—

He let the towel fall from his head, dropping it lazily onto the chair by the dresser. His eyes met hers in the mirror — hazy, amused, still warm from sleep and water. And trouble. Always trouble.

—You really think I was in any position to stop you?— he asked, voice still gravelly, that morning rasp that always made her knees go a little weak.

Amelie crossed her arms, biting back a grin. Her gaze flicked again to the evidence staining his skin. One near his collarbone was particularly dark. She was proud of that one.

—Well, you’re definitely gonna make headlines today,— she teased, sauntering closer until she stood just behind him, her arms wrapping loosely around his waist. —“Norris debuts new sponsor: Girlfriend’s Teeth.”—

Lando snorted, leaning back into her touch. Her hands skimmed over his stomach, slow and teasing, fingertips brushing low, just above where the towel clung dangerously to his hips.

—They should be grateful I’m not charging for ad space,— he muttered, lips twitching. —Monaco real estate isn’t cheap. Especially when it’s on my neck.—

She giggled, pressing a kiss to the back of his shoulder. —You’re disgusting.—

—You love it.—

She didn’t argue. Just grinned into his skin.

Then Lando turned, suddenly, catching her waist and pulling her flush against him in one smooth motion. The towel stayed put — barely — but it was the smirk that made her heart stutter. That smug, post-mischief glint in his eyes.

—Speaking of love,— he said, voice low, —do you have my victory reward planned yet? You know… just in case I bring home a little something shiny this afternoon.—

Amelie blinked, trying not to laugh as her hands flattened against his chest.

—You're already angling for sex and the lights haven't even gone out yet? You’re disgusting and cocky.—

—Confident,— he corrected, dipping his head to mouth lazily at her neck. —And very, very motivated. Did you see the lap I put in yesterday? That pole position wasn’t luck, baby. That was pure, uncut “my girlfriend is gonna wreck me if I win” energy.—

—You’re impossible,— she whispered, shivering slightly as his teeth grazed the spot behind her ear.

—Tell me again tonight when I’m holding a trophy and your thighs over my shoulders.—

Amelie slapped his chest with a scandalized laugh, cheeks flushed and heart racing. —Lando! You’re a menace!—

—You love that too.—

God, she really did.

He dipped again, this time kissing her collarbone gently — reverently — his fingers spreading across her back like he couldn’t quite let go, even just to go get dressed. The towel had definitely slipped lower now, but neither of them moved to fix it.

Benny gave a bored meow from the bed, tail flicking once in disapproval. Björn snored upside down.

—You need to get dressed,— Amelie whispered eventually, though her fingers were still tracing circles against his ribs. —You're gonna be late for the driver's parade.—

—Mmm. Five more minutes. Or just cancel it. Monaco’ll understand.—

She arched a brow. —You want to cancel the biggest race of the year because you’re horny?—

He leaned down, brushing their noses together.

—Not just horny. Horny and in love. Big difference.—

That earned him a kiss. Soft. Slow. And full of all the things they didn’t always say out loud before races.

She pulled back first, gently nudging him toward the closet. —Go. Before I distract you again. I’ve got makeup to finish, and you’ve got a grid to dominate.—

Lando winked, finally releasing her. —Fine. But you better be waiting here later with nothing but that necklace on.—

Amelie smirked, eyes following him as he walked away.

—Only if you bring me champagne to go with it.—

—Deal.—

And with that, he disappeared behind the closet door, towel still barely hanging on, the bruises she'd left on full display like a signature.

Amelie turned back to the mirror, cheeks warm and heart lighter.

Let them all see.

He was hers.

-------------

liked by lanmelieupdates, ferrarigirlieee, and others

lanmelieupdates: Lando pulled up early to the paddock solo this morning, but don’t worry besties — queen Amelie arrived a bit later with his parents 😭💕 like!!! wife behavior??? we won today and the race hasn’t even started

View all 87,095 comments

chaoticwags: lando locking in p1 just bc he saw her walk in with his MOTHER 😭😭 → gridgirl420: @chaoticwags bro was like “wife and mom in one place? let me impress” 😭💍

drsdrama: nah be fr is that a HICKEY on his neck or am i hallucinating → lanmelieslut69: @drsdrama you’re not. she left her mark and i support it. → ameliesburnttoast: @drsdrama that’s not a hickey it’s a statement 💋

paddockrat: lanmelie entering their soft launch marriage era i fear → norrisnation: @paddockrat hard launch next week i’m manifesting

wifeymelie: she showed up with his parents and he’s walking around with her love bites… guys we LOST → pitwallprincess: @wifeymelie we lost but also we won???

f1gfthings: everyone shut up i’m still screaming at the fact his mum was with her and not him 😭 → ameliesimpact: @f1gfthings mama norris said that’s my daughter-in-law now

chaoscorner: lando walking around like he doesn’t have a whole crime scene on his throat 💀

gridgirlie: HIS NECK??? BE SERIOUS → pitwallclown: @gridgirlie you saw the hickey too right ok i’m not crazy → lanlover44: @gridgirlie she clocked in overtime last night 😭😭😭

ameliesburner: she walked in like she pays for mclaren’s engine upgrades → landozaddy: @ameliesburner babe she does it’s called ✨motivation✨

wagsunited: lando’s parents arriving with their daughter-in-law like it’s totally normal 😭 → lanmeliee: @wagsunited give it 2 months max before we see a rock on her finger

paddocktea: lando acting all focused meanwhile his neck looks like a vampire got him → ameliecore: @paddocktea SHE ATE. LITERALLY.

glamgridf1: NOT THE HICKEYS ON HIS NECK 😭😭 → lanmelie4ever: @glamgridf1 AMELIE SAID “HE’S MINE” LOUD AND CLEAR 😭💅 → paddockbabes: @glamgridf1 and she let him walk in like that knowing magui was there… a silent slay if you ask me 😌

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The McLaren hospitality buzzed with the familiar rhythm of a race weekend—engineers moving with purpose, media people rushing around, and the subtle scent of fresh coffee mixing with heat and rubber. Amelie arrived through the back entrance, a step behind Lando’s parents, Adam and Cisca, her hair tucked behind her ears and sunglasses shielding her eyes even though she was indoors.

She smiled tightly, thankful for the calm presence of Lando’s mum, who instantly reached out and squeezed her hand.

—You okay, sweetheart?— Cisca asked, her voice always warm.

—Yeah. Just nervous,— Amelie lied. It wasn’t just tiredness. Her stomach was knotted, not from nerves but from her. She hadn’t even fully stepped into the room before her gaze landed on Magui.

She was standing by herself near the corner, a perfect picture of awkward elegance, like someone who didn’t quite know where to stand or who to talk to. She wasn’t talking to anyone. Not even pretending to scroll through her phone. Just... lingering.

Amelie could’ve ignored it. She wanted to ignore it.

Instead, she turned her head and followed Lando’s parents to their usual table. Adam pulled out a chair for her and she offered a quiet, grateful smile before settling in, right between them, like some kind of neutral zone. Cisca began chatting about their flight and the weather in Monaco, and Amelie did her best to follow, nodding and replying when appropriate. She even laughed a few times, forcing herself to breathe, to ground herself.

But her peripheral vision kept betraying her.

Magui was still standing alone. Like a lost puppy. Like she didn’t know where she belonged. And Amelie hated it. She hated that she cared. Hated that her stupid human empathy kicked in when what she really wanted to do was stand up and yell “get the fuck out of here, you don’t belong anymore.”

She didn’t owe Magui kindness.

And yet...

She glanced over. Just a glance. Barely even that.

And Magui looked up.

Shit.

It was the wrong glance. It felt like an invitation. A look Magui clearly interpreted as, hey, come on over and ruin my day.

Amelie tried to look away, but it was too late. She watched as Magui pulled a chair from the next table—scraping it loudly against the floor—and brought it beside her. Adam and Cisca went quiet. Amelie internally groaned.

—Hey,— Magui said sweetly, that fake-ass smile plastered on her face.

—Hi,— Amelie replied, tight-lipped, eyes flicking to Cisca, who raised a brow ever so slightly.

There was a pause. An awful one. Long enough to feel the tension wrap around the table like cling film.

—So... you came with Lando’s parents? That’s sweet. It’s so nice that they still let people from the past come around. Nostalgia’s cute like that.—

The air dropped ten degrees.

Amelie smiled, sharp and polite. —Yeah. It’s nice when you don’t burn every bridge you cross.—

Adam coughed. Cisca’s lips twitched.

Magui didn’t stop.

—I just think it’s so charming how quickly everything changed after Miami. Like one win and suddenly... bam! Everyone’s in love. Must be exhausting to keep up with, right?—

Amelie clenched her jaw. She could feel her skin prickle, her throat tighten, her fists curl under the table. This bitch.

Before she could even open her mouth to reply...

The door swung open.

And there he was.

Lando.

Hair still damp from prep, fireproofs clinging to his frame, the top half of his race suit tied at the waist. He stepped in with that lazy, focused swagger—eyes scanning the room in a split second.

And the second his gaze found her, everything in him shifted. His entire face lit up. His feet moved on instinct.

Amelie swore she heard Magui’s breath hitch.

—There he is,— Adam muttered under his breath, smiling.

Lando beelined straight for their table, ignoring everyone else. Ignoring the way Magui subtly shifted in her seat, adjusting her posture like she was on a goddamn Vogue cover shoot, as if he’d so much as glance in her direction.

He didn’t.

Not once.

Instead, he went straight to his mum and dad, giving them each a tight, warm hug.

—You good, mate?— Adam asked, patting his back.

—Yeah. Feeling it today,— Lando said, pulling away. His voice had that pre-race grit to it, laced with adrenaline and focus, but there was something else too—something softer when he turned to her.

He leaned down, hand already finding the back of Amelie’s chair, thumb brushing the fabric of her shirt just above her spine.

—Hi, baby,— he said low, like she was the only person in the room.

Amelie’s heart squeezed.

—Hi, Lan.—

And just like that, she stood slightly, arms looping around his waist, nose brushing the cotton of his fireproofs as he bent down to kiss her—slow, deliberate, just a moment longer than polite. His hand cupped her jaw, fingers grazing the ends of her hair.

When they broke apart, his forehead pressed against hers for a beat longer than necessary.

It was a quiet declaration.

And Magui saw every fucking second of it.

Amelie didn’t need to turn her head to know—she could feel it. The tension radiating from Magui’s side like heat off tarmac.

She bit back a smile. Fucking hell, that felt good.

Lando finally pulled back, still holding her waist as he sat down beside her, dragging a chair from another table to be closer.

He didn’t acknowledge Magui once.

Didn’t nod. Didn’t smile. Not even a twitch of recognition.

If anything, he leaned into Amelie more, legs bumping hers under the table, his knee pressed to hers like it belonged there.

And Magui… Magui looked like she wanted to peel her skin off.

Still, she tried.

—You’re looking focused, Lando,— she said, sweet like syrup.

He didn’t look at her.

—Thanks,— he replied shortly, eyes on Amelie as he reached for her hand under the table, giving it a quick squeeze.

Cisca raised her glass of water in a faux toast. —Well, we certainly know who’s fueling the good vibes this weekend.—

Adam chuckled. —I’d say it’s the breakfast, but yeah, might be something else.—

Amelie laughed quietly, cheeks warm. Lando just smirked and dropped his head to her shoulder for a second, pretending to yawn into her arm, the picture of casual affection.

Magui cleared her throat.

—It’s just... funny, isn’t it? This dynamic,— she said vaguely, swirling the water in her glass. —You used to be so private, Lando. All hush-hush. And now... this.—

Lando tilted his head, finally glancing toward her. For a second, Amelie thought he might say something sharp.

But he didn’t.

He just grinned, boyish and infuriatingly smug.

—Guess I was just waiting for the right person to show off.—

Magui blinked.

And just like that, she was done.

Not officially—she kept sitting there, but she was done. The attention wasn’t on her. The pull wasn’t on her. She could feel it, the gravity of the room shifting around Amelie. People passing by to say hi, some smiling, some clearly just trying to get close to Lando, but still—they gravitated toward her. The little nods. The curious glances. The subtle touches of admiration and envy.

This was her place.

Her chair.

Her table.

Not Magui’s.

Never again.

Lando leaned into her again, brushing his knuckles against her thigh under the table.

—You okay, Ames?— he murmured.

—Better now,— she whispered back.

He smirked, leaned in to press a kiss to her temple, and then said under his breath, —You look really fucking hot today. I kinda hate I have to go drive a car right now.—

She bit back a grin. —Go win the thing. Maybe I’ll reward you after.—

Lando’s eyes flickered with heat. —Define reward.—

—You’ll know when you earn it.—

Magui finally stood up.

Chair scraping. Awkward. Sharp. She mumbled something about needing to check on someone and left without waiting for a response.

No one stopped her.

Lando barely noticed.

The moment she was gone, he turned to Amelie, face softening completely. —You sure you’re alright?—

Amelie nodded. —Yeah. She doesn’t matter. You do.—

His fingers laced through hers again. —Damn right I do.—

—Cocky bastard.—

—Only for you, cariño.—

She rolled her eyes and leaned in to kiss him again, brief but firm. —Now go make me proud, Lan.—

He stood up with a grin, fireproofs rustling, hair tousled and stupidly perfect.

—Always do, Ames. Always fucking do.—

And with that, he walked off—shoulders straight, head high.

And Magui?

She was gone. Out of the frame. Out of the story.

Where she fucking belonged.

-------------

liked by gossipsquad, mclarenqueen, and others

paddockvibes: Amelie holding it down at McLaren Hospitality today with Lando’s parents 👀💕 Nothing like family support vibes on race day!

View all 103,208 comments

paddockbuzz: lando seeing amelie with his parents like “yep she’s mine” 😭💯 → thewagscoop: @paddockbuzz that hickey on his neck says it all lol

racedayvibes: ames flexing at mclaren today, magui who? 😂 → lanmeliesupport: @racedayvibes facts, no competition when love is this real 💖

fastlane_fan: when bae watches qualy at ferrari but chillin w/ fam on race day 👀👑 → lanmelieforever: @fastlane_fan lowkey strategic moves, gotta keep everyone close ��

f1queenbee: amelie showing up to mclaren like “not today magui” 👑🔥 → lanmelie4life: @f1queenbee facts sis, she’s here to claim her king 👑💥

speedsterz: Amelie showing up at McLaren like “Magui who?” 🤡🔥 → lanmeliefan44: @speedsterz facts, she came to claim her man and the whole hospitality 😍 → fastlane20: @lanmeliefan44 queen energy only 👑

racecarbabe: Amelie + Lando’s parents at McLaren = family goals on point 🙌 → simpracer: @racecarbabe clan vibes too strong, we stan the real power couple 💥

vroomvroomvibes: Lando locking in P1 just cuz he saw Amelie roll up like that 👀💯 → lanmeliefan44: @vroomvroomvibes manifesting podium kisses & race day PDA, yessss 🙌

curvesandcorners: She ain’t playing, today she’s the boss at McLaren 👏💅 → speedsterz: @curvesandcorners CEO of his heart, no cap ❤️‍🔥

paddockvibes: amelie lowkey sending magui vibes: “not today sis” 😤 → lanmeliesimp: @paddockvibes lando got his queen back no cap 👑❤️

fastlane_fan: lando better bring home that W for miss perfect sitting with his fam 💯 → f1queen: @fastlane_fan facts, team vibes 100/10

sundayracevibes: magui who? lanmelie just took over hospitality real estate 👏 → lanmeliesimp: @sundayracevibes they’re basically the power couple of the paddock lol

gossipsquad: hickeys on lando’s neck = claiming territory 101 🔥 → lanmeliesimp: @gossipsquad Amelie’s way of saying “mine, back off” lol

tracktalk: lando walking on clouds knowing amelie’s holding down the fort 💯 → norisimp: @tracktalk he better be, that hickey on his neck says it all 👀

mclarenqueen: watched qualy at ferrari, today she’s showing who’s boss at mclaren lol → lanmeliegang: @mclarenqueen exactly, she’s making it clear where the heart is ❤️‍🔥

-------------

Lando Norris is the Monaco Grand Prix winner.

The words exploded through the speakers as the checkered flag waved over glittering asphalt, and the roar of the crowd was drowned out by a more intimate, more immediate sound—Amelie’s own sharp breath, caught somewhere between disbelief and joy. Her knees gave out before the realization even settled in.

He did it.

He fucking did it.

Cisca’s arms wrapped around her just as the sob burst free, wracking through her chest like a quake. Amelie clung to her like a lifeline, tears streaking down her cheeks, breath coming in jagged gulps as the weight of it all hit her.

Her Lando.

Her boy.

Monaco.

People were screaming around them, orange shirts bouncing, mechanics throwing fists into the air, but she couldn’t see any of it. She couldn’t hear anything past the ringing in her ears and the sound of her own heart threatening to burst through her chest.

Lando Norris. Winner of the Monaco Grand Prix.

Someone said her name—Lily, probably—but Amelie didn’t hear it. Didn’t care. She didn’t look back. She broke free from Cisca’s embrace with a whispered apology and pushed forward, blindly following the wave of McLaren crew and staff making their way toward parc fermé. She weaved through people she didn’t recognize, ignored cameras shoved in her face, nearly stumbled on the stairs as she rushed down to the barricades.

By the time she reached the line of marshals holding hands to block the entry, she could barely stand still. Lily was next to her, equally breathless, tears in her eyes too, laughing in awe. Amelie grabbed her hand tightly, shaking, her nails digging into Lily’s knuckles.

The McLaren garage had erupted into chaos—Oscar was pulling into third, Charles in second, but no one cared about that.

Because Lando had won.

And there he was.

The papaya blur rolled to a stop, and Lando stayed in the cockpit for a second too long, helmet still on, hands frozen on the wheel. Then he slowly unclipped everything with shaking fingers, as if the gravity of what he’d just done was only just sinking in. He reached for the column where he was meant to place his helmet and stood on top of it, his arms thrown into the air like a goddamn king of the world.

Amelie sobbed harder.

Then he jumped down, steady despite the height, and finally yanked off his helmet and balaclava.

And began searching.

His hair was a mess, curls damp and sticking to his forehead, his eyes scanning the crowd with frantic urgency. He found Adam first—his dad pushing through the line, both arms open. Lando didn’t hesitate. He grabbed him in a crushing hug, burying his face into his shoulder. Adam grinned, eyes glinting, whispering something into his ear.

Next came Cisca—already crying, arms open, her lipstick smudged on his cheek the second he bent down. She cupped his face, whispering something only a mother could say, and Lando’s expression crumpled just for a second.

But then he looked up again. Searching.

Searching.

Amelie wasn’t in the first row. She wasn’t near the McLaren engineers, or with the team photographers. She was further back, behind the marshal line, her body shaking with sobs, clinging to Lily’s hand, the sea of orange in front of her keeping her apart.

And standing directly in front of her, stone-faced and intentional, was Magui.

She wasn’t celebrating.

She wasn’t even pretending to.

She stood like a wall, back straight, arms crossed, blocking Amelie’s view—and path.

Lando’s eyes locked onto her next.

Not Magui. Amelie.

He saw her.

Saw her crying.

Saw the way she tried to stand on her tiptoes, like her body couldn’t physically handle the separation another second.

And he moved.

He reached out, his arm stretching across the barricade, hand extended like he could pull her to him by sheer will. The crowd noticed. People started shifting. They understood.

But not Magui.

She stepped forward instead, eyes on Lando like she had something to say—like this was her moment too. She grabbed his outstretched hand before Amelie could.

Lando flinched.

Her lips moved, forming words he couldn’t hear, and frankly, didn’t care to. His face twisted in disbelief, and then, without ceremony, he yanked his hand free, snatching it back like her touch had burned him.

Magui reeled.

He didn’t look at her again.

He only stretched his arm further, fingers reaching, desperate—and this time, the people around understood. The McLaren crew, the PR staff, the photographers—they moved. They stepped aside.

And the marshals?

They saw it too.

Saw the emotion, the rawness, the way Amelie was trying to get to him like the world depended on it.

So they let go.

The line broke.

And Amelie ran.

She didn’t walk. Didn’t push. She ran.

Straight into him.

He caught her like he was made for it, arms wrapping so tightly around her that she lifted off the ground for a second. Her legs nearly gave out again, but it didn’t matter. She collapsed into him, fists gripping the back of his racesuit, her face buried in his chest as sob after sob tore free.

Lando held her. Swayed with her.

Let her cry.

—You did it,— she whispered, voice shattered.

He laughed, breathless, still high on the win and dizzy from the way she clung to him. —I told you I would.—

She pulled back just enough to look up at him—eyes red, cheeks streaked with tears, lip trembling. Her hand cupped his jaw like she didn’t believe he was real.

—You’re my Monaco winner,— she said, trying to smile.

Lando bent his forehead to hers, nose brushing hers as his voice cracked around the lump in his throat.

—Only because of you.—

The crowd kept cheering.

Cameras kept flashing.

But for them, the world narrowed.

To hands on faces.

To tears on cheeks.

To a moment they would never, ever forget.

And Magui?

She was nowhere to be seen.

Because this was Amelie’s ending.

This was her love story.

And her boy had just won the crown jewel of Formula 1—his arms around her, tears mixing with champagne dreams.

Monaco belonged to Lando Norris now.

And so did she.

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liked by lanmelieslut, drs4lanmelie, and others

lanmelieupdates: amelie watching lando on the monaco podium with tears in her eyes and the proudest smile ever… she’s so real for that 😭🏁👑 we all won today.

View all 189,936 comments

f1lvr44: bro won monaco and her heart again on live tv 😭 → lanstans: @f1lvr44 he been won it let’s be fr 😭😭

chaoticwags: lando winning just to make his crybaby gf proud is SO real of him → norrisimp: @chaoticwags she cried so he wouldn’t have to 😭 team effort

gridgf: she looked like she was gonna explode from pride omfg

lanmeliebrainrot: the way he looked for her the SECOND he got out the car 😭 → wagsonwagsonwags: @lanmeliebrainrot soulmate behaviour don’t @ me

gpfairy: she cried FIRST so i wouldn’t have to 😭 → pitlaneprincess: @gpfairy her mascara was fighting for its life and i respect that

lanmelieslut: not her looking at him like he just hung the moon 😭 → helmetwhore: @lanmelieslut SHE’S IN LOVE UR HONOUR!!!

wagsupreme: bro lando saw her crying and IMMEDIATELY got teary too like?? soulmate shit

gridgirly: lando really said “this one’s for my girl” without saying it 😩 → lanfan44: @gridgirly he might as well have held up a sign that said “i love amelie”

softforlanmelie: every race win from now on is gonna be a romcom finale i fear → dnfangel: @softforlanmelie i will be SEATED every sunday

lanmeliepropaganda: monaco is THEIR city now. sorry i don’t make the rules. → formulaheart: @lanmeliepropaganda literally the prince and princess of the paddock👑

f1simpclub: she was crying??? oh this is LOVE love 😭😭 → lanfan44: @f1simpclub someone said she whispered “that’s my baby” i’m gonna pass out

chaoticwags: she saw him lift that trophy and said “yep. worth the stress”

monacobabe: Lando winning MONACO with Amelie crying in the paddock??? Netflix couldn’t write this → danisdaisies: @monacobabe season 7 of drive to survive is about to be EUPHORIC

paddocktea: magui who???? amelie cleared and claimed her man like a queen → gridgremlin: @paddocktea hickeys AND tears in one weekend?? historic behavior

lanmelieforeverrr: that proud gf energy?? unmatched. she BEEN knew he was built for this

f1moms: amelie wiping her tears while lando popped champagne was so cinematic

drs4lanmelie: you KNOW he looked for her first up there 😭 → pitlaneprincess: @drs4lanmelie you could SEE the heart eyes from the podium → lanlovesmelie: @drs4lanmelie he’s so whipped it’s almost spiritual

monacowags: the way she was sobbing and his parents were hyping her up 😭 → chaosinsector3: @monacowags full family moment… i’m crying in the club → lanmeliesgf: @monacowags they better frame that screenshot in the papaya HQ 💐

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The ballroom shimmered in gold and champagne light, every surface of the Prince’s Palace adorned in a way that screamed tradition, elegance, and the kind of old-money glamour Monaco was built on. Amelie looked like a fucking dream.

Lando honestly thought she might’ve been sent just to torture him tonight.

She wore a sleek, gray sparkly dress that wrapped around her body like sin, a high slit grazing her thigh every time she so much as shifted in her chair. Her hair was down, soft strands falling around her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled under the chandelier light in a way that made Lando forget his own name for a second.

He was supposed to be celebrating. He’d just won the goddamn Monaco Grand Prix. His lifelong dream. A bucket list item checked off in style.

But all he could think about was how fast he could sneak her out of this ballroom and back into their apartment.

She leaned in slightly, brushing her hand over his thigh under the table as she reached for her wine glass. A simple fucking gesture, but it made him grip his own fork like a weapon.

—You okay?— Amelie asked, her voice low and teasing, that little smirk playing on her lips.

Lando checked his watch for the fifth time in ten minutes.

—Not even a little, babe,— he whispered back, leaning closer so only she could hear. —This is torture. Actual, royal torture. How much longer do I have to pretend I’m not thinking about fucking you senseless?—

She choked slightly on her sip of wine, laughing as she covered her mouth with her hand.

—Lando! Jesus, we’re at a state dinner.—

—Exactly! I’m being very diplomatic by waiting, you should be proud of me.—

She shook her head, biting her lip in that way that made his brain short-circuit.

He was halfway through fantasizing about pulling her onto his lap under the white linen tablecloth when a royal aide stepped up to the microphone at the front of the ballroom.

—Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you the winner of this year’s Monaco Grand Prix… Mr. Lando Norris.—

Cheers erupted. Applause. Champagne glasses clinked.

Lando stood, smoothing his suit jacket — tailored perfectly, of course — and gave Amelie’s shoulder a light squeeze. She gave him an encouraging wink as he made his way to the stage, but he could still feel her eyes on him, burning.

He cleared his throat as he took the mic. The room settled into a hush, cameras flashing.

—Right… uh, thank you, Your Serene Highness, everyone at the Palace, and all of you for being here. This has been, truly, a dream come true.—

He paused, heart racing a little. This was more nerve-wracking than the race.

—Since I was a kid, Monaco was the race. The one I used to pretend I won with my Hot Wheels on the kitchen floor. And tonight, it happened. Still doesn’t feel real. But I know, one day, when I have kids of my own...— he paused and glanced directly at Amelie, locking eyes —with that beautiful woman over there…—

Amelie flushed immediately. Her face turned the same deep red as her dress. The room chuckled softly, but her heart slammed against her ribs.

—…I’m gonna sit them down and say, "Your dad won in Monaco, and he celebrated like a king." Because it’s not just the race. It’s the people. The history. And the person you get to share it with.—

Another round of applause. Lando gave a slight bow and made his way back down to the table, grinning wide but eyes only for her.

Amelie tried to hide her flustered smile, chewing her lip like she could somehow suppress the blush threatening to take over her entire body.

He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek.

—You’re such a fucking show-off,— she murmured, breathless.

—They should all know who I’m going home with tonight.—

She turned her face to him, eyes sparkling.

—Well, officially, I’m also very ready to leave this royal-ass place and go make some very bad decisions with my race-winning boyfriend.—

Lando groaned quietly, grabbing her hand under the table.

—You’re actually trying to kill me.—

—Only a little. You deserve it.—

They stayed through dessert, barely touching the crème brûlée, stealing glances and soft smiles like they were back in 2020 playing video games and pretending they weren’t hopeless for each other.

But now they were here. Older. Real. Public.

And Lando? He was on top of the world, with the girl he used to dream about in his bed every night.

-------------

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lanmelieupdates: Lando and Amelie leaving the Prince’s Ball in Monaco tonight looking like a royal couple themselves 👑🧡

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f1simpchronicles: they didn’t walk out… they floated out like a fairytale ending bye → lanmeliecore: @f1simpchronicles cinderella n her f1 prince 😭

gridgirlies: lando definitely had her heels in his pocket the whole night → softboystan: @gridgirlies and hyping her up like “you looked so hot back there” pls i’m crying → chaoticwags: @softboystan HIS HAND NEVER LEFT HER BACK HELLO??? possessive bf coded

wagwatchdog: amelie said “magui WHO?” with that dress → pettylanfan: @wagwatchdog she showed up and chose violence and i respect it

wifeyenergyonly: miss girl wore pink to the paddock, cried on the podium, and SLAYED the ball… triple crown energy → chaoticwags: @wifeyenergyonly and lando secured all three 😌👏

lanmemeie: lando holding her hand like she’s gonna float away if he lets go 😭 → gridwifeenergy: @lanmemeie he’s scared of monaco royalty stealing her tbh

f1gossipgirlie: THEY LEFT TOGETHER HE’S SO WHIPPED → softforlanmelie: @f1gossipgirlie she says “let’s go” and he’s already opening the car door

gridgirlcoded: the way he lets her lead i’m sobbing → dtsdramaqueen: @gridgirlcoded king of “yes babe whatever you want”

lanmelieupdates: lando couldn’t take his eyes off her the WHOLE time 😭 → ameliesleftheel: @lanmelieupdates he’s in a constant state of heart eyes

tracksidechaos: amelie in THAT dress??? she didn’t walk out… she floated → drs4lanmelie: @tracksidechaos lando was holding on like gravity failed

f1butmakeitfashion: THEY LOOK LIKE A DIOR AD 😭

pitlanepeaches: lando looked at her like he won monaco twice today → wagwatcher: @pitlanepeaches he’s one champagne shower away from proposing rn

paddockclowns: she said “you won the race, i’ll win the red carpet” and DID → brbcrying: @paddockclowns no losers in this household

wagscentral: bro was ready to fight the paparazzi if they got too close to her 💀 → ameliesleftheel: @wagscentral he’s on 24/7 boyfriend duty and taking it seriously

gridbabie: lando giving “my girlfriend’s hotter than yours” energy and honestly he’s RIGHT

pitlaneslut: imagine leaving the prince’s ball with your man AND looking like that → maxfewtrellfan69: @pitlaneslut she’s not winning she’s dominating.

-------------

Sass Café pulsed with a kind of late-night chaos Amelie hadn’t indulged in since… hell, maybe since the Grammys afterparty. She didn’t even know how they’d gotten here. One second, they were slipping out of the Palace, her hand in his, champagne still lingering on their tongues. The next, Connor was dragging them into a sleek black SUV, some of Lando’s friends—faces she didn’t recognize, all shouting and laughing—already halfway drunk in the back.

—Just for a little while,— Lando had said into her ear, the vibration of his voice curling down her spine.

Just a little while, her ass.

Now they were hours deep into thumping bass, neon lights, and overpriced bottle service. The VIP booth wasn’t exactly private—roped off in the corner, sure, but very much still in view of anyone with an iPhone and decent zoom. Not that either of them cared. Or noticed.

They were drunk. Dangerously drunk.

Amelie’s cheeks were flushed, hair messy from dancing, the silvery mini dress she’d slipped into post-dinner riding scandalously high on her thighs. Lando had ditched his blazer and undone the top buttons of his shirt, curls wild, chain glinting under the strobe lights.

They hadn’t stopped touching since they walked in.

She was on his lap, again, legs over his thighs like she belonged there. His hands were under her dress—on her waist, her thighs, sometimes slipping a little higher when he thought no one was looking (they were, oh god, everyone was). She didn’t care. Couldn’t care. Every time she leaned down to whisper something in his ear, it turned into a kiss. Sloppy, open-mouthed, fuck-we-shouldn’t-be-doing-this-here kind of kisses.

Lando tasted like vodka and that citrusy Monaco night air, and it made her feral.

They danced, or at least tried to—stumbling, laughing, clinging to each other as the bass pounded. At one point, he spun her around and pulled her back against his chest, hands roaming low, mouthing something obscene into her neck that made her knees literally give out.

Connor, who had been valiantly attempting to wrangle the group, gave up somewhere around the third bottle of champagne.

—Mate, public,— he muttered as Lando kissed a line down Amelie’s jaw. —People are filming you.—

Lando waved him off with the kind of nonchalance only the blackout-drunk and in-love could get away with. —Let ‘em,— he slurred, grinning as Amelie pulled him back into another kiss. —They’re just jealous.—

They were a disaster.

A hot, sparkly, sex-drenched disaster.

Amelie had no idea what song was playing anymore — it could’ve been a ballad or a car alarm for all she knew — but she was on her fourth (maybe fifth?) vodka-something, and her body felt like it was moving through syrup. Electric syrup. Lando’s hands were on her hips again, guiding her in time to the beat that pulsed through the floor, through her chest, through him. God, even drunk, even this drunk, he danced with intent. Like every grind of her hips against his was a fucking promise.

Her dress was definitely not rated for this level of friction.

—You’re gonna ruin it,— she slurred, tugging at the hem half-heartedly as it threatened to ride all the way up mid-dance. Her laughter hiccupped out of her as Lando dipped his head to her shoulder and groaned.

—Good,— he mumbled against her skin. —Burn it. I’ll buy you five more. Just… let me get my hands under it again.—

Amelie nearly choked on her drink.

She wasn’t even pretending to behave anymore. She’d tried for all of thirty seconds when they first sat down, smiling politely at the friend of a friend on Lando’s left, nodding at the others as they toasted to The King of Monaco. But then someone passed her a shot, and then Lando pulled her into his lap, and then his lips found the hollow beneath her ear and everything else blurred.

She should be worried. About the cameras. About the stories that would drop tomorrow. About the fact she had a flight in four—no, three and a half—hours to get to N ew York, where she was expected to rehearse for the AMAs and look like a functioning human being.

But instead, all Amelie could think about was the way Lando’s hands gripped her like he was scared she’d vanish. How his breath came fast against her neck. How his voice, low and hot, sounded like sin every time he leaned in to say something filthy she barely registered before dragging him back into another kiss.

He pulled her in again now, fingers slipping over the bare skin of her thigh with no shame.

—You’re killing me,— he whispered, voice hoarse and wrecked from yelling over the music and probably the champagne too.

She tipped her head back with a breathless laugh, rolling her hips lazily against his. —You deserve it.—

He groaned into her shoulder, and she felt it—felt it deep, felt it between her legs, and fuck, she was in trouble. She reached for another drink to distract herself, knocking it back and wincing.

Bad idea.

Everything tilted slightly.

Definitely too drunk.

Definitely too turned on.

Definitely too aware of the heat pooling between her legs with every touch, every drunken kiss, every stupid laugh that escaped from his mouth like they were the only two people in Monaco.

Lando kissed her again, slower this time, fingers brushing the side of her neck like he was trying to memorize it. She moaned into it, not even bothering to hide it, her hands fisting in his shirt like she’d fall apart if she didn’t anchor herself to him.

—Lan…—

Her voice cracked, rough and breathy, her forehead pressed to his as the lights swirled behind them like a fever dream.

He blinked up at her, dazed, pupils blown wide. —Yeah, baby?—

She shouldn’t say it. Shouldn’t let it out. But her restraint had been gone since drink number two and sanity had left the building entirely sometime around the third time he’d kissed her like that — like she was his last breath and first sin all in one.

Her fingers dug into his shoulders, pulling herself flush against his chest as her mouth brushed the shell of his ear.

—Please take me home.—

Lando stilled. Blinked. Pulled back an inch to study her, glassy-eyed and pink-cheeked, mouth parted, pupils dilated like she was drugged. With him. On him.

—Amelie...—his voice faltered, tight in his throat. He looked like a man hanging on by a thread. —You sure? We’re… we’re having fun.—

She whined. Actually whined, burying her face into his neck and pressing her thighs tight around his hips. —I know… but I can’t keep sitting on your lap and not have you fuck me, it’s... it’s cruel. I need you.—

And god, that word—need—broke something in him.

She pulled back just enough to look at him, lips pouty and eyes wet in that drunken, overwhelmed way she got when she was too far gone in it. In him. Her hands cupped his face, sloppily, palms warm and a little sweaty. He leaned into her like a fucking puppy.

—Lando, I’m begging. I can’t... I can’t wait. Please. I’ll do anything, I just need you now. Please, baby, please take me home.—

It was a whisper, a moan, a fucking prayer.

And it hit him like a sucker punch straight to the groin.

Lando was up before she finished the sentence, one arm wrapping tight around her waist as he turned to Connor, eyes wild.

—We’re leaving.—

Connor blinked. —It’s not even four yet.—

—Don’t care.—

Amelie was clinging to him, barely standing straight in her heels as she muffled a giggle against his collar. Her dress was riding scandalously high, lipstick smeared from too many kisses, hair an utter mess. She looked like the embodiment of bad decisions.

She looked perfect.

—Can you get the car?— Lando asked, barely hiding the urgency in his voice.

Connor opened his mouth to argue; then took one look at Amelie literally licking Lando’s neck, and sighed. —Yeah. Yeah, alright. Jesus. You two are menaces.—

Lando didn’t wait. He pulled her through the crowd, arm tight around her waist like he was shielding her from the world—or from the world seeing too much of what was barely concealed under her slipping dress. Her laugh was bright and hoarse, and she stumbled into his side, clutching at him like gravity was optional.

Outside, the cool Monaco air hit them like a bucket of ice.

Amelie squealed at the breeze, pressing herself closer as they waited for the SUV. Her lips grazed his jaw, nose nuzzling along his cheek. —I love when you’re bossy. Gets me all... mm, fuckin’ riled.—

He groaned, actually groaned, turning to crush her against the side of the building in the shadow of the awning, mouth on hers in a dizzy, messy, desperate kiss. Her hands slipped beneath his open shirt, fingers splayed across his chest like she was trying to claw her way in.

—You’re going to kill me,— he muttered.

—Not if you fuck me fast enough.—

—Jesus Christ, Amelie.—

The car pulled up just as her hand slid down his stomach and dipped below his waistband.

Lando yanked her off him so fast she squeaked. He opened the door, shoved her in, and followed, slamming it shut behind them.

The second it locked, she was on his lap again, legs straddling him this time, dress hiked up to her waist. The driver didn’t even blink. Probably had seen worse. Probably would’ve seen everything if Lando hadn’t yanked off his suit jacket and draped it sloppily over her back.

—Five minutes home,— he rasped into her ear.

—We won’t make it five minutes.—

She kissed him again. Clumsily. Hungrily. Like she’d starve without it. And maybe she would. Maybe they both would. It was fever and champagne and the kind of desire that didn’t ask, didn’t wait. Just took.

-------------

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f1teaspill: Lando and Amelie were seen fully making out both inside AND outside the club at the Monaco GP afterparty tonight 👀🔥 Celebrating that win like it’s the only podium that matters 😭💋

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lanmelieupdates: they didn’t even make it to the VIP table before starting 💀 → f1spicypit: @lanmelieupdates they said “PR who?” this is personal LMAO

chaoticwags: they celebrating that win like there’s no race next week 😭 → norisimp: @chaoticwags i’d kiss him like that too if he brought home a monaco trophy

f1slayqueen: amelie was marking her territory i fear 💅

wagsource: lando got champagne, the trophy, and the girl… he’s unstoppable rn → notmclarenadmin: @wagsource he’s in his lover boy + world champ arc

lanmelieslut4eva: she said “this win is mine too” and backed it up with tongue 😭 → pitlaneclownery: @lanmelieslut4eva she’s the real mvp and i fear not enough ppl are saying it

chaoticwags: bro saw her in that dress and forgot he was in public 😭 → norisimp: @chaoticwags he clocked P1 and PDA and i support both wholeheartedly

gridgirlfreak: lanmelie went from soft launches to hard launches to no launch just impact

daddylan4life: he really said “i’m gonna win and then make out with my girl like it’s a romcom finale” → yasmininfurla: @daddylan4life let’s be real she’s his prize and he KNOWS it

balenciagawag: someone check on magui she’s prolly watching through a burner rn → paddockmess: @balenciagawag nah she’s updating her stan twitter like the rest of us 😭

pitlaneprincess: they weren’t kissing they were COMMUNICATING with tongue 😭 → drs4lanmelie: @pitlaneprincess this is how F1 drivers debrief now actually

chaoticwags: bro clocked in, won monaco, then went feral in public 😭 king behavior → norisimp: @chaoticwags i fear this man is in his certified lover boy era

gridgirliez: they were making out like they just survived a war pls 💀

ferrariforwhat: her watching him on the podium crying then making out in a club?? like be fr i’d marry him → lanoszn: @ferrariforwhat she BEEN the wifey she’s just reminding y’all 💅

monacomental: the way they walked out of that club all messy hair and smug smiles?? love is so real → delulugirlie: @monacomental and they’re definitely going home to celebrate round two i fear 😭

-------------

The car barely stopped before Lando was hauling Amelie out, her legs tangling with his as they stumbled into the opulent lobby of their Monaco apartment building. Their doorman, a man who had clearly seen it all, offered a polite nod, his eyes pointedly fixed on some distant corner of the ceiling as Lando, with Amelie already halfway in his arms, fumbled with the key card.

—God, finally,— Amelie breathed against his mouth, her lips swollen and hot.

He didn’t answer, just kicked the door to their apartment shut with his foot, the click of the lock echoing faintly in the sudden quiet. His hands were already on her waist, pulling her flush against him, and her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him groan. The scent of her—champagne, sweat, and that heady, intoxicating perfume she always wore—was driving him absolutely wild.

—Can’t wait another second,— Lando rasped, his voice rough with a hunger that mirrored her own. He scooped her up, one arm beneath her knees, the other supporting her back, her legs automatically wrapping around his hips. She was light, impossibly so, and the sudden rush of her weight in his arms sent a jolt of raw desire through him.

He moved through the apartment, a man on a mission, bypassing the living room, heading straight for the bedroom. Amelie’s head fell back, a soft, breathless laugh escaping her as he pressed hungry kisses along her jaw, down her neck. Her dress, already a crumpled mess, rode higher with every step, her bare thighs warm against his.

He reached the bed, a king-sized expanse of soft sheets, and lowered her gently onto it, but not breaking the kiss. His body followed, pressing her into the mattress, one leg hooking over hers to keep her pinned. He pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes dark and blazing.

—You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,— he muttered, his lips brushing hers. He moved lower, tracing the curve of her neck with his mouth, sending shivers through her. Her skin tasted like salt and something undeniably sweet.

Amelie arched into him, a soft whimper escaping her. —Do whatever you want, Lando. You deserve it. All of it.—

The words, so soft, so willing, hit him like a physical blow. He deserved it. Her absolute trust, her willingness to cede control, it drove him insane. He loved how she crumbled for him, how she begged, how she let him take charge. It fueled the possessive beast inside him, the one that wanted to consume her completely.

He dragged his mouth back up her throat, catching her bottom lip between his teeth before releasing it with a soft nip. —Oh, Amelie,— he breathed, his voice thick with unbridled desire. —You have no idea what those words do to me.—

He pulled back slightly, his gaze raking over her, from her flushed cheeks to the barely-there hem of her dress. With a deliberate slowness that was almost cruel, he reached for the zipper at the back of her dress. The silver fabric slid down with a soft whisper, pooling around her waist. He paused, his fingers tracing the curve of her hip, the delicate lace of her thong visible beneath.

—Get on your knees,— he commanded, his voice a low, gravelly growl that left no room for argument. His eyes, dark and dominant, were fixed on hers, watching for her reaction. He wanted her to understand, to obey. He wanted to see that spark of delicious submission in her eyes that always pushed him over the edge.

Amelie, without a word, pushed herself up, her knees sinking slightly into the plush carpet. Her eyes, still wide and dilated from champagne and desire, locked onto his as she slowly lowered herself, shifting until she was looking up at him, her lips parted in anticipation.

—Good girl,— Lando murmured, the praise a low rumble in his chest. He watched her, his breath catching as she knelt before him, a vision of intoxicating submission. —You know what to do.—

A slow, knowing smile curved Amelie’s lips. Her hands, delicate and precise, went straight for the buckle of his belt. The soft click echoed in the quiet room as she undid it, her fingers brushing against his jeans. Then, with a smooth, deliberate motion, she unzipped his trousers, the sound a sharp, intimate rasp.

As she worked, Lando was already shedding his own clothes. He unbuttoned his dress shirt, pulling it free from his waistband, the fabric rustling as he shrugged it off and tossed it aside. It landed with a soft thud on the floor, leaving him clad only in his boxers, the thin barrier of cotton straining against the undeniable bulge beneath.

Amelie’s eyes dropped, lingering on the undeniable evidence of his arousal. A low hum of pleasure vibrated in her chest as she slowly, tentatively, reached out. Her fingers brushed against the fabric, tracing the impressive length, and then she leaned in, pressing soft, tantalizing kisses over the taut cotton. She moved with a maddening slowness, drawing out the anticipation, her lips teasing, her breath warm against him.

But Lando’s patience had run out. Not tonight. Not when he was already teetering on the edge. He didn’t want to be teased; he wanted to be consumed. A growl ripped from his throat, and he reached down, his fingers clamping gently but firmly around her jaw, tilting her head back until her eyes met his.

—Enough, Amelie,— he rasped, his voice laced with a raw, impatient demand. His gaze was intense, burning into her. —Behave. And get on with it. Or you’re going to sleep needy as fuck tonight.—

With that, his free hand went to the waistband of his boxers, and he pulled them down, revealing himself fully to her.

Amelie didn't hesitate. As his boxers dropped, revealing him in his full, throbbing glory, her eyes widened for a fraction of a second before a predatory glint appeared. She leaned in, her lips parting, and enclosed him, her suction immediate and firm.

Lando groaned, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through the room. —Fuck,— he gasped, his fingers tangling in her hair, not to pull away, but to hold her closer. Her mouth was pure heaven, an exquisite combination of soft warmth and firm pressure. She knew exactly what he liked, the perfect rhythm, the perfect depth, each stroke driving him further into a frenzy.

He gripped her hair tighter, his head tipping back as he rode the wave of pure sensation. He could feel the blood pounding in his ears, every nerve ending screaming. —That's it, Amelie,— he rasped, his voice barely recognizable. He wanted to guide her, to tell her what to do, but her instincts were already perfectly aligned with his desires. Still, he reached back, gathering her hair in one hand, pulling it into a loose ponytail to keep it from getting in the way, a subtle form of control even in the midst of his surrender. His thumb brushed her cheek, a faint tremble in his touch.

He was close, impossibly close. The intensity was almost unbearable. Just as he felt the precipice approaching, he pulled back, dragging himself from her mouth with a ragged gasp. He looked down at her, his vision slightly blurred with lust. Her lips were slick and swollen, a faint sheen of moisture on her chin.

His gaze dropped lower, to her thighs, pressed tightly together, a visible tremor running through them. He could see the effort she was putting into holding herself, into controlling the intense wetness he knew she was battling.

—Look at you,— he rasped, his voice heavy with triumph and raw desire. —Trying to hold it in.—

Lando’s eyes, still dark with a mixture of hunger and amusement, held hers. He reached out, taking her hands, and pulled her gently to her feet. Amelie swayed for a moment, her legs still feeling a little like jelly, but he was there, a steadying presence. He kept her close, one hand on her lower back, guiding her towards the bed.

—Come here,— he murmured, his voice a low coaxing rumble.

He laid her down on the soft sheets, his body following hers, hovering above her. He was about to dip his head, to resume his assault on her neck, but Amelie had other plans. Her hands rose, cupping his face, and she angled his head, directing his mouth firmly to hers.

Their lips met in a furious, hungry kiss. It was deep and desperate, a culmination of hours of denied desire. Lando’s hand, almost on instinct, found the soft swell of her breast above the lace of her bra. His thumb brushed over her nipple, and Amelie gasped, a soft moan vibrating into his mouth.

He broke the kiss, his eyes still locked on hers, the heat in them almost unbearable. —Help me with this,— he rasped, guiding her hands to the clasp at the back of her bra.

Her fingers, trembling slightly, fumbled with the tiny hooks for a moment before they finally came undone. Lando didn’t wait. He dragged the lace off her shoulders, tossing it aside, and then his mouth descended. He suckled at one breast, then the other, his tongue teasing and swirling, driving Amelie utterly wild. Her back arched off the bed, her fingers digging into the sheets as she whimpered his name, the sound lost in the dizzying haze of pleasure.

Lando continued his hungry assault on her breast, his mouth warm and firm, eliciting whimpers of pure pleasure from Amelie. But even as he suckled, his other hand began its deliberate journey. He trailed kisses and gentle nips across her ribs, down her stomach, lingering on the sensitive skin of her inner thigh as he moved lower, an undeniable magnetic pull drawing him towards her most desperate need.

He slid off the bed, dropping to his knees on the floor, never breaking contact. With a decisive pull, he gripped Amelie's legs, drawing her down towards the edge of the mattress until her hips were positioned perfectly above him. He eased her legs further apart, and the sight that greeted him sent a fresh wave of heat through his veins.

A dark, undeniable stain bloomed on the delicate lace of her panties.

—Fuck, baby,— he breathed, his voice rough with awe and immediate hunger. —You're so wet.—

His fingers, slightly trembling with anticipation, hovered for a moment before descending, pressing gently against the drenched fabric. He rubbed, slowly at first, then with more conviction, tracing the swollen curves beneath the lace. Amelie cried out, a broken sob of pure pleasure, her hips arching off the bed.

—Please, Lando,— Amelie sobbed, her voice a raw plea. —Más—

He heard the desperation, the absolute need in her voice, and it only intensified his own desire. With a low growl, Lando hooked his fingers into the waistband of her lace panties and, with a swift, decisive motion, dragged them down her legs and off. They landed in a crumpled heap on the floor, another discarded barrier.

Amelie’s hips bucked, anticipating his touch, but Lando did something she didn't expect. He pushed himself back from the edge of the bed and, instead of returning to her, he laid down on the mattress, positioning himself with his head at the very edge.

Amelie blinked, a flicker of confusion crossing her pleasure-dazed eyes.

—Get on top, baby,— Lando commanded, his voice dark and husky, his gaze fixed on her. —On my head. Let me eat you.—

The order, so unexpected, so deliciously bold, sent a shockwave of heat through her. A gasp escaped her lips, quickly followed by a shaky, breathless laugh. Fuck, that’s hot.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Amelie obeyed. She shifted, her knees sliding on the sheets, until she was straddling his face, her inner thighs brushing his ears as she lowered herself. The sensation of her wetness pressing against his mouth, his nose, was electrifying.

Lando couldn’t wait. He was a starving man, and Amelie’s taste was his addiction. His tongue lashed out, a hungry, immediate strike, and Amelie cried out, her back arching as she rode his head, instinctively finding a rhythm that drove them both to the brink.

Amelie was close, impossibly close. Her body was writhing, desperate for release, every muscle taut with the effort of holding back. —Lando, please,— she whimpered, her voice strained, —I’m going to come. Don’t stop, please!—

But Lando was a master of control, and he wasn't ready for her to shatter just yet. —Not yet, baby,— he murmured against her, his voice a low, firm denial that only drove her wilder. —You have to hold it.—

As he continued to feast on her, he slipped two fingers inside her, feeling the exquisite heat and the desperate clenching of her muscles around him. He could feel her teetering right on the edge, a breath away from climax. And then, with a slow, agonizing withdrawal, he stopped. He pulled his mouth away, the sudden loss of sensation a shock to her system.

Amelie cried out, a frustrated, needy sound. He lifted her gently, positioning her on her hands and knees on the bed, her ass high in the air. As she gasped for breath, trying to regain some semblance of composure, Lando reached for the nightstand, his eyes still fixed on her. He tore open a condom wrapper with his teeth, the crinkle of the foil a stark contrast to the heavy silence in the room.

With practiced ease, he rolled it on, his gaze never leaving her. And then, without another word, he knelt behind her, pressing himself against her, the head of his cock nudging her entrance.

Lando thrust inside her, a deep, full stroke that elicited a breathless moan from Amelie. He loved every position with her, but this one… fuck. That ass, high and tempting, was driving him absolutely insane. He gripped her waist, pulling her back against him, increasing the rhythm, faster and faster.

—Oh, God, Lando,— Amelie gasped, her voice already hoarse with pleasure, her hips responding to his every thrust.

—Fuck, this is heaven,— he muttered against her back, his body slamming into hers with desperate force. He could feel her tightening around him, her core clenching. She was coming. He could feel it in every inch of her.

He reached a hand forward, finding her clit, and began to play with it, stroking and teasing as he continued his relentless pace. —Tell me who won, baby,— he demanded, his voice ragged with his own nearing climax. —Tell me, Amelie.— He moved his thumb with agonizing precision, pushing her closer, closer. —You can come. Just tell me.—

Amelie was beyond words, her body convulsing with the sheer force of the pleasure. His hand on her clit, combined with his relentless thrusts, was pushing her to the brink.

—You, Lando! You won!— she screamed, her voice tearing, her body arching impossibly high. —Always you! Oh, God, Lando!—

Her world exploded, a shattering climax that ripped through her, leaving her gasping and trembling, utterly undone. She cried out his name again, a long, drawn-out moan of pure release as her internal muscles clenched around him.

Lando felt her come, the intense contractions squeezing him, and it was all the permission he needed. With a final, guttural roar, he emptied himself deep inside her, collapsing against her back, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His hand remained on her clit, stroking softly as their bodies slowly, deliciously, quieted.

They lay there for a long moment, the only sounds their heavy breathing and the distant hum of the Monaco night. Lando pressed a soft kiss to her shoulder, his lips still tasting of her.

—Mine,— he whispered, a possessive murmur against her skin. —Always.—

252 notes · View notes

kiwriteswords · 7 months ago

Note

Could I please get a fake dating or like Hotch jumps in to be Reader's date for a wedding or something story?

Everybody Loves Somebody

Masterlist || Ao3

AN: I keep telling myself that I want to post something every day of December, so let's see if I can keep this up! This one I fought myself back and forth if I liked it, so I hope you guys do! I also need to update my masterlist...like bad.

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader||Word Count: 13.5k

Tags/Warnings: Female Reader, BAU Reader, Hotch and Reader are Best Friends, Reader is being breadcrumbed by another guy, insecure reader, reader does not know her worth, weddings, mentions of alcohol in a wedding setting, smut, smut with feelings, smut that you have to use your imagination for in some points, not specified, but unprotected sex, one-bed-trope, romance, fluff, angst, eluding to reader being in toxic relationships before, hurt/comfort.

Sypnosis: At a wedding filled with laughter, romance, and unexpected revelations, You and Hotch find yourselves navigating the fine line between friendship and something more. What starts as a favor soon becomes a night of quiet truths and unspoken emotions, as the two of you grapple with feelings that can no longer be ignored.

Aaron Hotchner had long considered himself an observant man. It was, after all, an essential trait in his line of work. But when it came to you, his closest friend and confidant, observation was more than professional—it was personal. He prided himself on knowing you better than anyone else, even if the knowledge sometimes brought him a frustrating ache he didn’t dare examine too closely.

That ache flared again today as he glanced across the bullpen to where you sat at your desk. To the untrained eye, you were simply busy—typing emails, jotting notes, occasionally furrowing your brow in concentration. But Hotch knew better. The tight set of your jaw, the way your leg bounced beneath your desk, and the fact that you hadn’t laughed at any of Morgan’s jokes all afternoon—those were your tells. Something was wrong.

He waited until the team dispersed for lunch to approach. You didn’t notice him until he leaned against the edge of your desk, his arms crossed, and gave you one of his signature looks—the kind that said he was waiting for answers.

“What?” you asked, feigning innocence as you glanced up at him.

Hotch raised a brow. “You’re upset.”

You scoffed lightly, turning your attention back to your computer. “I’m fine.”

The evasion only confirmed his suspicions. “You’re not fine,” he said softly. “Talk to me.”

For a moment, you hesitated, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. Then, with a sigh, you leaned back in your chair and crossed your arms defensively. “It’s nothing, Hotch. Just... plans fell through, and I’m annoyed. That’s all.”

But it wasn’t nothing. He knew exactly what—or rather who—was behind this.

“Let me guess,” he said, his voice hardening despite himself. “It’s him.”

Your silence was damning.

Hotch felt his stomach twist. He hated this—hated how that man, who didn’t deserve an ounce of your time, could still have this hold on you. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen you like this—hopeful one minute, crushed the next. He clenched his jaw, reigning in the frustration that wasn’t entirely directed at the man.

Hotch remembered every instance in painful clarity.

The blown-off phone calls. The texts left unanswered for hours, sometimes days. The signs of interest one day, only for them to vanish into disinterest the next. It was a cycle so predictable it made Hotch’s blood boil, not just because it hurt you but because you still held out hope every time that this time would be different.

And then there were the worst moments—the ones that left marks even you couldn’t brush off.

There was the time you’d shown up to work after a rare weekend off, a hopeful sparkle in your eye as you mentioned that things finally seemed to be turning around with him. Hotch had wanted to believe it for your sake, but he’d barely had time to hope before you confided—over lunch in the BAU’s break room—that the man had stood you up for dinner, citing a “misunderstanding.” Hotch had gripped his coffee mug so tightly he thought it might crack.

Through it all, he’d stayed quiet. He’d been your friend, your colleague, your confidant. He’d listened when you needed to vent, offered advice when you asked, and let you lean on him when the weight of disappointment became too much. But inside, he’d been screaming.

Screaming at the man who couldn’t see the incredible person standing right in front of him. Screaming at himself for letting it go on for so long without saying more.

“What happened?” he asked, forcing his tone to remain gentle.

You sighed again, this time heavier. “My friend from college and grad school, Annie, is getting married this weekend. I had a plus-one, and—well, he was supposed to come with me.” Your voice wavered just slightly. “But he bailed last minute. Said he couldn’t make it because he’s ‘too busy.’”

Hotch’s jaw tightened further. Too busy? The excuse was laughable, infuriating, and so painfully predictable. He hated seeing the way you tried to downplay your disappointment as if his latest betrayal were somehow your fault.

“I don’t get it, Hotch,” you continued quietly, staring down at your desk. “I thought things were finally going somewhere this time. But he’s always—” You shook your head, blinking back tears. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m just—”

He wanted to tell you why. Wanted to tell you that you hoped because you were good, because you believed in people even when they didn’t deserve it. He wanted to tell you that your hope was one of the things he admired most about you—and the thing that tore him apart when it was weaponized against you.

“Stop,” Hotch interrupted, his voice firmer than he intended.

You blinked up at him in surprise.

“This isn’t about you,” he said, holding your gaze. “It’s about him. He’s a coward who doesn’t see what’s right in front of him. You deserve better than this—better than him. You do this because you care. But he doesn’t deserve it.”

You smiled weakly, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Thanks, Hotch. But it’s not like I have a backup plan. It’s just one weekend. I’ll survive.”

Hotch watched as you tried to bury your hurt under a mask of indifference, but it didn’t fool him. He wasn’t sure when he made the decision—it was instinctive, like every protective impulse he felt when it came to you.

“Then let me go with you,” he said, the words spilling out before he could overthink them.

Your eyes widened. “What?”

“I’ll go with you to the wedding,” he repeated, his voice calm and steady. “If you’ll have me.”

The stunned look on your face made him wonder if he’d overstepped. But then your lips curved into a genuine smile—a rare one that he hadn’t seen all day.

“You’d really do that?” you asked softly.

He nodded, his own lips twitching into the smallest smile. “Of course. That’s what friends are for.”

You laughed—a light, incredulous sound that made something warm bloom in his chest. “Aaron Hotchner, my wedding date. Who would’ve thought?”

“It’s a first for me, too,” he admitted, his tone light but sincere. “But I promise, you won’t regret it.”

For the first time that day, Hotch saw a flicker of hope in your eyes, and he silently vowed to make good on his promise. Because whether you realized it or not, you deserved someone who saw your worth—someone who would never dream of leaving you hanging.

And if that someone couldn’t be him, he’d at least make sure you saw what it was like to be treated the way you deserved, even if just for one weekend.

Aaron Hotchner wasn’t sure how it had happened, but somehow, agreeing to accompany you to this wedding had become the most complicated logistical endeavor of his week. Which, considering he led a team of profilers tracking violent criminals, was saying something.

He sat across from you at the round table in the break room, a notepad in hand as you went over the details for the weekend. You were in full planning mode, leaning forward, your fingers tapping rhythmically against your coffee cup.

“So,” you began, grinning. “The wedding is in Stafford. I already booked a room because I wasn’t sure how late I’d stay, but now that you’re coming, I can probably cancel that and just—”

“You should keep it,” Hotch interjected.

You raised an eyebrow, your grin morphing into something sly. “Aaron, are you worried about your reputation? Afraid of being seen walking out of my hotel room in the morning?”

His lips quirked into the faintest smile. “I’m worried about getting enough sleep and having to share a room with someone who steals the covers.”

“Wow,” you deadpanned, pretending to clutch your chest. “Accusing me of being a cover thief without evidence. Profiling me already, Hotchner?”

“Call it an educated guess.”

Your laugh was light and easy, the sound wrapping around him in a way that momentarily made him forget you were planning this trip because someone else had let you down. He knew better than to dwell on that, though, especially now that you were in good spirits again.

“So,” you continued, brushing a strand of hair from your face, “you’re driving, right? You’ve got the serious FBI Dad car that won’t break down.”

Hotch raised a brow, unsure what quick-witted joke you were making at him. “FBI Dad car?”

“Yeah, you know,” you teased, gesturing vaguely. “Sturdy, reliable, no-nonsense. It practically screams, ‘I’m an authority figure, and I have juice boxes in the back seat for emergencies.’”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Yes, I’ll drive.”

Before you could respond, Morgan’s voice drifted in from the hallway.

“Sounds like we’re right after all,” he said, loud enough for both of you to hear.

Hotch turned to find Morgan, Prentiss, and Rossi standing in the doorway, all wearing expressions ranging from smug to amused.

“Right about what?” Hotch asked, narrowing his eyes slightly.

“Oh, nothing,” Morgan replied, but the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth said otherwise.

You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms and raising an eyebrow at the trio. “Okay, spill it. What conspiracy theory are you cooking up now?”

Prentiss smirked. “Oh, it’s not a conspiracy. Just a little… friendly office speculation.”

Rossi, ever the instigator, folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe. “Let’s just say there’s a reason the betting pool has been so active lately.”

Hotch blinked, confused. “Betting pool?”

“On what?” you asked, your tone equal parts curious and incredulous.

Morgan didn’t miss a beat. “On when you two were finally going to get together.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then, simultaneously:

“What?” Hotch said, his voice clipped with disbelief.

“Excuse me?” you said, your tone higher and filled with mock outrage.

The trio in the doorway looked utterly unfazed.

“Oh, come on,” Prentiss said, rolling her eyes. “You finish each other’s sentences, you bicker like an old couple, and don’t even get me started on the way you look at each other.”

You snorted. “The way we look at each other? What is this, a rom-com?”

Hotch held up a hand, his expression stern but his tone baffled. “This is absurd. We’re colleagues and friends. That’s it.”

Morgan raised a skeptical brow. “Friends, huh? You’re going to a wedding together. And if I’m not mistaken, Hotch just volunteered to drive—sounds pretty couple-y to me.”

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on the table. “Oh, Derek, sweet, sweet Derek,” you said, your voice dripping with exaggerated condescension. “Are you trying to tell me that I can’t ask my best friend to be my date to a wedding without it being some grand romantic gesture?”

Morgan grinned. “Not saying it, just calling it like I see it.”

Hotch sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is ridiculous.”

Prentiss gave him a mock-serious look. “It’s not ridiculous if it’s true.”

“It’s not true,” you and Hotch said in unison, which only seemed to amuse the team further.

“Uh-huh,” Morgan said, exchanging a knowing look with Rossi.

Hotch turned to you, his lips pressing into a thin line. “They’re crazy.”

“Oh, 100%,” you agreed, giving him a quick, conspiratorial grin. “But let’s not correct them. Let’s just let them spiral into their own delusions. It’ll be fun to watch.”

Prentiss smirked. “You know we can still hear you, right?”

“Then you’re welcome for the entertainment,” you shot back, standing and grabbing your coffee cup.

As the team finally dispersed, still laughing and muttering amongst themselves, Hotch shook his head, bemused.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered.

“Hey, look at it this way,” you said, bumping his shoulder lightly as you passed. “At least now you’ve got a reputation as a fun wedding date. That’s gotta count for something, right?”

Despite himself, Hotch felt a small smile tug at his lips. “Right.”

Hotch arrived at your apartment a few minutes early, the morning sun casting long shadows across the quiet street. He adjusted the cuffs of his suit jacket while waiting, catching himself fidgeting—a rare occurrence. He told himself it was because of the unfamiliarity of the situation, not because of you.

When you finally emerged, his breath hitched. You were dressed simply but elegantly, exuding a confidence that he found himself noticing more than usual. As you approached the car, you waved with a teasing smile.

“Wow, Aaron, I didn’t think punctuality extended to wedding duty,” you quipped, opening the passenger door.

He smirked as you slid into the seat. “You make it sound like this is an interrogation.”

“Depends. Will there be a polygraph at the reception?” you shot back, buckling your seatbelt.

Hotch chuckled softly, pulling away from the curb. “Let’s hope not.”

The silence between you was comfortable as the car rolled onto the highway. Hotch found himself glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. You were scrolling through your phone, your brow furrowing in that way it always did when you were deep in thought.

“So,” he began, breaking the quiet, “what’s the plan for the reception? Do I stand in the corner and look intimidating, or are you expecting me to charm your college friends?”

You turned to him with a mock-serious expression. “You’re under strict orders to charm, obviously. What’s the point of bringing you along if you’re just going to brood in a corner?”

“I don’t brood,” he replied, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, you absolutely brood,” you said with a grin. “But don’t worry—I’ll coach you. Step one: smile occasionally. It won’t kill you.”

Hotch shot you a dry look. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

Your laugh was light, but it held an edge of something deeper—something that lingered in the air between you like a static charge.

After a beat, you shifted in your seat, your voice softening. “You know, you really didn’t have to do this. I would’ve survived.”

He glanced at you, his expression unreadable. “I know. But I wanted to.”

Your eyes met his, and for a moment, neither of you said anything. There was something in your gaze—a mix of gratitude and something unspoken, something he didn’t dare put a name to.

“Well,” you said, your voice tinged with a sly edge as you broke the comfortable silence. “If we’re doing this, we might as well make it fun. Tell me, Hotch—how’s your dancing?”

Hotch glanced at you, arching an eyebrow as his lips quirked into the faintest smirk. “Impeccable.”

You blinked, your grin faltering in mock surprise. “Wait, really? You can’t just say that and not elaborate.”

“I don’t think there’s much to elaborate on,” he said, his tone light but confident. “Years of events, fundraisers, and... the occasional gala. I can hold my own.”

For a moment, you simply stared at him, then let out a sharp laugh. “Oh, this is going to be fun. The FBI’s most stoic agent is secretly a Fred Astaire in disguise? Who knew?”

Hotch chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Don’t get your hopes up. I didn’t say I was flashy.”

“Flashy is overrated,” you replied, leaning back in your seat. “Grace, timing, presence—those are the real markers of a great dancer.”

“And you’d know this how?” he asked, shooting you a sidelong glance.

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I took some lessons in college. Turns out I have two left feet, but I’m a great judge of talent.”

He smirked. “Two left feet? I find that hard to believe.”

“Believe it,” you said, grinning. “So, looks like I’ll be depending on you to keep us from embarrassing ourselves on the dance floor.”

“I think we’ll manage,” he replied, his voice steady but laced with a quiet warmth.

There was something in the way you looked at him then, your teasing smile softening just enough to give away the unspoken tension humming beneath the surface. Hotch forced his attention back to the road, though his mind lingered on the way your presence seemed to fill the space around him so effortlessly.

“You know,” you said after a moment, breaking the silence with a playful tilt to your voice, “if you’re this good at dancing, I’m starting to think I’ve been seriously underestimating you.”

“Is that so?” he asked, his tone carrying the faintest hint of a challenge.

“Yeah,” you replied, tapping a finger against your chin in mock thought. “What other hidden talents are you keeping from me?”

Hotch smirked, but instead of answering, he let the question hang in the air, his silence calculated.

“Oh, come on,” you pressed, laughing lightly. “You can’t just drop a bombshell like that and leave me hanging.”

He shrugged, his expression unreadable but his tone unmistakably amused. “Maybe I like keeping you guessing.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “You’re infuriating, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told.”

Your laugh filled the car again, bright and unrestrained, and Hotch allowed himself a small smile. It was moments like this—when the walls between you seemed to lower without effort—that he felt the tug of something deeper. Something he’d long ignored, even as it grew impossible to deny.

As the miles stretched on, the banter gave way to quieter moments, but the tension never left. It simmered beneath the surface, in the way your knee brushed against the center console, in the way his name sounded when you said it, in the way his gaze lingered on you just a little too long at every red light.

By the time you reached the venue, Hotch found himself gripping the wheel a little tighter, his usual composure shaken just enough to make him wonder if this was really just about being a good friend.

And judging by the way you looked at him as you stepped out of the car, he suspected he wasn’t the only one wondering.

By the time Hotch pulled into the parking lot, the late morning sun hung high in the sky, casting a golden glow over the small boutique hotel nestled on the edge of town. He stepped out of the car, grabbing your overnight bag from the trunk and trying not to notice the way your dress caught the light as you smoothed it out.

The lobby was quaint, adorned with rustic charm, and the check-in process was quick. Hotch couldn’t help but notice the faint blush that crept up your cheeks when the receptionist handed him a single key card.

“Enjoy your stay,” the woman said with a knowing smile, though Hotch couldn’t decipher if it was genuine or merely part of her routine.

As you both stepped into the elevator, you glanced at him, your lips twitching with amusement. “So, any guesses on the room situation?”

Hotch gave you a sidelong glance, his voice steady. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

But the moment the door to the room swung open, he realized "fine" was a stretch.

There it was. The single bed. Large and neatly made, taking up most of the modestly sized room.

You stopped in the doorway, your bag slung over one shoulder as you surveyed the scene. “Well,” you said after a moment, turning back to him with a raised eyebrow, “this is cozy.”

Hotch cleared his throat, stepping inside and setting your bag on the chair in the corner. “It’s practical,” he said, though even he didn’t believe the words.

You smirked, closing the door behind you. “I didn’t realize practicality came with a built-in proximity test.”

He gave you a faint look, his lips twitching despite himself. “If it’s an issue, I can take the floor.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” you said, brushing past him to set your phone on the bedside table. “We’re both adults. I think we can survive one night.” You looked back at him and had almost a nervous laugh, “Plus, I have to prove to you I’m not a sheet thief.”

The confidence in your voice didn’t quite match the flicker of something else in your eyes—nervousness, curiosity, or perhaps the same undercurrent of tension he’d felt since the drive.

“Well,” you continued, shaking off the moment as you dug through your bag, “we don’t have much time before the ceremony, so I’m claiming the bathroom first. Try not to miss me too much while I’m gone.”

Hotch chuckled softly as you disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of running water quickly filling the room. He loosened his tie, sitting on the edge of the bed and glancing around. The space was neat, understated, with soft lighting that made everything feel strangely intimate.

He caught himself staring at the bathroom door longer than necessary, then stood abruptly, running a hand through his hair.

When you emerged a few minutes later, your face freshly washed and your lipstick reapplied, you looked radiant. Hotch found himself at a loss for words, though he masked it by stepping into the bathroom with a curt, “Your turn to wait.”

The cool water on his face did little to clear his mind. By the time he stepped back into the room, fully composed, you were seated on the edge of the bed, slipping your shoes on.

“All set?” he asked, his voice steadier than he felt.

You glanced up at him, your smile soft but teasing. “Ready when you are, Fred Astaire.”

He smirked, grabbing his jacket and gesturing toward the door. “After you.”

As you walked ahead, Hotch allowed himself a brief moment to exhale, the weight of the growing tension settling over him like a second skin. The day had barely begun, and already, he found himself wondering just how long he could keep his thoughts—and his feelings—in check.

The sun filtered through the trees, casting soft, dappled light on the guests as they made their way toward the outdoor ceremony space. Hotch walked beside you, the sound of gravel crunching underfoot filling the brief silence. He couldn’t help but glance at you as you adjusted your dress, the soft fabric shifting gracefully as you moved.

“You look...” Hotch began, his voice quieter than usual. He cleared his throat, glancing ahead at the clusters of chairs. “You look incredible.”

You turned to him, surprised. “Hotch, was that a compliment? Are you feeling okay?”

He smirked, his lips twitching. “I’ve been meaning to tell you all day,” he admitted, his gaze steady now. “Just... took a bit of courage.”

Your playful grin faltered slightly, your eyes softening as they met his. There was a flicker of something in your expression—something unspoken, almost vulnerable. Before you could respond, a voice cut through the moment.

“Oh my God, is that you?”

You barely had time to turn before a woman approached, her enthusiasm unmistakable. She was around your age, with bright eyes and a warm smile that radiated familiarity.

“Wow, it’s been forever! How are you?” the woman gushed, pulling you into a quick hug.

Hotch stepped back slightly, his hands tucked neatly into his pockets as he watched the exchange.

“I’m good,” you replied, your voice friendly but a bit guarded. “Hotch, this is Taylor. We were in the same program in grad school. Taylor, this is Aaron Hotchner.”

Taylor’s eyes lit up as she turned to him, her smile widening. “Oh, Aaron. You must be her boyfriend!”

Hotch blinked, the words catching him off guard. He opened his mouth to respond but paused, glancing at you as you froze slightly, your lips parting as if to correct her. But something stopped you—curiosity, maybe, or hesitation.

Instead, Hotch smiled faintly, extending a hand. “It’s nice to meet you,” he said, his tone calm and composed, deliberately sidestepping the assumption.

Taylor shook his hand enthusiastically. “I’ve heard so much about this wedding. You’re both going to have such a great time! Anyway, I should grab my seat before I lose it. So good to see you again!”

She darted off, leaving the two of you standing there in her wake.

You turned to Hotch, your brow raised. “Boyfriend?” you asked quietly, your voice low enough that only he could hear.

Hotch glanced at you as the crowd began to settle into their seats, his expression calm but with a glint of dry humor in his eyes. “Is ‘boss’ better?”

Your lips quirked into a smirk as you shook your head, letting out a soft laugh. “Touché.”

The ceremony began before either of you could say more, but the weight of the word lingered between you. Hotch tried to focus on the officiant’s words, the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze, and the quiet murmurs of the gathered crowd. But his mind kept drifting back to your reaction—and to the flicker of a thought he didn’t dare voice.

Maybe the assumption wasn’t as far-fetched as it seemed.

Hotch settled into his seat beside you as the ceremony began, the soft murmur of conversation fading into a respectful silence. The bride and groom stood at the altar under an archway adorned with delicate flowers, the golden light of the late afternoon casting everything in a warm, dreamlike glow.

He tried to focus on the ceremony, the gentle cadence of the officiant’s voice blending with the rustle of the trees. But your presence beside him made it difficult.

The chairs were close together, the space between you almost nonexistent. He could feel the warmth of your arm just brushing against his, a subtle contact that sent a current through him more powerful than it should have. You shifted slightly, your knee brushing his, and Hotch held his breath for a moment, willing himself to remain composed.

When the officiant spoke about love—about commitment, vulnerability, and the courage it took to give yourself fully to another person—Hotch found himself watching your profile instead of the couple at the altar.

Your expression was soft; your lips curved into a faint smile as you listened. There was a light in your eyes, one that made his chest tighten unexpectedly. You looked beautiful, yes, but it wasn’t just that. It was the way you seemed so present, so genuine, so effortlessly yourself.

And for a moment, he let himself imagine.

He imagined reaching for your hand, letting his fingers curl around yours in the quiet simplicity of the moment. He imagined what it might be like to sit beside you at a ceremony like this as something more—more than friends, more than colleagues. The thought was fleeting but potent, leaving a weight in his chest he couldn’t quite shake.

When the bride and groom exchanged their vows, their voices filled with emotion, Hotch stole a glance at you. A soft smile played on your lips, and you leaned forward slightly, your focus entirely on the couple.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” you whispered, your voice so quiet he barely caught it.

He nodded, his throat tightening. “It is.”

Your gaze flicked to him briefly, your smile widening just a fraction before you returned your attention to the altar.

The ceremony continued, the romantic atmosphere growing thicker as the couple’s love story unfolded in front of the guests. When the bride’s voice cracked with emotion as she promised to love her partner for the rest of her life, Hotch’s gaze shifted back to you.

You were blinking quickly, your hands folded in your lap, and Hotch recognized the subtle effort to hold back tears. It was a side of you he rarely saw—vulnerable, unguarded—and it stirred something deep within him.

Without thinking, he let his knee press more firmly against yours, a quiet gesture of solidarity. You didn’t pull away. Instead, you tilted your head slightly toward him, your shoulder brushing his for just a moment.

By the time the ceremony ended, with cheers and applause filling the air as the bride and groom shared their first kiss, Hotch found himself acutely aware of every inch of space between you—of how close you were, yet still not close enough.

As you turned to him, your eyes bright with unshed tears and a soft smile lighting up your face, Hotch realized he’d never been less composed in his life.

The cocktail hour unfolded in the garden, a charming space strung with delicate fairy lights and buzzing with soft laughter and the clinking of glasses. Guests mingled near tables laden with hors d’oeuvres, the scent of fresh flowers mingling with the crisp evening air. Hotch stood by your side, his hands resting lightly in his pockets, watching as you stared out at the crowd, your expression thoughtful.

You hadn’t said much since the ceremony ended. It wasn’t like you to be quiet for so long, and he could see the internal battle playing out behind your eyes. Your shoulders were slightly tense, your gaze distant as you watched couples and old friends chatter happily around you.

“Everything okay?” he asked softly, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

You glanced up at him, your lips curving into a faint smile. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

Hotch didn’t press. He knew you well enough to know that if you wanted to share, you would. So, he waited, his presence steady and unintrusive as you worked through whatever was on your mind.

Finally, you let out a soft sigh, leaning slightly against the high-top table between you. “You ever watch something beautiful—like that ceremony—and feel… I don’t know, happy for them, but also kind of… sad?”

He tilted his head, his brows furrowing slightly. “Sad?”

You nodded, your fingers idly tracing the rim of your glass. “Not for them, of course. They were perfect. It’s just…” You hesitated, then let the words spill out, your voice quieter. “It makes you wonder if that kind of thing is in the cards for you, you know? If someone could ever love you like that—unconditionally, fully. If someone would show up for you, every single time.”

Hotch’s chest tightened at your words. He could see the vulnerability in your eyes, the doubt you were trying so hard to mask. For a moment, he was at a loss for what to say—not because he didn’t know the answer, but because the truth came so quickly and easily that it startled him.

He straightened slightly, his voice steady as he replied, “It’ll happen for you. And when it does, the guy will be the luckiest man in the world.”

You froze, your glass halfway to your lips, your eyes snapping to his. The disbelief on your face caught him off guard, and he realized too late how much he’d revealed.

He cleared his throat, quickly adding, “Not that I’d know, of course. Divorced, widowed, single father—not exactly a stellar track record.” He offered a small, self-deprecating smirk. “I’m hardly an expert on what works.”

You blinked at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. The sound was light, genuine, and for a brief moment, Hotch felt a flicker of relief that he’d managed to deflect.

“Wow, Hotchner,” you said, your laughter fading into a warm smile. “Way to lift me up and immediately knock yourself down.”

“Just keeping things balanced,” he replied, his tone dry but his eyes warm.

You shook your head, still smiling, but he could see the wheels turning in your mind. Your expression softened, and for a moment, he wondered if you were going to say something else—something that might push the conversation back into deeper waters.

Before you could, a cheerful voice interrupted.

“Oh my God, there you are!”

Both of you turned to see a small group of your college and grad school friends approaching, their smiles wide and their arms outstretched as they greeted you enthusiastically.

Hotch stepped back slightly, letting you take center stage as they enveloped you in hugs and started chattering all at once. You lit up in their presence, your wit and charm on full display as you bantered back and forth with them effortlessly.

And though he stood quietly on the periphery, Hotch couldn’t help but smile. Watching you like this—vibrant, confident, and so fully yourself—he couldn’t imagine a world where someone wouldn’t see what he saw.

But as he met your gaze briefly across the group, catching the subtle flicker of something lingering in your eyes, he knew the conversation wasn’t over. Not yet.

The introductions at the cocktail party unfolded with an ease that surprised even Hotch. One by one, your old college and grad school friends greeted him, their initial curiosity about the date you brought quickly melting into admiration. He’d never thought of himself as particularly charming—polished and professional, yes, but charming? That was usually Morgan’s department.

But as he exchanged handshakes and polite banter, he could feel their approval growing. They teased you relentlessly about him, their questions playful and occasionally pointed. And you, ever quick-witted, deflected with a grace and humor that kept the mood light, though your blush betrayed you more than once.

“He’s even more put-together than you let on,” one of your friends teased, nudging your arm.

“Don’t let it fool you,” you replied, smirking at Hotch. “He’s secretly a pain.”

Hotch raised a brow, his tone dry but warm. “Only when necessary.”

The group laughed, and you glanced at him, your smile softening in a way that made the noise around him fade for just a moment.

If your friends noticed the subtle looks passing between you and Hotch—the way your eyes lingered on him or how his posture seemed to relax in your presence—they didn’t say anything outright. But their knowing smiles spoke volumes.

By the time the cocktail hour wound down and everyone was ushered toward the reception hall, Hotch felt more comfortable than he had in weeks. He hadn’t expected to enjoy himself, but with you by his side, the evening felt lighter, more vivid.

The reception began with all the hallmarks of a joyous celebration: a lively band, glasses clinking in toasts, and the soft glow of candles casting a romantic haze over the room. Hotch and you were seated at a round table with some of your friends, their easy chatter filling the gaps between the speeches and the plated courses.

At first, the chemistry between you and Hotch was subtle—a shared glance during the bride and groom’s first dance, the way his arm brushed yours as he leaned closer to hear you over the music. But as the evening progressed, it became impossible to ignore.

“Are you going to dance?” you asked, your tone teasing as you sipped your wine.

“Eventually,” he replied, his lips twitching into a small smile. “Are you?”

You tilted your head, your eyes sparkling with mischief. “I don’t know. That depends. Are you going to make me dance alone?”

Hotch leaned slightly closer, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “I’d never let you dance alone.”

The words hung between you, the air charged with something unspoken yet undeniable. For a moment, neither of you moved, your gazes locked in a way that made the noise of the room fade into the background.

One of your friends called your name, breaking the spell, and you turned with a quick laugh, brushing off the moment as though it hadn’t happened. But Hotch noticed the way your hand lingered on your wine glass, the slight flush creeping up your neck.

As the reception continued, the moments between you grew bolder. A comment from you that lingered just long enough to feel intimate. A brush of his hand against yours as you both reached for something on the table. The way his gaze followed you when you stepped away to talk to someone else, his focus sharper, more intent than he realized.

By the time the band struck up a slower tune, Hotch found himself standing, offering you his hand before he could think twice.

“Care to dance?” he asked, his voice steady but softer than usual.

You blinked up at him, surprised for only a moment before your lips curved into a smile. “I thought you’d never ask.”

As you took his hand and allowed him to guide you onto the dance floor, Hotch felt a quiet certainty settle over him. Whatever lines had existed between you—coworkers, friends, allies—were beginning to blur. And for once, he wasn’t in a hurry to redraw them.

Hotch turned to face you, his other hand resting lightly at your waist as you settled your free hand on his shoulder. The contact was light at first, almost cautious, but as the music swelled, he felt you relax, your movements fluid as you let him guide you through the gentle rhythm.

“You weren’t kidding about being a good dancer,” you teased, tilting your head to meet his gaze. “Where’ve you been hiding this talent?”

Hotch smirked faintly, his lips twitching upward. “It’s a rare occasion that calls for it.”

“Well,” you said, your voice soft but tinged with mischief, “consider me impressed.”

He didn’t respond immediately, his focus shifting briefly to the way your hand fit so perfectly in his, the way your eyes lit up even under the dim glow of the candles. Finally, he said, “You should be. I don’t make exceptions for just anyone.”

Your laugh was quiet, a warm ripple that he felt as much as heard. “Is that right? I should feel honored then.”

“You should,” he replied, the faintest hint of a smile still playing at his lips.

The conversation lulled, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. The silence felt full, weighted by the unspoken tension that had been simmering all day. You swayed together, your movements perfectly synchronized, and for a moment, Hotch allowed himself to forget everything else—the cases, the team, the boundaries he usually held so firmly in place.

As the music slowed further, you tilted your head, your eyes searching his. “What are you thinking?”

Hotch hesitated, his gaze holding yours for a beat too long. “That you shouldn’t doubt what’s in store for you,” he said quietly. “Not after today.”

Your brows furrowed slightly, confusion flickering across your face. “What do you mean?”

He paused, considering his words carefully. “You deserve what you saw at that ceremony. Someone who shows up, who doesn’t hesitate. And when it happens, it’ll be because they know just how lucky they are.”

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, he thought you might pull away. Instead, you blinked up at him, your expression unreadable but undeniably softer. “Hotch—”

Before you could finish, the music swelled into its final notes, the moment broken as the song came to an end. Couples around you began to clap politely, the spell of the dance slowly lifting.

You stepped back slightly, your hand lingering in his for just a moment longer than necessary. “Thank you,” you said, your voice quiet but sincere.

Hotch nodded, his throat tight. “Anytime.”

As you turned to head back to the table, Hotch stayed where he was for a moment, watching the way your shoulders seemed a little more relaxed, the way you glanced back at him briefly before rejoining your friends.

He exhaled slowly, his hands falling to his sides. Whatever line you’d both been toeing all evening had grown impossibly blurred, and he wasn’t sure if it was something to step back from—or cross entirely.

The soft hum of conversation and clinking glasses surrounded Hotch as he followed you back toward the table, the energy of the reception lively yet intimate. Before either of you could sit, the bride approached, her radiant smile lighting up the room. Her white gown swayed slightly as she moved, the sparkling embellishments catching the light.

“There you are!” the bride exclaimed, her voice warm and effusive as she wrapped you in a quick hug. “I’ve been looking for you all evening.”

“Hi, Annie,” you said, your tone fond as you pulled back. “You look stunning. Everything about today has been absolutely perfect.”

Annie beamed, her hands clasping yours. “Thank you. But ook at you! And you must be...” She turned to Hotch, her expression curious and eager.

“This is—” you began, but Annie cut you off before you could finish.

“Oh, I knew it!” Annie said, clapping her hands together and glancing between you and Hotch with unrestrained glee. “I always said you’d find someone who looks at you the way he does. You deserve it so much. After everything you’ve been through. Terrible guy after terrible guy. I’m so happy for you.”

Hotch froze for a fraction of a second, her words catching him completely off guard. He glanced at you, noting the way your eyes widened slightly, a faint blush creeping up your neck.

Annie, oblivious to the tension she’d just created, kept going. “I mean, honestly, it’s about time. Look at you two—you’re such a beautiful couple. And the way he watches you? Like you’re the only person in the room? Come on.”

Hotch’s lips parted, his usual composure slipping as he scrambled for a response. Should he correct her? Deflect? Or...

Instead, he did neither.

“You’re right about one thing,” he said, his voice steady but quieter, as if weighing each word carefully. “She deserves everything. More than anyone I know.”

His gaze lingered on you as he spoke, watching the way your expression softened into something he couldn’t quite name. For a moment, Annie’s chatter faded into the background, the room seeming to grow smaller around the three of you.

You opened your mouth to respond, but Annie’s delighted laughter filled the silence first. “See? I knew it,” she said, her tone triumphant. “I knew you’d get that fairytale ending you always talked about wanting.”

Hotch smiled faintly, his hands slipping into his pockets as Annie hugged you again. “Thank you for coming,” she said, her voice still warm as she pulled away. “It means so much to have you both here.”

You nodded, your voice unusually soft. “Of course, Annie. We wouldn’t have missed it.”

Annie turned back to the dance floor, leaving the two of you standing there, the weight of her words hanging heavily in the air.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You glanced at him, your brows knitting together slightly as if you wanted to ask something but weren’t sure where to start. He’s sure from the array of comments he’s thrown at you tonight or the charged energy building between you, you must have a few.

Hotch offered a small smile, his voice low. “She’s a good friend.”

“She’s... enthusiastic,” you said, a weak laugh escaping you.

“Enthusiastic,” he repeated, amusement flickering briefly across his face. “And observant, apparently.”

Your blush deepened, but before the conversation could go any further, another group of your friends waved you over from the bar, calling your name.

“I guess we’re popular tonight,” you said, your tone lighter as you gestured for him to follow.

Hotch nodded, trailing behind you, but his thoughts lingered on Annie’s words. He wasn’t sure what had prompted him to agree with her so openly, but as he watched you laugh with your friends, something told him he wasn’t wrong.

You deserved everything. And perhaps, just perhaps, it wasn’t impossible to imagine being the one to give it to you. He was just glad he could try, even if it was just for tonight.

The energy in the room shifted as the bride announced the bouquet toss, her cheerful voice drawing a crowd of eager participants to the dance floor. Laughter and playful shouts filled the space as single women jostled for prime positions, their eyes gleaming with competitive determination.

You, however, stayed firmly rooted at the edge of the room, leaning casually against a table with your arms crossed. Hotch stood beside you, holding the glass he was nursing on the table.

“Not interested?” he asked, glancing at you, a teasing flint in his eyes.

“Not a chance,” you replied, your tone wry. “I’m perfectly fine over here, out of the line of fire.”

Hotch chuckled softly. “Strategic decision. I can respect that.”

You grinned, turning your attention back to the bride, who was hyping up the crowd with exaggerated gestures. The band struck up a playful tune, and the anticipation in the room reached its peak as Annie turned her back to the group, bouquet in hand.

The toss was dramatic, the bouquet soaring high into the air in a perfect arc. The crowd erupted into shouts and cheers as hands shot up, grasping for the bundle of flowers.

But no one caught it.

Instead, the bouquet ricocheted off a hand, sailed over the group entirely, and arced straight toward you.

You barely had time to react before it bonked you squarely on the head.

Hotch blinked, momentarily stunned as the bouquet bounced off you and landed unceremoniously on the table beside you. There was a beat of silence before laughter erupted around the room, the crowd clearly amused by the unexpected trajectory.

You stared at the bouquet, your mouth slightly agape, before looking up at him, your expression caught somewhere between mortification and disbelief.

“Seriously?” you said, your voice rising just enough to carry over the laughter. “I wasn’t even participating!”

Hotch’s lips twitched, his amusement barely contained as he raised an eyebrow. “Looks like fate had other plans.”

“Fate needs to work on its aim,” you muttered, grabbing the bouquet and holding it up like evidence in a court case.

Hotch allowed himself a full laugh, the sound rare but genuine. “Or maybe it’s trying to tell you something,” he teased, his voice lower as he leaned slightly closer. “Metaphorically speaking, of course.”

Your eyes narrowed at him, though the corners of your mouth betrayed the start of a grin. “Are you enjoying this?”

“Immensely,” he said, his tone deadpan but his eyes gleaming with humor.

You shook your head, muttering something about cosmic irony as you placed the bouquet back on the table. But Hotch could see the faint blush creeping up your neck, and the way your lips curved into a reluctant smile despite your feigned indignation.

As the laughter in the room began to settle and the bride called for the next event, Hotch leaned slightly closer to you, his voice quieter now.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, his tone softer but no less teasing, “I think the roses suit you.” He pulled a few petals from your hair.

You shot him a look, but your smile widened, and for a brief moment, the space between you felt smaller than ever. “I’m more of a sunflower girl,” You played along.

The band’s leader tapped the microphone, his cheerful voice cutting through the chatter of the reception. “All right, folks, this one’s for the happy couples out there! Join us on the dance floor for one last dance before we call it a night.”

Around the room, couples began to rise, hands intertwined as they made their way to the dance floor. The lights dimmed slightly, casting the space in a warm, golden glow. Hotch stayed in his seat, his gaze drifting to you as you sipped the last of your wine, clearly intent on remaining at the table.

He set his glass down with deliberate precision and stood, extending his hand toward you.

“Come on,” he said, his voice calm but firm.

You looked up at him, your brow furrowing. “What are you doing?”

“We’re dancing,” he replied simply, his tone leaving little room for argument.

Your lips parted in surprise. “Hotch, that’s for couples—”

“According to your friends,” he interrupted, his lips quirking into the faintest smirk, “we’re a couple tonight. Might as well play the part.”

For a moment, you stared at him, clearly torn between amusement and incredulity. But then you sighed, setting your glass down and placing your hand in his. “Fine,” you said, standing with exaggerated reluctance. “But if this ends up being another metaphor, I’m blaming you.”

Hotch chuckled softly, leading you to the dance floor. The band struck up a slow, tender melody, the kind that wrapped itself around you and seemed to quiet the world.

He turned to face you, his hand resting lightly on your waist as you settled your free hand on his shoulder. The contact was familiar now, but this time, the air between you felt heavier—charged. You moved together effortlessly, swaying in time with the music, your steps perfectly in sync.

“See?” he said quietly, his voice just loud enough for you to hear. “Not so bad.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled, your fingers tightening slightly on his shoulder. “You really are impossible, you know that?”

“I’ve been told,” he replied, his tone dry but his expression softer than usual.

The conversation lulled, and for a moment, there was nothing but the music and the quiet sound of your breaths mingling in the space between you.

Hotch’s eyes dropped to your face, taking in the way your lashes cast delicate shadows on your cheeks, the faint flush that lingered from the evening’s laughter and wine. You looked up at him then, your gaze meeting his, and the intensity of the moment hit him like a wave.

“You’re staring,” you said softly, your voice tinged with nervous amusement.

He didn’t look away. “Maybe I am.”

Your breath hitched, and Hotch felt your hand shift slightly on his shoulder as though you were steadying yourself. The tension between you was palpable now, a tangible thing that neither of you seemed willing—or able—to break.

“You’re full of surprises tonight,” you said, your tone quieter now, almost tentative.

Hotch’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “So are you.”

The song began to wind down, the final notes stretching into a soft, lingering cadence. The room seemed to grow smaller, quieter, as though it held only the two of you.

As the music ended, Hotch realized he hadn’t let go of your waist, and you hadn’t stepped back. For a brief, breathless moment, you both stayed where you were, the silence between you heavy with possibilities.

And though neither of you said it aloud, the line between what you were and what you could be had never felt thinner.

The walk back to the hotel room was quiet, the air between you and Hotch humming with the kind of unspoken tension that had lingered all night. The elevator ride was no better; you stood beside him, close enough that your arm brushed his, and though neither of you spoke, the weight of the evening seemed to settle in the confined space.

By the time the door to the room clicked shut behind you, the silence was thick. You slipped off your shoes with a sigh, placing them neatly by the door as you turned to him with a tired but genuine smile.

“Well,” you said, your voice soft, “that was... something.”

Hotch nodded, setting his jacket neatly over the back of a chair. “It was.”

You glanced at him, your smile tilting into something teasing. “That’s all you’ve got? Just ‘it was’?”

He smirked faintly, loosening his tie. “I think the bouquet toss and the dance floor antics speak for themselves.”

You laughed, the sound warm and familiar, and Hotch felt his shoulders relax slightly despite the tension coursing through him. He watched as you moved to your bag, pulling out a pair of comfortable clothes before disappearing into the bathroom.

The sound of running water filled the room, and Hotch took the opportunity to change into a plain T-shirt and sweats, folding his dress shirt with precise care. When you returned, your makeup washed off, and your hair pulled back, you looked softer somehow—more yourself than you had all night, and it hit him with a quiet force he wasn’t prepared for. Sure, he’d seen you in casual clothes before, but something about the soft cotton clothes, the clean face, and the messy pulled-back hair…it was a sight that warmed him somehow.

“You’re up,” you said, gesturing toward the bathroom.

Hotch nodded, slipping past you and closing the door behind him. The cool water against his face did little to calm his thoughts, and when he looked at his reflection in the mirror, he found his usual composure slightly fractured.

By the time he returned to the room, you were already under the covers, your head resting against the pillow as you scrolled absentmindedly through your phone. He hesitated for a moment, the sight of you there—so comfortable, so familiar—stirring something deep in his chest.

“Are you going to stand there all night?” you asked, glancing up at him with a raised eyebrow.

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he moved to the other side of the bed. Sliding in beside you, he was acutely aware of the space—or lack thereof—between you. When was the last time he shared a bed with someone?

The room fell into a soft silence, the dim light from the bedside lamp casting long shadows against the walls. You set your phone down, turning onto your side to face him, your expression unreadable but open.

“Thanks for tonight,” you said quietly. “For coming with me. For... everything.”

He met your gaze, his voice steady but softer than usual. “You don’t have to thank me. I wanted to be there.”

Your lips quirked into a faint smile, your eyes searching his as though you were trying to decipher something you weren’t quite ready to name.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the silence stretching but never feeling uncomfortable. Hotch could feel the warmth of your presence, the subtle weight of your gaze, and it was enough to make his throat tighten.

“You’re staring again,” you said, your tone light but tinged with something quieter, something unsure.

“Maybe I am,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your breath caught, and Hotch felt the space between you shrink—not physically, but emotionally, the air thick with everything unspoken.

“Why do you do that?” you asked after a moment, your voice quieter now.

“Do what?”

“Look at me like that.”

Hotch hesitated, his throat tightening as he searched for the right words. “Like what?”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “Like you’re trying to figure me out. Like you already know something I don’t.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, his voice soft but steady. “Maybe I do.”

You blinked, your breath catching just slightly, and Hotch felt the air between you grow impossibly still.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the silence crackling with tension that neither seemed willing to break. Then, as if pulling yourself out of the moment, you let out a small laugh, your tone turning lighter.

“You’re an enigma, Aaron Hotchner,” you said, your smile faint but genuine as you turned onto your back, breaking the spell.

He exhaled slowly, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before he reached over to turn off the lamp. “Goodnight,” he said, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful.

“Goodnight,” you replied softly, your words carrying a warmth that settled over the room like a blanket.

As the darkness enveloped them, Hotch lay still, the steady sound of your breathing filling the silence. The unspoken connection between you—the moments that had lingered and stretched throughout the evening—felt as tangible as the bed they shared.

And though he knew crossing the line between friendship and something more was fraught with uncertainty, Hotch couldn’t shake the quiet realization that maybe—just maybe—you were worth the risk.

Hotch stirred awake in the dark, the faint glow of moonlight spilling through the curtains casting soft shadows across the room. For a moment, he wasn’t sure what had woken him—a sound, a shift—but then he became aware of the warmth pressed against him, the steady rise and fall of your breathing.

Somehow, in the night, the two of you had gravitated toward each other. His arm was draped over your waist, his hand resting lightly on your hip, and your head was nestled against his chest. Your hand, delicate and warm, had found its way to his side, clutching the fabric of his shirt as if anchoring yourself to him.

He froze, his breath hitching as he registered the intimacy of the moment. Every instinct told him to pull away, to put space between you before you woke up, but he couldn’t. He didn’t want to.

The soft scent of your hair drifted up to him, and without thinking, his thumb began to trace small, absent circles against your side. The simple act sent a rush of warmth through him, a tenderness he couldn’t quite contain.

You stirred slightly, your body shifting just enough for him to realize you were waking up. His breath caught again, his heart thudding heavily in his chest as he waited—half expecting you to pull away or panic.

But you didn’t. Instead, you tilted your head up, your eyes blinking sleepily in the dim light as they met his.

Neither of you spoke. The silence between you was thick, electric, the air charged with a tension that felt almost unbearable.

Hotch’s hand stilled on your side, his palm now resting against the curve of your hip. He watched you closely, his eyes searching yours for any sign that he should pull back. But you didn’t move away. If anything, you seemed to lean into him, your gaze softening as you stared at him in the quiet.

His chest tightened as he felt the weight of everything unsaid hanging between you. The feelings he’d been trying to push aside for months—years, maybe—were suddenly impossible to ignore.

And then, you moved.

Your hand slid upward, hesitating briefly before coming to rest against his chest. Slowly, tentatively, you shifted closer, your lips brushing his in a kiss so soft it sent a shiver down his spine.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the kiss tender and delicate, as though you were both testing the boundaries of something fragile and new. But then he felt your hand tighten against his chest, and his restraint broke.

Hotch deepened the kiss, his free hand sliding up your back to cradle the base of your neck, his fingers threading gently through your hair. Your lips parted for him, and the kiss grew more heated, more insistent, as though all the tension that had built between you over the years was finally finding its release.

You shifted closer still, your body pressing against his, and Hotch couldn’t help the quiet sound that escaped him. He felt your hand slide up to his jaw, your fingers brushing against the stubble there as you tilted your head to deepen the kiss even further.

It was slow but consuming, a meeting of everything unspoken and everything undeniable. He couldn’t tell where he ended, and you began, the lines between friendship and something more completely and utterly erased.

When you finally pulled back, your breaths mingling in the dark, your forehead rested against his as you looked up at him with wide, searching eyes.

“Aaron,” you whispered, your voice soft but steady, filled with something he couldn’t quite name.

He swallowed hard, his fingers still tangled in your hair, as he let out a shaky breath. “Say my name like that again,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, his lips curving into the faintest of smiles.

You laughed softly, your hand brushing against his cheek as you leaned in again, this time with more certainty.

And as your lips met his once more, Hotch felt the last of his walls crumble, leaving only the quiet, undeniable truth: he didn’t want to hold back anymore. Not with you. Not ever.

Hotch’s pulse quickened as your lips met his again, this time with a heat that left no room for hesitation. The kiss deepened, slow and deliberate but charged with the kind of intensity that came from years of unspoken longing. Your hand slid from his jaw to his chest, your fingers splaying against the fabric of his shirt as if grounding yourself in the moment.

He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. The world outside this room ceased to exist, leaving only the two of you tangled together in the dim light of the night.

When your leg shifted, brushing against his, a low sound escaped his throat—a soft, guttural hum that he hadn’t meant to let slip. You froze for the briefest moment, your eyes flicking up to his, and the sight of you—so close, so vulnerable, so his in that instant—was almost too much.

“Is this okay?” you whispered, your voice breathless and tinged with something fragile, like you were teetering on the edge of disbelief.

Hotch cupped your face gently, his thumb brushing over your cheek as he nodded. “It’s more than okay,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion.

You smiled softly, and he couldn’t stop himself from leaning forward, pressing another kiss to your lips. This one was slower but no less fervent, his hand sliding from your face to rest against the curve of your waist, pulling you closer.

Your body shifted against his, your hands wandering—tentative at first, but quickly growing bolder. One hand curled around the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in the short hairs there, while the other slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, your palm pressing against the warm skin of his chest.

Hotch’s breath hitched, his own hands growing less restrained as they skimmed your back, tracing the line of your spine. The soft, sleepy rhythm of your breathing was broken by quiet, barely audible gasps as his hands found the curve of your hips, pulling you flush against him.

“Aaron,” you murmured against his lips, the sound of his name sending a shiver down his spine.

His lips left yours, trailing a path along your jawline to the soft curve of your neck. He felt the way your body arched into his touch, the subtle press of your hips against his igniting something deeper, something he could no longer hold back.

“You have no idea,” he whispered against your skin, his voice low and uneven, “how long I’ve wanted this.”

Your fingers tightened against him, and when he pulled back to look at you, your eyes were glassy, your lips slightly parted. “Me too,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

His restraint was unraveling with every second, every touch, every soft sound that escaped your lips. But he forced himself to pause, his forehead resting against yours as he took a steadying breath.

“Tell me to stop,” he said softly, his hands stilling against your waist even as every fiber of his being begged him to keep going. “If you need me to, I will.”

You shook your head slightly, your fingers brushing against his cheek as you leaned up to kiss him again, slow but filled with unmistakable intent. “I don’t want you to stop,” you whispered, the words a quiet promise.

Hotch exhaled shakily, his lips capturing yours again as he shifted, rolling onto his back and pulling you with him. The weight of you pressed against him, the warmth of your skin beneath his hands—it was everything he hadn’t let himself dream of, and now that it was happening, he couldn’t imagine ever letting it go.

The kisses grew more urgent, more consuming, the sleepy haze between you dissolving into something sharper, hungrier. His hands roamed your body with a reverence that bordered on worship, memorizing every curve, every tremble, every quiet sigh that spilled from your lips.

Hotch’s breath hitched as you shifted over him, your hands braced on his chest for balance. The delicate weight of you, your thighs straddling his hips, was intoxicating in a way he hadn’t anticipated. Pressing your center against him, a breathy groan left his lips. His hands found their way to your waist, his fingers splaying across the soft fabric of your shirt as though memorizing every detail of this moment.

Your hair fell slightly into your face, and you looked down at him with a mixture of nervousness and desire that sent his pulse hammering in his chest. He met your gaze, his eyes dark and searching, trying to convey everything he felt but couldn’t say aloud.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice low, the words a quiet plea for confirmation. He knew after this there was no going back.

You nodded, your smile soft but steady as you leaned forward, your lips brushing against his in a kiss that was equal parts tender and heated. “I’ve never been more sure,” you whispered against his mouth.

The kiss deepened, slow and deliberate at first, but quickly growing more fervent. Your hands moved to his shoulders, gripping him as though anchoring yourself to him, while his hands slid upward, pulling your shirt over your head and tossing it to the side.

For a moment, he simply looked at you, his gaze tracing the lines of your body, the soft glow of the moonlight making your skin seem almost ethereal. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured, the words spilling out before he could stop them.

You flushed under his gaze, but instead of shying away, you leaned down, kissing him again with a new intensity. Your hands found the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward until he helped you remove it entirely. The cool air brushed against his skin, but all he could focus on was the warmth of you, the way your touch left a trail of fire in its wake.

As the last remnants of clothing were shed, the barrier between you dissolved entirely. You settled back over him, your bare skin pressing against his, and he let out a low, shaky exhale as his hands gripped your hips, steadying you.

“God, you have no idea what you do to me,” he admitted, his voice rough with emotion as he looked up at you.

You smiled softly, your hands resting on his chest as you leaned down to kiss him again, slow and deliberate, as though savoring every moment. “I think I’m starting to figure it out,” you murmured against his lips, your voice filled with a quiet confidence that made his chest tighten.

Hotch’s hands guided your movements, his touch firm but reverent, as though you were something precious—something he didn’t want to break. The connection between you was electric, every touch, every kiss deepening the bond that had been building for years.

As your bodies moved together, the world around you faded completely, leaving only the quiet hum of your shared breaths and the unspoken promise that whatever had changed between you tonight was something neither of you could—or would—ever take back.

As you rocked against him, his breath hitched, and he couldn’t stop the quiet groan that escaped him. “You’re incredible,” he murmured, his hands cupping your face as he pulled you down into a kiss that was as tender as it was consuming.

When you pulled back, your gaze locked with his, your expression soft but filled with intensity. “I never knew it could feel like this,” you admitted, your voice quiet but raw with emotion.

He swallowed hard, his thumb brushing against your cheek as he whispered, “Neither did I.”

The words hung between you for a moment, the weight of them adding a new depth to the passion that had overtaken you. And as you moved together, Hotch felt a sense of completeness that he hadn’t known he was missing—something he realized, in this moment, he could never let go of.

Hotch’s breath came in uneven gasps, his body attuned to every shift of yours, every quiet sound that spilled from your lips. His hands gripped your hips, his fingers pressing into your skin just enough to guide you, to hold you steady as you moved together.

“You’re incredible,” he murmured again, his voice thick and low. His eyes traced the line of your jaw, the way your lips parted as you moved, your body responding to his in a way that made his pulse race.

Your hand slid up his chest, your fingers curling lightly around the base of his neck as you leaned closer. “I don’t think you realize,” you said softly, your voice trembling with emotion, “what you’re doing to me.”

His lips curved into a faint, breathless smirk as he leaned up, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was deep and consuming. “I think I have an idea,” he murmured against your lips, his voice a husky whisper. “But I wouldn’t mind hearing it.”

You laughed quietly, the sound trailing off into a soft sigh as his hands slid up your back, pulling you closer. “You make it hard to think,” you admitted, your tone teasing but edged with something deeper, more vulnerable.

“Good,” he replied, his hands shifting to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks. “Because right now, all I can think about is you.”

Your eyes met his, and the intensity of your gaze made his chest tighten. “I want this,” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly. “I want you.”

Hotch exhaled shakily, his forehead resting against yours as he slowed your movements, savoring the connection between you. “You have me,” he said quietly, his voice steady but filled with quiet intensity. “You’ve always had me.”

Your lips parted as if to respond, but instead, you kissed him again, your fingers threading through his hair as you pressed closer, deeper, until there was no space left between you.

The rhythm between you was slow but deliberate, each movement, each touch, carrying a weight that neither of you could ignore. It wasn’t just passion—it was everything you hadn’t said, every unspoken feeling finally given form.

When you pulled back slightly, your breath brushing against his lips, Hotch found himself gripping your hips just a little tighter, grounding himself in the reality of you above him. Your skin glowed in the faint moonlight, and the look in your eyes—dark, heavy with desire—took what little restraint he had left and shattered it.

“Aaron Hotchner,” you whispered, your voice breathless, a mix of teasing and reverence. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

He let out a low, quiet laugh, his hands sliding up your back, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate lines. “I could say the same about you,” he murmured, his voice rough as his lips brushed the curve of your jaw.

You shivered under his touch, your lips curling into a small, wicked smile. “Are you saying I’m full of surprises?” you asked, your tone playful, your hips rolling against his in a way that made his breath catch.

Hotch let out a soft groan, his head tipping back against the pillow as his hands found their way to your thighs. “I’m saying,” he said, his voice low and filled with heat, “that you might just be the death of me.”

You leaned down, your lips hovering just above his, teasing him with the barest of touches. “I guess that makes us even,” you whispered, your words trailing off into a kiss that was anything but tentative.

The kiss deepened, your movements growing slower, more deliberate as your hands roamed over him, pulling him impossibly closer. Hotch’s fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, his other hand tracing the curve of your back in a way that made you arch into him.

“You feel incredible,” he breathed against your lips, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “Like you were made for me.”

As the room filled with nothing but the quiet sound of your breaths and the faint rustle of sheets, Hotch couldn’t help but marvel at how natural this felt—how right it was to have you like this, in his arms, every unspoken word replaced by the undeniable connection between you.

And as the tension between you reached its peak, he realized with startling clarity that this wasn’t just a fleeting moment—this was something neither of you could ever undo. And he didn’t want to.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Your face was still buried against his neck, and he could feel the rapid thrum of your heartbeat gradually slowing against his chest. Hotch tilted his head slightly, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, his lips lingering there as he tried to find the right words for what he was feeling.

It wasn’t fleeting. It wasn’t casual. It was something far deeper, something he hadn’t allowed himself to believe he could feel again.

You stirred slightly, shifting so you could meet his gaze, your hair falling messily around your face. Your eyes searched his, and the vulnerability there—soft and unguarded—made his throat tighten.

“Well,” you murmured, your voice quiet but tinged with a nervous laugh, “that just happened.”

Hotch’s lips twitched into a faint smile, his thumb brushing lazily against your back. “It did,” he replied softly, his voice steady despite the emotions threatening to bubble to the surface.

You blinked down at him, your brow furrowing slightly. “Are you okay?” you asked, your voice carrying a hesitance that tugged at his heart.

He shifted beneath you, his hands settling on your hips as he met your gaze. “I’m more than okay,” he said, his tone quiet but firm. “Are you?”

Your lips parted slightly, your gaze flickering between his eyes as though trying to read him. Slowly, a small smile tugged at the corners of your mouth. “Yeah,” you said softly, nodding. “I think I am.”

The tension in his chest eased slightly, but his thumb continued its soothing motion against your hip. “Good,” he murmured. “Because I don’t—” He paused, exhaling quietly. “I don’t want this to be something you regret.”

“Regret?” you echoed, your smile widening faintly. “Hotch, do I look like someone who regrets this?”

He let out a quiet huff of laughter, his fingers tightening slightly against your skin. “No,” he admitted, his voice lighter now. “But I had to make sure.”

You leaned down, brushing your lips against his in a kiss so soft it made his chest tighten all over again. “You’re impossible,” you whispered against his mouth, your tone teasing but filled with affection.

“And yet, here we are,” he replied, his lips curving into a smirk as he kissed you again.

You laughed softly, resting your forehead against his as your hands slid to his shoulders, your touch light and lingering. “Here we are,” you repeated, your voice quieter now, almost reflective.

Hotch let the silence stretch for a moment, his hands tracing gentle patterns along your sides as he memorized the feel of you against him. Whatever this was—whatever it had turned into—he wasn’t going to let it slip away.

“You should probably get some sleep,” he murmured, his voice tinged with humor as he glanced toward the faint glow of the bedside clock.

“Sleep?” you teased, raising an eyebrow as you shifted slightly, your lips brushing against his jaw. “After all that? I’m not sure that’s possible.”

Hotch chuckled softly, his hands sliding up to cradle your face. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

You grinned, leaning into his touch as your eyes softened. “Good. You should.”

As the quiet settled over the room once more, Hotch let his eyes drift closed, your body still pressed against his, your warmth anchoring him in a way he hadn’t felt in years. For the first time in what felt like forever, the world outside could wait. All that mattered was here and now, with you.

Hotch wasn’t sure how much time had passed, the quiet rhythm of your breathing against his chest blurring the line between minutes and hours. His hand rested against your back, his fingers tracing slow, idle patterns along your skin, grounding himself in the reality of your presence.

“You’re quiet,” you murmured after a while, your voice soft and drowsy, the words more of a thought spoken aloud than a question.

He glanced down at you, your head still resting on his chest, your hand lazily draped over his ribs. “I’m just... thinking,” he admitted, his voice low, the weight of the night settling over him in a way that felt both overwhelming and comforting.

You tilted your head up to look at him, your expression sleepy but curious. “About what?”

His fingers paused for a moment, resting lightly against your side. “About how different this feels,” he said honestly, his eyes meeting yours. “How right it feels.”

Your lips parted slightly, your expression softening into something vulnerable, open. “It does,” you agreed quietly, your hand sliding up to rest against his chest. “It scares me a little.”

Hotch’s chest tightened at your words, but he leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “It scares me too,” he admitted, his voice steady but filled with quiet emotion. “But not enough to make me stop.”

You smiled faintly, your fingers tracing small circles against his skin. “What does this mean?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “For us?”

Hotch exhaled, his hand moving to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “It means I don’t want to go back to what we had before,” he said softly. “Not after this.”

You blinked up at him, the weight of his words settling between you. “Me neither,” you said after a moment, your voice carrying a quiet strength.

The room fell into a comfortable silence, the unspoken understanding between you growing stronger with each passing second. Hotch shifted slightly, pulling you closer against him, his arm wrapping around your waist as if to keep you there, to keep this moment from slipping away.

Your fingers curled against his chest, and you tilted your head up, your lips brushing against his in a kiss that was softer now, slower, as though sealing the unspoken promise you’d just made.

When you pulled back, your eyes searched his, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “I guess we’ll figure it out,” you said softly, the words carrying a quiet certainty that made his chest tighten.

“We will,” he replied, his voice low but firm.

Hotch lay awake long after you’d drifted off, your body warm and relaxed against his. The weight of what had happened between you lingered in the air, a heady mix of tenderness and an undeniable shift in the foundation of your relationship.

He let his fingers trace idle patterns along your back, his touch feather-light as he memorized the curve of your spine, the subtle rise and fall of your breathing. For years, he’d been disciplined in keeping the boundaries of your friendship intact, maintaining the line that separated what was and what could never be. But tonight, that line had dissolved completely, leaving in its wake something deeper, something that felt achingly right.

You stirred slightly, letting out a soft sigh as you nestled closer to him, your hand sliding across his chest as though instinctively seeking him even in sleep. His chest tightened, a quiet warmth spreading through him as he pressed a soft kiss to your hair.

He’d spent so much of his life thinking he wasn’t allowed to have this—not after everything he’d been through, not after the sacrifices he’d made. But with you, it didn’t feel like he was taking something he wasn’t entitled to. It felt like finding something he hadn’t realized he’d been searching for all along.

Tomorrow would bring its own questions, its own complications. The team would notice the shift between you, and the world wouldn’t wait for you both to navigate whatever this had become. But for now, in the quiet sanctuary of the room, with you tucked safely against him, Hotch allowed himself to just be.

And as the first light of dawn began to creep through the curtains, he held you a little closer, silently vowing that whatever came next, he would be ready. Because for the first time in a long time, he felt whole. And he wasn’t about to let that go

Hotch’s gaze lingered on your sleeping face, soft and unguarded in the early light. A quiet determination settled in his chest, stronger than anything he’d felt in years. You deserved to know—without question or hesitation—that you were worth everything. Worth the quiet moments and the stormy ones, the laughter and the tears, the time and the effort. Any man too blind or foolish to see that had only done him a favor, because now, you were here with him. And he would never take that for granted. He would make sure, every single day, that you never doubted your worth again. Because with you, Hotch finally understood what it meant to have something—and someone—he could never let go. And he wouldn’t let you forget it.

Tag List:

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@rousethemouse

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slowd1ving · 3 months ago

Text

IWAUSBTIDAWRIANWATSIARHNAFTFTWOADP ✦ . SUNDAY

I was an underpaid salaryman but then I died and was reincarnated into a new world as the strongest in a reverse-harem novel and forced to follow the whims of a deranged pope??? headcanon/drabble thing idk before I recommit to my baby pendulum art creds: noredemptionarc on x pairing: pope sunday + male reincarnator reader warnings: none, just some obsessiveness ig and violence wc: 4k

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

✦ . Each person has their own unrealistic daydreams about things they want to experience: a day with unlimited money, exacting revenge on a particularly insufferable coworker, or perhaps the advent of superpowers. Paltry things, naturally, in response to the endless mundanity and strife present in a vast world.

✦ . Naturally, you’re no different: an overworked corporate pawn that fits uncomfortably in the statistical median. Each ambition of yours is imprisoned in a charcoal suit, and your only solace is escaping to other worlds to forget this one. That’s your daydream, wrapped neatly in a bound volume of novels and the cracked screen of your phone.

✦ . Apocalypse, martial arts, romance—you devour each and every genre. Horridly predictable clichés, trash storylines and badly written characters: they pile up, catalogued in your reading history with carefully curated reviews. There are gems that you wouldn’t mind ending up in; with those, you plan cautiously your ascent to a comfortable, entertaining life—an office worker versus the pixels on your phone.

✦ . Alas, you wind up in a cliché of your own: entering an eternal slumber from overwork and reincarnating as a side character in the shitty b-rated romance novel your coworker recommended. Scratch that—not even a side character but an extra. It’s a karmic jab at the scathing vitriol you left buried in the comments, engaging with the work only to argue with people beneath each chapter about the god-awful plot devices and utter vapidity behind the character choices. Like, come on, a harem based on how ‘interesting’ the female lead is? Seriously?

✦ . Except, the situation is very serious now. Shoved into the body of one of the male leads? You could’ve dealt with that hand. Reborn as the villain responsible for the situations that inevitably ended with each male lead getting closer to the heroine? Sure, you’ve read enough of those that you have a comprehensive, cited manual on how to turn around your fate. But… being born as a commoner in a fantasy setting, a good twenty years before the story actually starts, in a village that would likely be stricken by the plague or wiped off the map as a plot device? You’re screwed.

✦ . Or that’s what you might’ve thought, if the plot wasn’t so predictable.

✦ . You’ll set yourself up for life if you play your cards right—following each cliché like a trail of breadcrumbs to find each magical artifact or whatever, unlocking a magical core probably along the way, finding every obvious foreshadowing Chekhov’s gun style. Training to be the underdog knight who ends up as a second male lead? Pshh—that’s amateur stuff. You’ll make a name for yourself, journeying through the lands of Argo to steal the main characters’ glory.

✦ . It’s simple. You wait for an inevitable war with demonic hordes that probably contributed to a tragic backstory in the main cast, and do your best to get recruited by the grizzled veteran who conveniently spots you training with a stick in one of the fields. Either you die and leave this stupid world, or you get lucky and rise up in the ranks—a win-win situation, really.

✦ . It hurts. The magic sword that you found located suspiciously in the forest looks into your soul and determines you are not in fact pure of heart and will wallop you until you are, thus the golden-haired Southern Duke’s heir Gepard Landau misses his opportunity to acquire the legendary Harpe, and you get to be beaten up in his stead. You don’t complain though—this is all part of the convoluted process that is mentioned once (never in detail) that creates a stupidly overpowered character.

✦ . It hurts. The veteran who noticed your far-too-enthusiastic movements knows his stuff—in true cliché fashion—and you are molded into the perfect little soldier, bruised within an inch of your life. You learn various footwork techniques and the basics that shape your swordwork into something to be feared, that cuts down demons like wheat under a sickle.

✦ . It hurts. Magic circles brand the tender walls of your heart when you’re thinking about the physics degree you started but never managed to complete, and you pass out a few times as they stabilise—but it’s fine. Pain is temporary; those sweet gains will be your plot armour.

✦ . Guilt might have wracked your heart if you were one of those irritating protagonists that firmly believed they should stick to the plotline no matter what, but you aren’t. If it’s truly a fictional world you are in, then your actions won’t matter; and if it’s a real world, then your actions merely represent a parallel divergence in this universe, and the world actually doesn’t revolve around the main cast.

✦ . You are the first to find the demonic stone that is meant to be absorbed by the Duke of the North, Yingxing—one of the more disturbing male leads—and consume it to catalyse the formation of additional magic circles around your body. He’s just some guy whose demonic heritage and extensive training created a ridiculously strong and edgy lead who is fixed or whatever by the sunny protagonist.

✦ . It is when you accidentally-on-purpose stumble across the statue of an old goddess Idrila that your ripples culminate into a tidal wave of change. Within the subtle planes of the stone, a mythical being slumbers—meant to be the driving force behind the knight-turned-second-lead Argenti’s actions, yet will now be used to your full advantage as you drip your blood into the offering plate. No, she doesn’t grant wishes, but she does give him a pretty neat technique that creates a water-tight defense.

✦ . You may have gone too far. The paltry details you’ve robbed from the story—mere plot devices that only accelerate the male leads’ growth—have forged you into a war hero, practically capable of standing toe-to-toe with the Demon Queen herself. Well, not really. You won’t push your luck, even as you’re being awarded a medal of honour and a title for turning the tides. It’s a viscounty—far more than you expected, but you’ll take it, even with the whispers in high society about you. A commoner turned noble. Oh, the scandal—the horror. Truly, you could not care less as you return to the battlefield to find even more spoils—except, you almost crash into a herald on your way and stare incredulously as he delivers the king’s edict.

✦ . Guard His Holiness.

✦ . You were fine dealing with the murderous stare garnered from the Northern Duke as you politely bowed to the protagonist, fine with interacting with the two more rational male leads (though it was a controversial case when it came to Sir Argenti, if you were totally being honest), but His Holiness? Now, this wasn’t a plotline you could have predicted. If memory serves you correctly, mad dogs of the battlefield are, you know, kept in the battlefield slaughtering demons—not, you know, on guard duty. Is the king being for real?

✦ . He is, in fact, being for real. Part of you wants to take the rolled up parchment from the herald and bash it over your head, but another part of you appreciates the unexpected nature of the request. Or perhaps it’s expected, as the natural enemy of demons is the Church of Order, and they will likely be targeted by the hordes next. Except, you’re not quite sure why the most dangerous of the male leads, Sunday, needs protection. Of the unfortunate quartet, he is the most obsessive—the papal figure of Ena the Order, with his deluded faith coming only second to his absolute devotion to the heroine.

✦ . Though, on second thoughts, heading to the church might be the only plausible course of action—you know, consult with whatever god is running this place, get some answers to the questions that have really been bugging you, like the logistics of this world, and perhaps why this feels far too like an easy mode on a video game with all the clues laid in front of you. You want a real head scratcher, now that everything’s fallen neatly into place: your wealth, title, and sick powers.

✦ . Except, as you’re kneeling before a statue of Ena and fervently wishing for some explanations and perhaps an answer for why things continue to be easy mode, a sickening chill spreads over your body—almost as if THEY are laughing at you. Easy mode? THEY seem to scoff, before the feeling fades away and you stand up, feeling dread pool in your stomach.

✦ . You’re just some guy. You took this job and didn’t run away to the neighbouring kingdom, purely for the reason that your soul is about as clean as pond water—much like all the other people who frequent the temple—and Sunday views these ordinary people, these sinners, with a benevolent sort of sympathy. Nobles and commoners alike are lumped in together as the ‘lambs’ who require salvation—including you, of course. The pure-hearted main character is a general exception to this rule—somebody who in his eyes, absolutely embodies light. She’s far purer than he is, which ironically serves as the sun to his wax-adhered wings—catalysing his imminent destruction and advent as someone who’d do anything for her. The Sunday you’d read about with mild fascination will inevitably grow distant to the plight of people—which is perfect for you, either way, as you will be reduced to white noise, befitting of a mere guard.

✦ . Well, it’s not like he needs a guard, regardless. If you had to pick one positive of that novel, it would be evenly distributing the power levels of each male lead—meaning that Sunday was comparable to the other three in his own right (or he might even be slightly stronger, considering your hijacking of key level-up materials of the other three). And in true novel fashion, he’d likely just dismiss you as soon as you announced yourself.

✦ . Which he does. He’s not necessarily a tall man, but the way he dresses pristinely and talks in that clipped manner makes him exude a certain type of presence that makes you wary of numerous facets of his character: the almost-too-angelic image he presents himself with, the dark expression he wears when nobody can see him, and finally, the uncanny way he spots lies within someone’s words. Of course, you’re not necessarily important enough to exchange words with, therefore it’s not like he can glean lies from your brief greetings when you come to fulfill your duties each day and are promptly dismissed from your post.

✦ . You’d be pretty annoyed about this blatant waste of time if it weren’t for the fact that it gives you access to the theological works located in the library—ample time to research the exact cliché that led you here. Though you’d wished for such a reincarnation to take you from Earth, it feels artificial almost, when you’re pre-cognisant of what will happen based on the tried and true arcs of each repetitive novel you’ve read.

✦ . There’s no way of telling what point of the story you’re in. With how many things you’ve screwed over, it could be over for all you know—or there could be a parallel story culminating from all the butterfly effects you’ve unleashed. Ah, whatever. You’re strolling through the well-maintained courtyard with a divine treatise in one hand and the constant droning of Harpe in one ear, attempting to find a nice little shady nook to lurk and read in, when you see it—the protagonist, presumably meeting the papal figure of the Order for the first time. The slight flutter of the wings by his face that denote him as part of an angelic race confirms it, and you turn on your heel abruptly, leaving them to talk.

✦ . Except, the protagonist is far too friendly for her own good—and hasn’t in fact forgotten about a commoner-turned-viscount who met her properly like once. She waves at you cheerfully, calling out your name, and you turn around slowly—like you’re in some horror movie, which you probably are.

✦ . “I didn’t know you got transferred here!” Each time you see her, you’re reminded of the interns at your company—friendly, not yet crushed by the depressing reality of corporate life. It makes you feel bad for her, but then you’re reminded of who exactly stands next to her when you politely take her hand and bow your head over it in a perfunctory greeting.

✦ . “Yes, as per His Majesty’s orders.” You’re laconic in your usual state, which seems to cut you some slack with Sunday, who observes each miniscule shift of your emotions like some damn psychologist—the general apathy you feel to the both of them, the yearning to go somewhere else (anywhere but here). You can feel the intrusion, and it’s a double-edged sword. If you succeed with this, you can successfully convince him you’re not a threat.

✦ . “What are you reading?” She spotted the book you’re half-heartedly keeping tucked by your side, and you can feel the intensity of Sunday’s stare increase. Shit.

✦ . “Some of the interpretations made by the Prophets.” You mutter truthfully, feeling as though you’re being interrogated. You hesitantly show the worn cover—wanting to be anywhere but here, under the Pope’s intense scrutiny of his guard.

✦ . “Oh, really? That’s—” “The manuscripts in the library aren’t meant to be taken out of the building.” Sunday’s cool voice interrupts her, and you practically wither.

✦ . “My apologies, sir. I was unaware of that.” It’s best to smooth things over instantly: pathetically bowing your head to the Pope. “It’s Your Holiness, viscount. And it’s unseemly for a guard of mine to be unaware of two such crucial pieces of knowledge.” As expected, he’s meticulous about everything pertaining to his image—so unbelievably fastidious that it might’ve irritated you had you not had so many years of working under irritating superiors.

✦ . “Yes, Your Holiness. Then, I’ll excuse myself to return the treatise.” There’s not a trace of annoyance in you—rather, a profound relief at him providing the convenient excuse for you to exit. It was probably on purpose that he did so, hoping you’d take the hint and leave, but it works very well for you.

✦ . “Wait— is that the ancient language of ◼◼◼◼◼?” There’s a brief pause, before you stare at the book again, prompted by her curious words. It’s not in the fictional language of this place, but the ancient tongue had always been denoted in the novel as square brackets around the original English of the text for convenience, which indirectly manifested it as English when you reincarnated here.

✦ . “I suppose,” you mutter. It’s rare to find clergy who can both read and speak it well, and even rarer for a regular layperson to do so. It’s far too time-consuming to learn with the current alphabet of this place, and the pronunciation isn’t intuitive at all based on how the words are constructed, considering the language here. It makes you wonder at the sloppy linguistic developments of this world, further supporting the hypothesis that you’re still in a fictional world.

✦ . [You’re fluent and not just loitering about to waste time?] Sunday speaks, maintaining his even tone and crisp cadence—though they’re tinged with some Argonian ways of speaking. The protagonist’s head swivels between the two of you, and you sigh internally at the prolonged disruption.

✦ . [Yes, Your Holiness. If I wanted to waste time, I’d beat up your knights templar. But as it stands, it’s not like you’re letting me perform my job regardless, therefore I am in a state of loitering perpetually.] You bow your head once more, feeling a strange sense of vindication. [Now, if you’ll excuse me.] Then, you leave—particularly refreshed after the little spat.

✦ . That is your first mistake.

✦ . The second comes from having befriended the Saint, Robin. Though formally, she’s meant to be in isolation—guarded in her tower save for days where she descends to the realm of mortals—you’ve felt sorry for the faceless girl and her quiet complaints, so you’ve taken to spiriting away sweet foods from the outside and leaving them on her windowsill—using the special footwork arts you’ve trained in for such paltry purposes. As it turns out, Templar knights are more than willing to leave guard duty to a war hero, which means you become more or less a constant in her terribly lonely life. You feel horrible. Her voice has been blessed by the gods, and thus she’s been reduced to a songbird—shackled to a birdcage by the corrupted elders of the church.

✦ . Yet, she can’t even escape, for the hold they have over her brother makes her unable to leave.

✦ . You only realise what a horrible mistake it is when the two of you end up bonding over literature—on one side of the table, a veiled Saint eats some of the strawberry cheesecake that you baked after sneaking into the Temple kitchens at night, while on the other, you sit with a cup of hard coffee to knock some energy back into you. Well—it’s not exactly then that you realise you fucked up. After all, you’re enjoying a pleasant conversation on the most mundane of things: the birds that fly past her window and occasionally stop by to bring her flowers, the weird sort of stiffness that the priests move with outside, and the unique taste of the cakes the pâtissier in the village makes.

✦ . You don’t bring up your past, nor her situation. It’s the only respite she gets from her solitude, and it’s the only respite you get from your own—two misfits within a strict hierarchy.

✦ . Yet…

✦ . “Explain exactly what you are doing here.” Cold fury vibrates through Sunday’s voice as he stands in the stone doorway leading into the Saint room. You freeze under his yellow-eyed, boreal glare; every second stretches into an infinity, and the cake on your fork wobbles in tandem with your hand.

✦ . Shit, isn’t this breaking some kind of taboo? The veiled Saint pauses, then places down her fork too—yet, she’s not shaking in her boots like you are.

✦ . “Don’t yell at him.” You’re staring at her incredulously, and your fork clatters against your plate as you drop it. Sunday’s gaze swivels to her, and his brows furrow.

✦ . “And you—what have I told you about being careful?” It’s not exasperation in his voice, but something else that you can’t quite put your finger on. Concern? Nah—can’t be.

✦ . “She’s not at fault,” you argue. But upon reflection… “Neither am I, actually. I’m fulfilling guard duty whilst being her friend.”

✦ . Friend. You can tell her eyes are fixed upon you from beneath her veil—though you can’t tell they’re brimming with some emotion. Sunday only scoffs at your words—his unmoved mask wavers in the face of the Saint, it seems. “Guard duty? You’re flagrantly disobeying protocol, again, while being a bad influence on the Saint. What are you doing here in the first place?”

✦ . “Stop it, Brother!” Her words send a shocked shiver down your spine—and she’s pulling off her veil, showing you a face and wings that are practically a carbon copy of her brother’s. All angry and red and yelling, and you’re left staring at two siblings squabbling over you. “He’s one of the only things that have been keeping me sane in this misery. I’m old enough to distinguish who I can trust and befriend—”

✦ . “Robin…” he murmurs, wings agitated and flattened against his face. His lips part and close once more, before his eyes swivel to yours in a renewed glare. “And you—”

✦ . [Follow me.] His icy tone clearly translates into the tongue he switches to, and you’re essentially marched out by the ear. You haplessly look back at Robin, but all she mouths is ‘I’ll see you later’. It’s barely an assurance that you’ll survive the encounter, but at this point, you’ll take any assurance you can get.

✦ . You get your answer when he practically slams you down into a chair in his office, wiping his dove-grey gloves off as if you’re dirt reincarnate, and you scowl.

✦ . “Answer me honestly,” he demands, and you nod with a swallow. You can feel the familiar intrusion rooting around in your mind, drinking in every change in emotion. “Are you seeking to harm Robin?”

✦ . “No, I’m not.” You hold his gaze. There are two sides to his personality—the apathy he feels towards everyone, and the care that he bequeaths onto those close to him. It’s been like that in the novel throughout the duration of his arc—this new, irritated side to him is one you’ve never seen.

✦ . “I would’ve thought a war hero would have a spine, but you’re far more pathetic than I thought.” It’s a cutting remark, but honestly, you’re marvelling at the change.

✦ . “All due respect, Your Holiness, but you’re my employer and this is a feudal system,” you reply neutrally, gazing at the floor as if it’s captivating you. The glare focused on you intensifies.

✦ . “I changed my mind. Report to me each morning—I’ll put you to work.”

✦ . He lives up to his words. Rather than guarding him, you’re entrusted with translating manuscripts into this world’s tongue—a task that had previously been split between him and two other cardinals, yet has now been unceremoniously delegated to you. You’re paid, naturally, yet not for the damn job that you were meant to do.

✦ . “Pour me some tea.” It’s another flippant side to him that you only ever witness when you’re alone with him. If anyone walked in, all they’d see after politely knocking would be a paragon of hard work—Sunday—and his aide. That’s what you’ve been reduced to from a mad dog of the battlefield.

✦ . “What am I, a maid?” you mutter under your breath, and his yellow eyes hone in on you in the precise glare that makes your spine prickle.

✦ . He only softens when he sees his sister—inviting himself to the designated ‘tea times’ the Saint has set for you, and merely staring at you whenever you speak, never deigning to reply to you but only Robin when she speaks to him directly.

✦ . “I think you’re the closest to a friend that he’s ever had,” she tells you one time, when he’s busy with the inevitable duties that come with being the pope. You don’t say anything, laughing off her words internally. You? A friend? To Sunday? The maniac obsessed with divinity, the Order, and the protagonist? It’s ridiculous. He challenges you to a duel that very night—and you think it’s over. He’s never shown his hand like this in the novel; those who witness him fight might as well be dead.

✦ . His divine power manifests itself as thorns—looping and weaving in dangerous ways you barely manage to block with Harpe and Idrila’s defense, crashing into the secluded ground of the Templar knights’ training hall.

✦ . “What’s wrong?” he taunts. “Didn’t you say you could beat templar knights? And here you are, struggling before a mere member of the clergy?”

✦ . You don’t fall for his provocations. No, actually, you do. A magic circle activates. Another halo appears around his head.

✦ . It’s a narrow victory, you think, but he’d claim it as his—two bodies lie heaving in the sand, surrounded by the rubble of a training hall.

✦ . “You know magic. Fix it,” he pants, looking down at his sweaty body in mild disgust. To be in such a state—you read his thoughts amongst the affronted flutter of his wings.

✦ . “Isn’t divine power better for repairing things?” you comment sardonically. “I think I’m all spent.”

✦ . “Should I report you to the king for lapsing in your duty?” he glares, sitting up.

✦ . “You could,” you settle your hands beneath your neck contentedly. “If anything, I’d simply be fired and sent back to the battlefield. I’ve got armies to command, don’t I?”

✦ . There’s a crack, before a pillar (that had been precariously canted at an angle) comes crashing down against the billowing grime of the hall. You startle, and whip your head to gaze at Sunday, who merely looks at you placidly.

✦ . “Is that so?” he murmurs. There’s something buried deep in his eyes—something implacable, as though he was the one that caused the pillar to snap in a fit of anger. Anger over your impudent words, most likely, and nothing else—right? Right?

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