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buckets-and-trees · 2 months ago

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Rank and Promotion

Characters/Pairings: soft!dark Alpha!Ari x curvy Female!Omega!Reader Word Count: 7.5k Summary: Ari Levinson receives a visit and a gift from Governor Barnes. (part of the Fine Line collection but can be read fully on its own)

Content/Warnings: omegaverse (alpha-omega dynamics, scenting, etc); power dynamics; loss of virginity; explicit smut: thigh riding, oral (female receiving), vaginal fingering, unprotected vaginal intercourse and insemination, cum appreciation; omega trafficking

Author Notes: I said there would be more alphas in this verse, and HERE'S THE FIRST OF THEM! It is not necessary to read anything else in this story. Relevant information is relayed directly and/or insinuated in the narrative for this piece. But for anyone who has followed the Bucky parts of the story, this takes place immediately after the council scene in No Way Out.

Additional Note: I need to give credit where it's due to @stargazingfangirl18 for helping me figure out how to best approach sharing this storyline for new characters/a new reader into an existing verse!

Fine Line Collection

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

Five years ago, Ari would have been pacing impatiently across the floor of this opulent living room in the penthouse of Skyline Tower, but now he’s learned how to control the impatience, to cage it, let it undulate deep inside of himself to be used to launch into action at the right moment.

And so he sits in a comfortable armchair with a view of the mountains in the distance out to the west of the city, studying the view, reading on his phone, and looking out into the distance again.

Twenty-seven hours ago he’d received a summons from the Governor’s executive aide, told he was expected in the capital by sundown and to pack for an indefinite stay. The order had not been entirely unusual - he’d been instructed to move to different locations many times given the nature of his work, and many of those reassignments had been with unknown expectations for how long he would need to be there.

Ari arrived in the capital the night before and had been escorted to this penthouse in the city’s tallest building, and thathad been unusual. Typically his assignments were fulfilled in ordinary, unremarkable areas, not the a place like this.

The space balances luxury with functionality – sleek lines and modern fixtures softened by plush seating and warm lighting. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the sprawling city below, but automated privacy screens can be adjusted for comfort. The leather couch looked genuinely used, not merely decorative. Books lined built-in shelves, their spines showing wear. The kitchen gleams with high-end appliances, yet remains approachable with its open layout. Even the temperature is perfectly calibrated – cool enough to remain comfortable, but not so cold as to require additional layers.

This attention to livability rather than mere display speaks volumes about its owner. Bucky Barnes may be Hydra's conquering fist, but he clearly values practical comfort over ostentatious wealth. It's an unexpected insight into the man who seized control of the territory mere weeks ago in a swift, brutal campaign that left the previous government broken, but not obliterated left with just enough strength and infrastructure to remain viable and powerful on the continent.

His phone buzzes, and there’s a message indicating that Governor Barnes has just arrived at Skyline Tower and will be with him presently.

Ari frowns.

Having been summoned, he expected to be called to the Governor’s office or his mansion.

A personal visit was yet another anomaly.

Only a few minutes later, there’s a brief knock and a man enters the penthouse, making way for a tall, imposing alpha, and his omega.

Ari man rises from the leather armchair. "Governor Barnes," he greets Bucky with a slight inclination of his head.

"Levinson," Bucky responds, stepping forward to clasp his hand firmly. "I trust the accommodations are satisfactory."

"More than," Ari replies, gesturing around. His gaze shifts to the female at Bucky’s side, curiosity evident in his expression. "And this must be your new omega. The former governor's daughter."

Bucky's hand moves to the small of her back, a possessive gesture that doesn't go unnoticed by anyone in the room. "Yes. She's mine now."

Bucky steers his omega and gestures for her to sit on the plush leather couch with him. She settles beside him, and he drapes his metal arm possessively across her shoulders. Ari can see it’s not a demonstration for his benefit, but for hers.

Ari takes his seat again in armchair opposite the couch and waits, deferring to the governor to speak first.

"Your work in the eastern territories has been exceptional," Bucky begins, his tone matter-of-fact. "The intelligence you've gathered over the past three years has been invaluable to our acquisition of the territory."

"Just doing my job," Ari responds with a modest shrug, though there's a hint of pride he can’t hold back in his tone.

"Which is precisely why I've called you here to the capital," Bucky continues. "Every weakness, every vulnerability you identified in the territory's defenses proved accurate. The takeover was executed with minimal resistance, just as you predicted."

"Minimal resistance is generous," Ari remarks with a slight smile. He heard every report, saw footage online and on television. "Your tactics were... thorough."

And in line with many of the intel and suggestions Ari himself had supplied to Barnes and the others in the Hydra network for this very purpose.

Bucky leans forward, his posture shifting subtly from casual to intent. "Which brings me to my proposition. I need someone to lead my military forces—someone with your strategic mind and field experience."

Ari keeps his expression carefully neutral, though he is more than intrigued if Barnes means what he think he means.

Still, he doesn’t want to misstep by assuming or betraying any eagerness.

So he waits half a moment before saying evenly, "You have STRIKE teams already in place. Rumlow seems capable enough."

"Rumlow is a blunt instrument," Bucky replies dismissively. "Useful for specific tasks, but lacking the vision required for what I have planned." He pauses, studying Ari with calculating eyes. "I'm offering you the position of General of my armed forces.”

Ari raises his eyebrows slightly. "General?"

"Yes," Bucky confirms without hesitation. "The current military leadership lacks vision. They're competent at maintaining order, but we need more than that to secure our borders and expand our influence. You understand the larger picture."

He assumed there would be a special assignment, but he hadn’t anticipated this. Though his pulse has accelerated, he keeps his voice even. "What exactly would this entail?"

Like himself, Bucky is a man who respects cool heads.

"Authority over all military operations, reporting directly to me," Bucky explains. "A seat on the territory council, but also a member of my personal cabinet.”

Ari considers the Governor’s words, drumming his fingers lightly against the armrest. His gaze flicks between the alpha and his omega - a woman who has remained stoic, silent, and still through all of the exchange, though certainly studying every word and action, thoroughly paying attention.

"Think about it,” Bucky continues, “this territory has resources, manpower, and strategic positioning. What we lack is someone with vision to utilize them properly."

Ari weighs his options, calculating the benefits against potential risks.

Bucky shifts, squeezing the back of his omega’s neck before standing. "I don't expect an immediate answer. Consider the offer." He gestures toward the door where the man who entered with them has remained, clearly waiting for this signal. "In the meantime, I've brought something to mark your acceptance."

To mark your acceptance… So this is an edict, no room for negotiation, refusal an impossibility.

The man - a beta, Ari can tell - nods and opens the door. A moment later, an older looking beta female enters, leading five omega women in behind her.

"Alphas like us have... certain needs," Bucky says, his tone casual but his eyes sharp, watching for Ari’s reaction.

Ari stands, and something in his chest rumbles unbidden. He’s enjoyed an omega here and there, though they’re difficult to find. To have five in a room together is rare. Five unmated? Unheard of.

Bucky steps forward, his hand gesturing toward the line of omegas with practiced smoothness. "These fine specimen come from Whitecrest," he explains, voice carrying an unmistakable note of pride. "Perhaps the most prestigious omega training facility in the northern hemisphere."

All five are dressed modestly in cream-colored, simple yet exquisite dresses - each cut and tailored to show off the omegas in the best way possible. They appear to range in age from twenties to thirties. Their hair is neatly styled, their postures submissive but dignified, eyes downcast.

The beta male - Marcus, according to his silver name badge - steps forward with a slight bow. His suit is impeccably pressed, his manner formal yet approachable.

"Whitecrest is an institution with over a century of tradition. Interested families who are interested contact us when they have a child who identifies as an omega within days of their presentation, usually between thirteen and fifteen years of age," Marcus elaborates. "Only those with exceptional potential are selected. From that moment, their education becomes comprehensive. We identify their natural aptitudes and enhance them through rigorous education."

One of the omegas lifts their gaze momentarily before lowering it again. The brief glimpse reveals intelligent eyes that seem to assess the room.

"Our curriculum for all our omegas is comprehensive—multiple languages, of course, with each omega mastering a minimum of four. They study diplomatic companion relations, learning to navigate even the most complex international negotiations at their alpha's side. Our political training ensures they understand governance structures worldwide, while our history program contextualizes modern power dynamics."

Marcus's voice takes on a reverent quality as he continues, "And naturally, we provide thorough instruction on what an omega's role should be—how to anticipate an alpha's needs before they're expressed, how to manage a household of any size, how to present themselves in society. They learn to navigate hierarchies with grace and dignity."

Ari's eyes travel down the line of omegas, each one a testament to careful cultivation. "And their families simply... give them up?"

"They entrust them to us," Marcus corrects smoothly. "Most come from prominent families who understand the value of proper training. Others are discovered through our scholarship program, which identifies exceptional potential regardless of background. In either case, the families are generously compensated."

Bucky watches Ari's reaction carefully. "Each of these omegas represents years of investment. Their training costs more than most people earn in a lifetime.”

Ari feels a primal hunger growing within him as he studies the five women. His alpha instincts, normally kept under tight control, rise to the surface. He hasn't had the luxury of an omega companion during a rut in years, though he had been able to find sufficient satisfaction with betas to get him through.

"And now, one of them will be yours," Bucky says.

The implication hangs in the air, heavy with expectation. Ari feels his pulse quicken despite his practiced control.

"You're offering me one of these omegas?" he asks, careful to keep his tone measured despite the sudden rush of alpha interest surging through him.

"Consider it a signing bonus," Bucky replies with a slight smile. "A general requires a proper companion. Someone who can manage your household, accompany you to diplomatic functions, and of course," his voice drops slightly, "satisfy your more... primal needs."

The older beta female steps forward. "If I may, Governor Barnes?”

Barnes nods, “Certainly. Levinson, I’ll leave you to your selection. Marcus and Elsie, send the final contract to my assistant.” Then he turns to his own omega, and reaches a hand out.

The Governor’s wife rises from the couch with her own grace, and follows her husband out of the penthouse.

The older woman speaks again. "Each omega has been specifically selected based on compatibility with your profile, sir," she explains, her voice crisp and professional. "We've studied your background, preferences, and needs extensively to ensure an optimal match."

Ari's brow furrows slightly. "You've been researching me?"

"Of course," she replies without hesitation. "Whitecrest prides itself on creating perfect matches, not merely providing bodies. These five were hand-selected from our entire cohort as potential matches for your specific temperament, career demands, and genetic compatibility. Governor Barnes provided us with your dossier months ago. We've analyzed your service record, psychological assessments, even your dietary preferences to identify the most compatible candidates."

Ari shoots a glance toward the door where Bucky has just exited. Months ago. Before the territory was even conquered. The realization that Barnes had been planning this role for him all along settles like a weight in his stomach – both flattering and unsettling.

"And what exactly did your analysis determine about me?" Ari asks, unable to resist his curiosity.

Elsie - Ari notes her own silver nametag - smiles politely. "That you're disciplined, methodical, and intensely private. You value competence above all else. You require an omega who can anticipate needs without constant direction, who can function independently when your duties demand your attention, yet submit completely when you require it."

Her assessment is uncomfortably accurate, even identifying elements he may not have thought to consider for himself but sound satisfying to him.

Ari walks slowly along the line of omegas, studying each one with careful consideration. They remain perfectly still under his scrutiny, spaced out evenly approximately a meter apart from each other, enough room for him to circle them physically and assess their smells somewhat individually.

As Ari approaches the fourth omega, he catches a subtle shift in demeanor – not defiance, exactly, but a certain alertness that distinguishes you from the others. While the rest remain perfectly still, your head tilts almost imperceptibly, but he does catch it. He recalls that you’re the he noticed looking up before, during Marcus’s thorough explanation about the education omegas of your kind receive.

He steps directly in front of you, drawn by that subtle difference. "You," he addresses you directly, his voice low.

Your eyes remain downcast respectfully, but your posture straightens a fraction more. Unlike the others who remained unmoved around him, you appear to become more present.

"May I?" He extends his hand, palm up, an invitation rather than a demand. The gesture reveals more about him than perhaps he intends – a preference for consent, even in a situation where he holds all the power.

You lift your gaze to meet his, just for a moment, before lowering your eyes again in practiced deference. With fluid grace, you extend your wrist, turning it upward to expose the delicate skin where your scent is strongest.

Ari's fingers close gently around your offered wrist, bringing it to his nose. The first inhale is cautious, analytical – but the moment your scent fills his lungs, something shifts fundamentally in his gut.

Your scent hits him with unexpected force. It's not merely pleasant; it’s complex and resonates with him on a primal level, setting off a cascade of reactions he hasn't experienced before. His pupils dilate slightly, and he finds himself drawing a second, deeper breath.

"What's your name?" he asks, still holding your wrist, his thumb unconsciously tracing small circles against your pulse point.

You respond, answering in a calm, controlled tone, but he can feel the way your pulse races beneath his thumb.

Elsie steps forward. "A fine choice, General Levinson. This omega has excelled particularly in languages – fluent in seven, including Mandarin and Russian – and has specialized training in military history and strategic analysis. We believed these skills would complement your new position admirably."

Ari barely notices her words, as he's entirely absorbed in the scent that envelops him. However, his keen sense of movement and awareness of those around him ensures he catches Marcus signaling the other omegas to leave the penthouse.

Marcus approaches with a sleek digital tablet in hand, clearing his throat discreetly. "If you're satisfied with your selection, sir, we have just a few formalities to complete."

Ari reluctantly releases your wrist, though his eyes linger on you for a moment longer before turning to Marcus. "Of course."

"Standard transfer of guardianship documentation," he explains, gesturing toward the tablet. "It confirms your acceptance of this omega and outlines your rights and responsibilities."

Ari scans the document quickly but thoroughly, his years of intelligence work having trained him never to sign anything without reading it first. The legal language is precise, transferring all rights to him while acknowledging Whitecrest's continued interest in your wellbeing – a formality more than an actual limitation on his authority.

"Everything appears to be in order," he murmurs, pressing his thumb to the digital pad in the appropriate spot.

Elsie, who has guided you to stand slightly apart while the men handle the paperwork. "The omega comes with a complete wardrobe and personal effects," she explains, her tone businesslike. "All items have been selected to complement your lifestyle and preferences."

Ari nods.

“They will delivered to the concierge downstairs within the hour. Whitecrest provides a six-month adjustment period," Elsie explains, “should you wish to make any changes or find any incompatibility or unwanted behavior from or with the omega.”

"And we'll need your signature here as well, confirming receipt of the omega's medical records and maintenance instructions," Marcus says, swiping to another screen on the tablet.

Ari raises an eyebrow. "Maintenance instructions?"

"Just a formality," Elsie interjects smoothly. "Dietary preferences, exercise regimens, heat suppressant schedules as long as you wish to suppress them. Nothing you wouldn't expect."

Marcus taps several more fields on the tablet before sliding it toward Ari once more. "Just your signature on the final acceptance form, General. This confirms receipt of the omega and acknowledges Whitecrest's fulfillment of our contract with Governor Barnes."

Ari signs with a practiced motion, his eyes flicking toward you. Marcus taps a few more buttons before the tablet emits a soft chime.

"Congratulations, General Levinson. She is officially yours," Marcus says with a practiced smile.

Elsie straightens her jacket. "The omega has been thoroughly briefed on her duties and expectations. She'll serve you well." She gives you a final appraising look, a nearly imperceptible nod that seems to convey some private message, before turning back to Ari. "Should you require any assistance during the adjustment period, our support staff is available at any hour."

"That won't be necessary," Ari replies, his tone making it clear the conversation is concluded.

With a final nod, Marcus and Elsie depart, leaving Ari alone with you for the first time. The door closes with a soft click, and the sudden silence feels weighted with possibility.

Ari studies you, still standing precisely as you had undoubtedly been trained to do, hands folded neatly before you, eyes downcast. The perfect picture of omega submission—yet he hasn't forgotten that brief moment of alertness that drew him to you initially.

"You can look at me," he says, his voice neither harsh nor particularly gentle. "I prefer direct communication."

You raise your eyes to meet his, and he's struck again by what he sees there—intelligence, assessment, and something else he can't quite define. Not fear, which is interesting. Perhaps caution. Certainly awareness.

"I imagine this is... unexpected for you as well," he says.

“On the contrary, General Levinson, I’ve known for two decades I was being held in reserve, training and preparing for the alpha who would claim me.”

Ari notes that your tone doesn’t seem to harbor any resentment towards that statement or the reality of it either.

"Two decades is a long time to prepare for something without knowing when it will happen," Ari observes, moving to the kitchen area. He pours himself a glass of water, then, after a moment's consideration, pours a second. "Would you like one?"

"Thank you, Alpha," you respond, joining him in the kitchen and accepting the glass with graceful movements. Your fingers brush against his, and he notes the controlled steadiness of your hand.

"You can call me Ari when we're alone," he says, watching your reaction carefully.

You take a small sip of water before responding. "As you wish... Ari." The name sounds intimate on your lips, a privilege you understand the significance of.

"I should inform you," you continue, your voice measured and practical, "that I'm currently on a regimen of heat suppressants, as is standard protocol before a Whitecrest omega is transferred to the care of an alpha." Your voice is measured, professional. "However, I can discontinue them immediately if you prefer. The medication will clear my system within seventy-two hours."

Ari's expression remains neutral, though his scent shifts subtly with interest.

"That won't be necessary just yet," he replies, studying your face. "We have time."

You nod once, acknowledging his decision. "Regardless of my suppressed state, I am fully capable of satisfying any and all intimate requirements you may have." Your tone remains matter-of-fact, neither coy nor embarrassed. "While I am a certified virgin omega, Whitecrest's curriculum includes comprehensive training in all aspects of physical intimacy."

Ari's lips twitch beneath his mustache. He told you he appreciates direct communication, and he likes that you seem to fall into it naturally with him. “How does that work? A virgin but with comprehensive training?”

At this, you do drop your eyes for a moment shift slightly from one foot to the other.

"Whitecrest, as explained, always adopts a thorough and methodical approach to educating their omegas," you explain, your voice remaining professional despite the intimate subject matter. "My physical training included extensive work with beta partners—men and women both—to master techniques of oral gratification. I can pleasure with my mouth, hands, and body in a myriad of distinct ways."

You take another small sip of water before continuing, "We were also thoroughly schooled in self-pleasure, to understand our own bodies' responses. This knowledge helps us better anticipate and accommodate an alpha's needs."

Ari watches your face as you speak, the blood in his veins pumping more heatedly as you speak.

"There were practical vaginal applications too," you add. "Specialized stretching exercises to gradually stretch and prepare our bodies to accommodate an alpha's... dimensions."

You meet his eyes directly now. "However, nothing has ever penetrated my vaginal canal deeply enough to break my hymen. That honor is reserved exclusively for my alpha. For you."

“Fuck,” he says.

The word escapes his mouth before he can stop it, his careful control slipping for just a moment. Your eyes widen slightly at his reaction, and he sees a flash of something—satisfaction, perhaps—cross your features before you compose yourself again.

"I apologize if I was too forward," you say, though your tone suggests you don't believe you've overstepped.

"No," Ari says, setting his glass down on the counter with measured precision. "I said I wanted direct communication. You're giving me exactly that."

He moves closer to you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his body. Your scent shifts subtly in response to his proximity, and he catches it immediately—a sweetening, an unconscious response that makes his alpha instincts stir with primal satisfaction.

"I want to be clear about something," he says, his voice dropping to a lower register. "You were trained to be what Whitecrest believed an alpha would want. But I'm interested in what lies beneath that training."

Your eyes meet his, and for a moment, your carefully constructed demeanor wavers. "Whitecrest doesn't encourage individuality," you admit, tone laced with wariness.

You’re incredibly intelligent, strategic. He likes that.

"I consider it essential," Ari counters. “I want to know who you are beneath the training."

You tilt your head slightly, a gesture that seems less practiced and more natural. "What would you like to know, Ari?"

He steps back, creating space between you again, regaining his composure. "Let's sit," he suggests, gesturing toward the living area. You follow him, moving with elegant efficiency, and take a seat on the couch while he chooses the armchair opposite you.

He studies you for a long moment, taking in the details of your face, your posture, the way you hold yourself. There's a precision to your movements that speaks of years of training, but underneath it, he senses something more—a natural grace that couldn't have been taught.

"Tell me something that isn't in your file," he says. "Something Whitecrest doesn't know about you."

Your eyes widen slightly at this unexpected request. For a moment, you seem to wrestle with it, your training having conditioned you to present only what would please an alpha. But he sees the moment you let go and relax from that expectation.

"I steal moments," you admit finally, voice softer than before. "When I'm supposed to be meditating during quiet hours, I sometimes watch the stars instead." Your hands rest in your lap, perfectly still, but he notices the slight tension in your fingers. "There's a constellation that as visible from my dormitory window that wasn't in any of our astronomy texts. I named it myself."

Ari leans forward slightly, genuinely intrigued. "What did you name it?"

The question seems to surprise you, you’re clearly not expecting his curiosity to extend beyond a surface level. "Libera," you answer after a moment. "It means—"

"Freedom," Ari finishes for you, his expression thoughtful. "I speak Latin too."

Something shifts in your eyes—a flicker of deeper interest in him, the man, not the alpha.

A current seems to pass between you both at that moment. Ari's eyes darken slightly, and the air in the penthouse grows heavier with unspoken tension.

"Come here," Ari says, his voice low as he extends his hand toward you. His command is gentle but unmistakable.

You hesitate for just a fraction of a second—another glimpse of the real person beneath the training—before rising gracefully from the couch. You cross the short distance between you and place your hand in his.

With a smooth, deliberate motion, he guides you onto his lap, your body naturally finding position across his thighs. Without a word, Ari's hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing the outline of your lower lip. His eyes search yours, seeking something beyond the polished veneer of your training.

His eyes never leaving yours, Ari leans forward, closing the distance between you. His lips brush against yours—tentative at first, almost questioning. But when you respond, parting your lips slightly, his restraint crumbles.

Ari deepens the kiss, hungry for more of you, exploring your mouth, the way you taste. His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair to hold you in place as he tastes you thoroughly. You taste of mint and something else—something uniquely you that makes his alpha instincts surge with possessive pleasure.

You respond with the technical precision of your training, but there's something more authentic beneath it—a genuine response to him that makes his blood heat. He can sense it in the air as your scent shifts to something more heady. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, claiming, exploring, and you match him movement for movement.

When he finally pulls back, both of you are breathing harder. Your eyes have darkened, pupils blown with a desire he believes matches his own.

His hand travels from your neck down your spine, pressing you closer as he leans in again. This time his lips find the sensitive spot just below your ear, and you shiver involuntarily at the contact. He grins against your heated skin, and continues his exploration, trailing kisses along your jawline, down your neck, lingering at the junction where your neck meets your shoulder.

"Your scent is..." he murmurs against your skin, inhaling deeply. "Intoxicating."

Ari shifts beneath you, adjusting his position in the armchair. He slides his hands to grip your waist, then guides you to straddle his muscular thigh, positioning you so his quad presses directly against your core, the fabric of your dress forced up around your hips.

His eyes, dark with desire but still observant, study your face. His hand slides to your hip, fingers applying gentle pressure.

"Ride my thigh," Ari commands softly, his thumb stroking your hip. "Show me what brings you pleasure."

You hesitate, confusion flickering across your features. "I don't understand. My purpose is to—"

"Your purpose right now," he interrupts, his voice firm, "is to give me what I want, and what I want is to see you please yourself."

The concept seems foreign to you, and Ari can see the conflict in your eyes—your training has conditioned you to focus exclusively on an alpha's pleasure, not your own. This slight deviation from your programming fascinates him.

"I..." you begin, uncertainty coloring your voice.

"This isn't a test," Ari says, and he moves from your hip to cup your face, his touch gentle but commanding. "I want to see what feels good to you. I always study my subject, that’s my expertise. I want to watch you come apart, know what your body craves so I can meet out pleasure to you like you’ve never experienced before."

Something in his words seems to unlock something in you. Your body responds to his reasoning, beginning to move slowly against his thigh. The friction sends visible shivers through you, and your eyes widen slightly at the sensation.

"That's it," Ari encourages, his gaze intense as he watches your face. "Don't hold back."

Your movements grow more confident, planting your hands on his shoulders and finding a rhythm. Your breathing quickens as you grind against his muscular thigh, the rhythmic movement causes your dress to ride up further, exposing more of your thighs. Ari's hands move to grip your hips, not to guide but to feel your movements, to learn your rhythm.

"Look at me," he commands, and your eyes lock with his. The vulnerability in your gaze is intoxicating—this isn't the practiced performance of a Whitecrest omega, but something raw and genuine.

A small moan escapes your lips before you can stop it, and you immediately tense, as if surprised by your own loss of inhibition so quickly.

"Don't," Ari says, his voice husky with desire. "Don't hide those sounds from me. I want to hear every one of them."

Your movements become more urgent, more desperate as pleasure builds within you. Your body trembles against him, and Ari can feel the dampness growing between your legs, seeping through the thin fabric of your underwear and onto his pants. He finds the evidence of your arousal deeply satisfying.

"That's it," he murmurs, one hand leaving your hip to slide up your back, pressing you closer. "Show me what you need."

Your movements become less controlled, more instinctual as pleasure builds. Your head falls back slightly, exposing the elegant line of your throat. Ari can't resist—he leans forward to press his lips against your pulse point, feeling it race beneath his mouth. His teeth graze the sensitive skin there. Not a claiming bite—not yet—but the promise of one.

"A-Alpha," you gasp, forgetting his instruction to use his name in the haze of your building climax.

Ari doesn't correct you. There's something primal and satisfying about hearing his designation on your lips in this moment of abandon. His own arousal is painful against the confines of his pants, but he ignores it, focused entirely on your pleasure.

His hand tightens on your hip, urging you on, his other hand sliding from your back to slip beneath the neckline of your dress, exploring the soft skin he finds there.

Your movements become frantic, chasing the release that hovers just out of reach. Ari slides one hand between your bodies, pressing his thumb against the exact spot where you need it most, even through the fabric of your underwear.

"Let go," he commands, his voice a low growl. "Show me."

Your rhythm falters as pleasure overtakes you. Your thighs tighten around his, your fingers digging into his shoulders as your body shudders with release. A broken cry escapes your lips, raw and unfiltered.

Ari watches, transfixed, as you come apart for him. The sight of your genuine pleasure, the sounds you make, the scent of your arousal—it all combines to stoke his own desire to nearly unbearable levels. His hardness presses insistently against his pants, but he makes no move to seek his own release. Not yet.

As the aftershocks subside, you slump slightly against him, your breathing ragged, your forehead resting against his shoulder as your body continues to tremble with aftershocks.

"Beautiful," he murmurs against your hair, his hands still gripping your hips.

In one fluid motion, Ari lifts you from his lap. His movements are controlled yet urgent as he lowers you to the plush carpet. Your dress has ridden up around your waist, and he takes a moment to appreciate the sight of you—flushed, disheveled, still trembling slightly from your release.

"That was just the beginning," he murmurs, his voice deep with promise as he positions himself between your thighs.

His fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear, sliding them down your legs with deliberate slowness. The garment is damp with evidence of your arousal, and Ari inhales deeply, his pupils dilating at your scent.

"Perfect," he whispers, mostly to himself.

He spreads your thighs wider, exposing you completely to his gaze. He can see the mixture of anticipation and interest as Ari lowers himself, planting his shoulders between your legs. He senses his intentions are in no way unwelcome, but not what you were told to expect. His breath ghosts over your sensitive flesh, already swollen and slick from your previous climax. The first touch of his tongue against you sends a jolt through your entire body, your back arching involuntarily off the carpet.

"Ari," you gasp, forgetting formality as sensations overwhelm you.

He hums against you, the vibration adding another layer to the pleasure coursing through your body. His technique is methodical yet intuitive – exploring, learning, cataloging every response. When his tongue circles your clit and your thighs tremble, he takes note. When he flattens his tongue against you in a broad stroke and you whimper, he files that information away too.

"You taste even better than you smell," he murmurs against you, his voice rough with desire.

Your hands flutter uncertainly before settling on the carpet beside you, fingers curling against the plush rug.

Ari shifts his approach, abandoning the methodical exploration in favor of something more primal. His movements become unhurried, indulgent—almost worshipful as he parts your folds with his fingers and drags his tongue through your wetness with deliberate slowness. The meticulous pace makes every sensation more acute, more overwhelming.

You gasp as he laps at you with broad, leisurely strokes, and he knows his beard is creating a delicious friction against your sensitive skin - he’s looking forward to seeing the evidence later. His technique is less precise now, messier. He's savoring a feast rather than executing a strategy. Slickness gathers at the corners of his mouth, but he’s unconcerned, focused entirely on drawing out your pleasure.

"Please," you whisper, the word escaping before you can contain it.

He glances up, meeting your eyes over the landscape of your body. His mustache is slick with your arousal, his eyes dark with desire. "Please what?" he murmurs against your inner thigh, his hot breath teasing you.

You struggle to articulate what you need, your training suddenly inadequate for this unexpected experience. "More," is all you manage.

A low chuckle rumbles through him, vibrating against your core. "Like this?" He seals his lips around your clit and sucks gently, his tongue flicking against the sensitive bundle of nerves with precision.

Your back arches off the carpet, a strangled cry escaping your throat. Your hands move instinctively to his head, fingers threading through his dark hair. For a moment, you freeze, but Ari responds by pressing closer, encouraging your touch.

He slips one finger inside you, careful to maintain the barrier of your virginity while still providing the pressure and fullness he knows your body craves.

"That's it," he murmurs against you, feeling your inner walls begin to flutter around his finger. "So responsive.”

He adds a second digit, and his fingers continue their teasing exploration, never quite breaching you but applying just enough pressure to make you ache for more. All the while, his tongue works against your sensitive bundle of nerves with deliberate, focused attention.

Your hips begin to rock against his face, seeking more pressure, more friction, more of everything he's giving you. He responds by increasing the intensity, his tongue circling your clit with relentless precision while his fingers press deeper, stretching you without breaching that final barrier.

"Ari," you gasp, your voice breaking as the tension coils tighter. "I can't—"

"You can," he growls against your sensitive flesh. "Come apart for your alpha again."

His tongue flattens against your clit, applying firm, consistent pressure while his fingers curl inside you, finding that perfect spot. The dual sensation shatters you completely. Your release crashes down, your body convulsing beneath him as waves of pleasure radiate outward. Your cry echoes through the penthouse, uninhibited and raw.

As you tremble through the aftershocks, Ari's control finally shatters. With a fluid movement born of years of military training, he flips your limp body over, and he hoists your hips up with powerful hands, positioning you on your knees.

"Present for me," he growls, his voice barely recognizable even to himself, thick with primal need.

Your body responds instinctively to his command, your back arching, hips raising to offer yourself to him. The position is vulnerable, submissive—exactly what your alpha demands.

Ari's hands caress your exposed flesh, appreciating the curve of your spine, the perfect roundness of your ass, the sight of you ready and waiting for him. He quickly unfastens his pants, freeing his straining erection. The cool air of the penthouse against his heated flesh makes him throb with anticipation. He positions himself at your entrance, the blunt head of his cock pressing against and then parting your slick, swollen folds.

"Mine," he growls, the single word laden with possession and promise.

Without further warning, Ari drives forward in one powerful thrust, breaking through your virgin barrier and burying himself to the hilt inside you. The sensation is overwhelming—your tight heat enveloping him completely as your virginity yields to his claiming.

Your cry echoes through the penthouse, a mixture of pain and pleasure. Your body, still limp and sated from your previous releases, offers little resistance to his invasion. Your inner walls stretch to accommodate his considerable size, pulsing around him as your body adjusts to this new intrusion.

Ari remains still for just a moment, his hands gripping your hips with bruising force as he fights for control. The primal part of him wants to rut into you with abandon, to claim and mark and own. But the more controlled part of him—the strategist, the soldier—knows to temper that instinct.

"Breathe," he commands, his voice strained with the effort of restraint. His hand slides up your back to grip the nape of your neck, applying gentle pressure—a steadying, grounding touch.

You whimper beneath him, your body trembling as it adjusts to the unfamiliar fullness. Your inner walls flutter and contract around his length, instinctively trying to accommodate him. The sensation nearly makes Ari lose his hard-won control.

"So tight," he groans, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hip. "So perfect for me."

You whimper beneath him, your body trembling as it stretches to accommodate his invasion. Your inner walls flutter around him, adjusting to his girth, your body producing more slickness to ease his passage.

"Good omega," he murmurs, the praise falling from his lips unbidden. His hands return to your hips, gripping firmly as he begins to withdraw slowly, almost completely, before driving back. Each thrust is measured, calculated to stretch you perfectly while minimizing discomfort. The warrior in him wants to claim you roughly, but the strategist wins out, conquering your body with deliberate precision.

"Alpha," you moan, your fingers curling into the plush carpet beneath you. Your voice carries a note of surrender that satisfies something primal in Ari's core.

His pace increases gradually as your body yields to him completely, your initial discomfort giving way to unmistakable pleasure. Your scent changes, sweetening with arousal, and Ari inhales deeply, letting it fuel his desire.

"You were made for this," Ari growls, his rhythm increasing as he feels your body responding, accepting him deeper, your inner walls gripping him like a silken vice. "Made for me."

Your gasps and whimpers spur him on, each sound a testament to your pleasure. He shifts his angle slightly, searching for that spot inside you that will make you shatter again. When your back arches sharply and a broken cry escapes your lips, he knows he's found it.

"There," he murmurs, satisfaction evident in his voice. "Right there."

He maintains that angle, hitting that perfect spot with each powerful thrust. His hand slides around your body to find your sensitive bundle of nerves, circling it with his thumb in time with his movements. The dual stimulation has you trembling again, your breath coming in short, desperate pants.

"Let go for me again, omega," Ari commands, his voice rough with exertion and desire. "I want to feel you come apart around my cock."

The pressure of his skilled fingers combined with the relentless stimulation of that perfect spot inside you push you over the edge. Your entire body convulses as pleasure crashes through you, more intense than before. Your inner walls clamp down around him in rhythmic pulses, drawing a guttural groan from deep in his chest. Your cries are uninhibited now, echoing through the penthouse as your body surrenders to him entirely.

With a final, powerful thrust, Ari buries himself completely inside you, his body going rigid as his climax overtakes him. His release floods your insides, hot and abundant, marking you from within. His fingers dig into your hips as he holds you firmly in place, ensuring every drop remains inside you.

As the waves of pleasure gradually subside, Ari remains buried deep inside you, leaning forward. His breath comes in harsh pants against your neck, his chest pressed to your back as he covers you completely with his larger frame. The position is intensely intimate, possessive in a way that satisfies something primal in his bones.

For several long moments, neither of you moves, your bodies joined and slick with exertion. Ari's hand slides from your hip to your stomach, splaying his fingers across your abdomen where he can almost feel the evidence of his claiming deep inside you. The thought sends another pulse of satisfaction through him.

"Mine," he murmurs against the shell of your ear, the single word carrying weight beyond its simplicity.

You shiver beneath him, your body responding to his declaration with another small aftershock that ripples around his still-hard length.

With utmost care, he eases out of you, his cock still semi-hard and slick with the evidence of your joining. Satisfaction courses through him as he watches his release begin to seep from your entrance, marking you in the most ancient way.

He will clean you soon, but for now he wants your thighs sticky with his seed, your slickness, and traces of your claimed virginity.

He helps you collapse gently onto the plush carpet. You fold your arms together and rest your head on them, turning your face to your alpha, your body still trembling with aftershocks.

Ari stretches out beside you, propping himself up on one elbow to study your face. His other hand traces lazy patterns on your back, unwilling to break physical contact. Your eyes are half-lidded, your breathing still uneven.

"Are you alright?" he asks, his voice softer now.

You nod, meeting his gaze with a new openness. "Yes, Alpha... Ari," you correct yourself, reconditioning yourself from the instruction you’d surely been given to only call him Alpha. He imagines he will always find satisfaction from both falling from your sweet lips.

He reaches out to brush some hair from your face.

"You're remarkable," he murmurs, his eyes studying your features with newfound appreciation. "I didn't expect..."

You wait for him to finish, but he merely shakes his head slightly, surprised by his own thoughts.

"What didn't you expect?" you press, your voice still slightly breathless.

Ari's thumb traces the outline of your lower lip, his expression thoughtful. "To feel this... connection. This quickly."

The admission is wholly unexpected. He didn’t expect the feeling or to be ready and willing to share it with you, but you seem to be an element weaving itself into his inner alpha.

Your eyes soften at his words, a warmth spreading through them as he continues to hold your gaze. Your hand lifts hesitantly to touch his face, fingers tracing the edge of his beard with unexpected tenderness.

"I feel it too," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "They taught us to expect... many things. But not this."

Ari turns his face slightly to press his lips against your palm, a gesture that feels more intimate than the joining of your bodies moments before. His alpha instincts purr with satisfaction at your admission, at the vulnerability you're willing to show him in return.

The silence between you stretches, comfortable rather than awkward. In this quiet moment, Ari feels something settling into place inside him—a certainty he hasn't experienced before. Outside these walls, he will still become General Levinson, the calculating strategist who helped Barnes conquer a territory, the ruthlessly efficient military leader who will shape and command armies. The world will see the same disciplined, controlled alpha who has built his reputation on precision and detachment.

But here, with you, something different exists. Something private and separate from that external identity.

I know I was just writing a very different Alpha!Ari last week, but IT'S ALPHA APRIL! And I've had this idea swirling in my head or about six weeks. I hope he was satisfying... 😏 There's at least one other alpha I'm going to introduce to this verse very soon.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

#ari levinson #ari levinson smut #omegaverse #ari levinson fanfic #ari levinson x reader #ari levinson x you #ari levinson x yn #ari levinson x y/n #aspen wrote something #alpha ari levinson #fine line collection #alpha april #female reader

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sharedofficespacetexas · 12 days ago

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Creating a Client-Friendly Environment in Executive Office Suites

In today’s business world, delivering an exceptional client experience is just as important as offering a great product or service. Whether you're an attorney, consultant, therapist, or small business owner, the environment you invite your clients into speaks volumes about your professionalism. That’s why more and more professionals are turning to executive office suites to create the ideal client-friendly setting.

The good news? If you're using or considering executive shared office spaces, there are simple and effective ways to make the most of your environment to ensure that your clients feel comfortable, valued, and confident in your services.

Here’s how to build a warm, professional, and inviting atmosphere in your executive office suite.

1. First Impressions Start at the Entrance

Your client's experience begins the moment they walk in the door. A well-maintained lobby, professional receptionist, and welcoming signage set the tone before a single word is spoken.

Most high-quality executive office suites include a staffed reception area, which ensures clients are greeted warmly and directed professionally. This polished entry experience instantly instills trust and credibility something that can’t be replicated in a coffee shop or home-based meeting.

If you're based in North Texas, look for a coworking space in Aubrey TX that offers front-desk service and modern shared spaces to enhance your professional presence.

2. Create a Comfortable and Functional Private Office

Once your clients are in your office, it should reflect your brand and professionalism. Choose décor that is clean, modern, and minimal avoid clutter or overly personal items.

Executive suites for lease often come furnished, but you can add a few touches to personalize the space:

A small plant or artwork to add warmth

A coffee station or water pitcher for hospitality

Branded materials like business cards or brochures

This blend of professionalism and personality makes your shared executive office both client-ready and brand-aligned.

3. Reserve and Optimize Meeting Rooms

Most executive shared office spaces include access to conference rooms or private meeting areas. These are ideal for consultations, negotiations, or presentations.

To make meetings client-friendly:

Book ahead to ensure privacy

Test the A/V equipment beforehand

Provide printed agendas or takeaways

Ensure the room is clean and organized

If your office is located in a shared office space Aubrey facility, take advantage of high-end meeting rooms to impress clients with a seamless, professional experience.

4. Prioritize Privacy and Confidentiality

Trust is a cornerstone of any client relationship, especially in fields like law, finance, and mental health. Your executive office suite should provide acoustic privacy, secure document storage, and lockable doors.

Shared office environments can be professional while still providing confidentiality. Just ensure your space is set up in a way that keeps client information private, and request noise-insulated offices if needed.

5. Offer Small Amenities That Make a Big Impact

It’s the little details that often make clients feel most at ease. Consider:

Offering beverages (coffee, tea, water)

Providing Wi-Fi access for waiting clients

Keeping magazines, local newspapers, or brand brochures in your space

Playing soft background music if appropriate

These simple touches make your executive shared office space feel intentional, warm, and client-focused.

6. Leverage Your Business Address

Professionalism goes beyond your office’s four walls. Use your executive office suite's commercial address on your website, emails, and Google Business Profile. This not only builds trust but also improves your local SEO especially if you're in a competitive area like Aubrey, TX.

Potential clients are more likely to reach out when they see a physical address in a reputable business location, not a residential neighborhood or P.O. box.

7. Be Ready to Scale the Experience

As your client base grows, you might need to scale your space or meeting resources. Luckily, most executive suites for lease come with flexible terms, so you can expand into a larger office, reserve more frequent meeting rooms, or bring in team members without a total overhaul.

Scalability ensures that your client experience remains consistent and polished as your business evolves.

Final Thoughts

Creating a client-friendly environment is more than just clean décor or good coffee it's about delivering professionalism, comfort, and confidence from the moment they arrive. Executive office suites offer the ideal foundation for this level of service, blending top-tier amenities with flexibility and cost-effectiveness.

Whether you're operating from shared executive offices or exploring coworking space in Aubrey TX, every design choice and interaction counts. Make them feel welcomed, secure, and impressed and they’ll keep coming back.

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jamesthomas43024 · 18 days ago

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Premium Executive Suites & Office Space for Lease in Carrollton, TX

Leezaspace offers modern, fully equipped executive suites and executive office solutions in the heart of Carrollton, TX. Designed for entrepreneurs, freelancers, remote workers, and small teams, our flexible office spaces are ideal for businesses seeking a professional environment without the constraints of traditional leases.

Located in a prime business district, our Carrollton TX office space provides a polished, professional image that helps your business stand out. Each suite is thoughtfully furnished and includes high-speed internet, utilities, mail handling, receptionist services, and access to meeting rooms. Whether you’re looking for a single private office or a larger suite for your team, Leezaspace offers scalable options tailored to your goals.

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sasheemo · 7 months ago

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Friday Thoughts

Chapter 1

Word count: 5.3k

Chapter Index

Read on AO3

Four months. That’s how long it’s been since you stepped into the quiet, modern house nestled at the end of a well-kept street. Four months since you met Nicholas, bright-eyed and full of questions, the kind of kid who could win over even the most reluctant babysitter. And four months since you met his mother, Agatha Harkness.

Agatha had been polite, professional, and just distant enough to make her presence intoxicating. At first, you told yourself it was nothing, just admiration for someone so self-assured, so obviously in control of her world. But as the weeks passed, admiration turned into fascination, and fascination into a quiet, gnawing ache you couldn’t shake.

It wasn’t as if the two of you shared many conversations. Agatha kept things brief—efficient, almost clinical. A quick rundown of Nicholas’ dinner preferences and bedtime routine, a reminder to call if anything urgent came up. She never offered more than the bare minimum needed to keep things running smoothly, yet her presence made every exchange feel heavier than it should.

You tried not to think about her too much. Tried to focus on Nicholas, the job, anything else. But ignoring Agatha Harkness was like trying to ignore gravity - inescapable, pulling you in whether you wanted it or not.

It wasn’t just her appearance - though that certainly didn’t help - it was the way she occupied space, commanding attention without effort. The way her gaze would flick to you, sharp and assessing, like she was filing away every detail for later consideration.

And when she left… she didn’t just leave. She left behind. The faint scent of her perfume, rich and warm, clinging to the air long after the door had closed behind her. The lingering echo of her voice, low and smooth, a melody that at times could feel almost too calculated to be accidental.

You told yourself it was nothing. Just a natural reaction to being around someone like her: refined, confident, and utterly out of reach. But the longer you spent in her home, the harder it became to convince yourself of that, especially when so much about her remained shrouded in mystery.

You had no idea what she did for a living, only that it involved late-night calls, countless virtual meetings, a constant stream of emails at all hours, and events that demanded an air of authority as much as they did elegance.

She was always impeccably dressed, whether she was working from home or heading out for an event: power suits tailored to perfection, silk shirts and blouses that radiated precision as sharp as the cut of her blazers, and fitted dresses that looked like they belonged on the cover of a magazine.

She exuded the kind of confidence that made you certain she held a position of influence, something important, something that carried weight. CEO, maybe? Or some high-ranking executive? It would explain the polished demeanor, the frustration that would sometimes edge into her voice during a call you definitely weren’t meant to overhear, and the meticulous organization of her home office.

Then again, she had an air of mystery that didn’t quite fit neatly into the corporate box. She was decisive, yes, but there was something else beneath it, something restrained, like she was only showing a fraction of what she was truly capable of.

You didn’t even know Agatha’s exact age. There were old photos scattered around the house, most of them of Nicholas as a baby, a few of her alongside Rio, her ex-wife. You’d caught glimpses of them during one of Nicholas’ enthusiastic storytelling tangents, the kind of childlike recounting that brought those still frames to life. Rio looked noticeably younger in the pictures, which only deepened the intrigue surrounding Agatha. How old was she? Late forties? Early fifties?

Not that it mattered, or at least… it shouldn’t have. But the more time you spent in her orbit, the harder it became to ignore just how much space she occupied in your thoughts. It was unprofessional, irrational, and entirely out of your control, as if every little detail about her demanded a corner of your attention whether you wanted it to or not.

The first time you met, you’d thought she was intimidating. There was something about the sharpness in her gaze, the way she seemed to size you up as if you were being evaluated for a job far more critical than babysitting.

You’d left the interview certain she didn’t think much of you. But then she’d hired you.

To be fair, you hadn’t exactly taken the job because of your love for children. Babysitting seemed like an easy way to make some extra cash while juggling your morning part-time job. You hadn’t expected to enjoy it, much less grow attached to Nicholas.

But Nicholas wasn’t like other kids. He was curious, creative, and so full of energy that you couldn’t help but be drawn in. He’d ask you about your favorite books, try to teach you the names of constellations from his room, and once insisted on making you a friendship bracelet out of beads and string.

And then there were the quieter moments. Like the time he’d curled up beside you on the couch after a rough day at school, falling asleep mid-sentence while you read his favorite book. Or the time he’d asked, out of the blue, “Do you think my mom gets lonely when I’m at school?”.

You hadn’t known how to answer that one.

Nicholas made the job feel… easy. Comforting, even. But his mother? She made it kind of impossible.

Every time you walked into her home, you’d feel her presence. Not physically, she was rarely around long enough for that, but in the little things she left behind, subtle markers of her existence woven into the very own fabric of the house.

The low hum of her voice drifting from the upstairs study during late-night calls, words too muffled to make out but carrying a cadence of control that made you pause, just to listen. The faint impression of her meticulousness in the perfectly aligned cushions on the couch, the neatly stacked mail on the counter, the absence of even a stray sock or misplaced book.

Then there was the way her heels clicked against the floor when she came downstairs, the sound crisp yet unhurried. She didn’t rush, Agatha Harkness was not the kind of person who rushed. Her movements seemed to shape the rhythm of the house itself, setting a quiet standard for everything and everyone in her space.

Soon, you began picking up on details you had no business noticing. Small, fleeting moments that clung to the edges of your thoughts like whispers you couldn’t quite ignore. Like, the slight smirk she gave when Nicholas said something clever, a mixture of pride and amusement softening her features. Or the way she adjusted her hair when she was stressed, tucking loose strands behind her ear with a practiced motion, revealing the elegant curve of her neck.

And then there were the more unconscious gestures, each one driving you wild in its own very excruciating way. The quiet rhythm of her foot tapping against the kitchen floor when she sipped her coffee between meetings. The faint click of her tongue against her lips when Nicholas tested her patience, a subtle attempt to hold back words she clearly wanted to let loose. The way she stood when she was lost in thought, her arms loosely crossed as one finger absently brushed against her lips, almost as if she was tasting the edge of an unspoken idea.

And her laugh. God, her laugh. It wasn’t often that Nicholas managed to coax it out of her, but when he did, it was warm and rich, a sound that lingered long after she left the room.

Everything about her seemed carefully curated, controlled at all times. And yet, in those instants, you saw something else. A woman who, despite all her poise and precision, carried the weight of something she never let anyone else see.

You weren’t supposed to think about her like this. Not when she was the mother of the child you babysat. Not when every interaction with her reminded you of just how far apart your worlds were. Not when she was so far out of your league, it was laughable.

She is older, accomplished, and entirely unattainable. The kind of woman who probably spends her evenings at upscale dinners or in rooms filled with people who match her level of sophistication. Women who are successful, and as captivating as she is, people she could meet as equals.

And who are you? Someone who stumbles over your words if she so much as glances your way for too long. Someone whose idea of ambition is stringing together part-time jobs to pay the bills.

It isn’t just that she is out of your league, it’s like she is playing a completely different game.

But that didn’t stop your mind from wandering.

You knew it was ridiculous to even entertain the idea of her seeing you as anything more than a babysitter. And yet, in the quiet moments, when her voice lingered in your head or her laugh replayed itself unbidden, the thought of her crept in, no matter how hard you tried to push it away.

It didn’t help that most of the nights you were working at her house were predictable, almost comforting in their routine: dinner, homework, reading or watching a movie with Nicholas. A lovely rhythm, easy and unassuming.

Except for Fridays.

Fridays were different. Fridays were harder. Fridays were the nights when Agatha didn’t stay holed up in her study, immersed in work or late-night calls. No, she would step out in one of her perfectly tailored outfits, leaving behind a quiet hum in the air, like the house itself was holding its breath in her absence.

And like clockwork, every Friday night, when she walked out the door, you’d find yourself wondering. Where was she going? Who was she meeting? What would it be like to occupy even a fraction of her time? Did she let others see pieces of herself you’d only glimpsed in passing? Did she laugh with them the way she sometimes laughed with Nicholas?

The questions gnawed at you in ways you hated to admit, piling up in your mind uninvited and unrelenting, until all you could do was let them sit there, unanswered and far beyond your reach.

“Get a grip.” you mutter to yourself as you approach the house, tugging your hoodie tighter against the evening chill. But you can’t shake the feeling that this Friday, like all the others, will leave you tangled in questions you have no right to ask, about a life that’s so close yet impossibly far away.

When you reach the door, you pause, taking a breath to steady yourself. You knock and when Agatha opens the door, you momentarily forget how to breathe.

She stands before you in a deep navy suit, the tailored jacket hugging her form perfectly, the sharp lines of her trousers elongating her already commanding presence. A delicate gold chain rests against her collarbone, catching the light every time she moves, and her fingers gleam with matching gold rings. Her hair is swept back, leaving a few strands to frame her face, and her pointy black heels click faintly as she steps aside to let you in.

“Evening, hon.” she greets, her voice a smooth hum that settles in the space between you like a low melody. Her gaze sweeps over you, unreadable as always, but you catch it - a flicker of something in the corner of her mouth, an almost-smile that makes your breath catch in your throat.

“Hi.” The word slips out, and you pray she doesn’t notice the slight quiver in your voice. You grip the strap of your backpack a little tighter, as if that will steady you.

Stepping inside and closing the door, you let the familiar warmth of the house wash over you, the faint sound of Nicholas’ laughter from the living room grounding you just enough. You focus on it, using the noise as a lifeline to ignore the way your pulse quickens in her presence.

Agatha moves toward the hall mirror, tilting her head as she checks her lipstick. The movement is casual, something you’ve seen her do countless times in the past months, and yet your eyes are drawn to her like a magnet.

“You know the drill.” she says suddenly, her voice breaking the silence and startling you just enough to snap your attention away. She doesn’t turn, her focus still on her reflection, but her tone commands yours. “Dinner’s already set out for Nicky, and he’s got homework to finish before he’s allowed any TV. I should be back around midnight, but call if you need anything.”

“Got it.” you nod quickly, keeping your response as short as possibile, not fully trusting your voice.

As she turns to reach for her bag, your ‘Friday thoughts’ spill out right on time, tumbling over themselves in a chaotic rush you can’t seem to contain. Your weekly ritual of overthinking, courtesy of one Agatha Harkness.

Where is she going tonight? Another date? She has to be dating. It would explain the Friday nights routine, the flawless outfits, the faint whiff of perfume that lingers long after she leaves. Nobody has ever come home with her or even close to the house in the past months. Does that mean the dates go poorly? Does she cut them short, brushing the other person off with the same composed finality she seems to apply to everything else? Would she even bring someone back here?

Probably not. No, if anything, she’d go to their place. Some immaculate apartment, probably, with clean lines and expensive furniture. Somewhere she could walk in, take control, and leave just as effortlessly when she wanted to.

You shake your head, trying to banish the images from your mind. They always feel so intrusive, like you’re stepping into corners of her life you have no right to imagine.

Agatha’s voice breaks the silence once again, pulling you out of your spiraling thoughts.

“Don’t let him con you into staying up late.” she says, a playful lilt in her tone as she heads toward the door.

Your lips curve in a faint smile as you manage a reply, your voice steadier than you expect. “I’m not so easily corrupted, you know.”

She pauses in the doorway and turns back slightly, her gaze fixated on yours not long enough to offer answers, but just enough to stir more questions.

And then, she’s gone. The front door clicking shut and the soft echo of her heels fading into the night feeling so anticlimactic compared to the storm she leaves behind in your head. You stand there for a moment, staring at the door.

What is it about her that makes you care so much? Why does she take up so much space in your mind when you know, deep down, that you’re nothing more than the babysitter?

But even that thought doesn’t hold. If you’re just the babysitter, then why does her gaze linger more now than it did in the beginning, like a challenge, like she’s daring you to figure her out? Why does it feel like the tension between you has been building over the weeks, simmering beneath the surface, a game you don’t fully understand but can’t help wanting to play?

And why, in those moments, does it feel like she’s not just looking at you, but through you, as if she’s started seeing pieces of you that even you aren’t ready to admit?

It wasn’t always like this. At first, her attention felt brief, almost incidental - a fleeting glance here, a curt smile there. But now, there’s something deliberate about it, something that leaves you questioning everything every time you’re near her.

But that’s all it is: questions. Never answers. And it’s maddening.

The hours pass quietly after Agatha leaves. Nicholas breezes through his homework with minimal resistance, though not without a few dramatic groans and exaggerated complaints. Dinner is uneventful, save for a minor debate over whether carrots are better raw or roasted.

By the time the clock strikes nine, Nicholas is sprawled on the couch beside you, his favorite blanket draped haphazardly across both of you. He’s already halfway to sleep, eyelids fluttering as he fights the inevitable.

“One more movie.” he murmurs, his voice soft and drowsy. “I promise I’ll go to bed right after.”

You tilt your head, arching an eyebrow as you shoot him a skeptical look, the kind of look you’ve perfected over the months, the one that makes him squirm just enough to admit he’s pushing his luck.

He flashes a sheepish grin, clutching the blanket tighter.

You shake your head but don’t press the matter, reaching for the remote to start the movie. He inches closer as it plays on, the way he always does when he’s tired but too stubborn to admit it. You feel the weight of his trust in the quiet way he settles, his breathing growing slower, his eyes fluttering closed more often than they stay open.

As minutes pass, Nicholas’ resolve doesn’t hold. Not even halfway through, his head tips against your arm, his breathing evening out into the quiet rhythm of sleep.

You glance down at him, his small frame curled against your side, and a wave of warmth washes over you at the sight. With a quiet sigh, you adjust slightly, sliding an arm around him. He leans into you instinctively, his trust so natural it tugs at something deep within you. A faint smile touches your lips as you shift your gaze back to the screen.

But your attention falters. The soft hum of the house, the rhythmic flicker of light from the TV, and the quiet cadence of Nicholas’ steady breathing create a cocoon of calm. The atmosphere wraps around you, soothing and lulling, until your eyelids grow heavier with each passing moment.

You try to resist, telling yourself you’ll move in just a minute, maybe two. But before you know it, sleep creeps in.

The soft click of the front door opening stirs you awake a couple of hours later.

For a moment, you lie frozen, still caught between sleep and wakefulness. Then, the faint sound of heels clicking on the floor reaches your ears, steady and unhurried, until Agatha steps into view.

Her suit only slightly rumpled and her hair just a little out of place, as the tired look in her eyes shifts to something softer when she takes in the scene before her.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” she mutters, though her voice carries more amusement than irritation.

You blink, sitting up carefully to avoid jostling Nicholas. “I, uh… he insisted on watching the movie, and I guess…” You trail off, gesturing vaguely at the blanket.

Her lips twitch, hovering on the edge of a smile. “So much for not being so easily corrupted.”

You let out a soft laugh, brushing a hand over the blanket. “I’d say I wasn’t corrupted, I was just… strategically outplayed.”

Agatha lets out a playful scoff before her gaze flicks back to Nicholas, and for a moment, something in her demeanor shifts. The dim light of the living room catches her profile, tracing the delicate lines of her features, fleeting but unmistakably tender.

She crosses the room and kneels beside the couch. With a soft touch, she brushes a hand over Nicholas’ shoulder, murmuring his name in a low, soothing tone until his eyes flutter open. Groggy but obedient, he reaches for her hand, and she helps him to his feet.

You hover awkwardly by the couch, unsure whether to follow or retreat. But when Agatha rises and leads Nicholas toward the stairs, you find yourself trailing behind them instinctively. Agatha walks beside her son, her hand lightly resting on his back, steadying him as he shuffles up the steps rubbing his sleepy eyes.

At the top of the stairs, she pauses in front of his bedroom, guiding him inside. You standing awkwardly by the doorway, caught between the pull of the moment and the nagging sense that you’re intruding on something sacred, watching as she tucks him in.

When Agatha finally steps back, she lets out a quiet sigh, brushing her hand across her son’s hair one last time. She moves toward you without looking, gently nudging the door closed behind her with the faintest click.

For a moment, the two of you remain in the hallway, the silence between you heavy but not uncomfortable. It gives you just enough time to glance down at yourself.

Comfy sweatpants, an oversized hoodie, and the faintest smudge of Nicholas’ dinner on your sleeve - a smudge you hadn’t noticed until now. It’s not awful, not disheveled, but standing next to her, you feel like a rough pencil sketch beside a masterpiece.

There’s no denying it, the gap between you. She’s poised in a way that seems effortless, innate. There’s this weight to her sophistication, not showy but intrinsic, as if it’s simply woven into the fabric of who she is.

It makes you feel impossibly small. A painful reminder that she’s untouchable, a fantasy so far out of reach it feels foolish to even consider.

Agatha leans lightly against the wall, her arms crossing in a way that feels unhurried, almost lazy, a stark contrast to the usual precision she carries herself with. Yet even in this quiet repose, she doesn’t lose an ounce of her commanding presence.

She exhales softly, a subtle sound that fully draws your attention. It’s like she’s letting go of the weight of the night piece by piece, and it feels oddly grounding, a rare glimpse into something unspoken.

“Long day?” you ask breaking the silence, your voice quieter than you intend, almost hesitant.

At the sound, her eyes snap up to meet yours, a flicker of surprise crossing her face as if she’d forgotten you were there. It’s fleeting, quickly masked by a practiced neutrality, but for that brief moment, she looks almost caught off guard, as though your presence is something she hadn’t actually accounted for.

“Longer than it was worth.” she replies, her tone low and even.

You hesitate as the air between you grows thick, pressing down on your chest until, before you can stop yourself, the words slip out.

“Bad date?” they tumble from your lips unbidden, and the moment they’re out, your heart lodges itself firmly in your throat.

For a moment, the hallway feels suspended in time, her gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that has your pulse pounding in your ears. Agatha tilts her head slightly, her eyebrow arching as she studies you, the corner of her lips curving upward - not quite a smile, more a deliberate flicker of amusement.

“Bold of you to assume it was a date.” she says, her voice low and tinged with intrigue, as if daring you to explain yourself.

Your cheeks burn, but you can’t backpedal now. “I mean—it’s Friday, and you looked so—uh, dressed up…”

“Careful, hon.” she interrupts smoothly, her tone laced with teasing. “Flattery will only get you so far.”

You swallow hard, suddenly hyperaware of how her perfume lingers faintly in the air between you. “I wasn’t—I mean, I didn’t mean to—”

Agatha cuts you off with a low, rich laugh, the sound curling around you like smoke, warm and unshakable. It’s the kind of laugh that feels like a statement, as though she knows exactly how flustered she’s made you and isn’t above enjoying it.

She doesn’t say a word, but her gaze stays on you for just a beat longer than necessary, her eyes catching yours in a way that feels way too deliberate. Then, with a grace so effortless it almost feels unfair, she pushes off the wall, brushing past you as she moves downstairs.

You linger for a moment in the hallway, trying to steady your breath after the quiet intensity of the exchange. But when you finally descend the stairs, the soft clink of glass pulls your attention to the kitchen.

That’s exactly where you find Agatha, illuminated by the soft glow of the light above the sink. She’s holding a glass of red wine in one hand, her other arm braced casually on the countertop.

Once again, you find yourself hesitatingly watching her from the doorway. Your gaze settles on her hand, on the way the graceful tilt of her wrist makes the wine swirl in the glass.

“Done sneaking around?” she teases without turning to look at you, her tone low and laced with amusement.

Your cheeks flush, and you step into the kitchen, fumbling for an excuse. “I wasn’t sneaking. I just- wanted to say goodnight before I left.”

She finally turns upon hearing your voice, her eyes catching yours with unsettling ease as she leans lazily against the counter, the glass cradled in her hand. “Isn’t that sweet.” she murmurs, her tone softer, thoughtful. “Almost as sweet as falling asleep on the couch with Nicky.”

Your heart skips a beat.

“It—it wasn’t—” you stammer, trying desperately to find your footing. “He was tired, and I guess I was too. It just… happened.”

Her lips curl into the faintest smile, and she takes a slow sip of her wine, her eyes never leaving yours. “No need to be so defensive.” she says, her voice dipping into something almost indulgent. “It’s a good thing. You’re great with him. Not everyone would be.”

The compliment strikes you square in the chest, and for a second, your brain struggles to process it. Your heart pounds so loudly you’re certain she must hear it. You open your mouth to say something, anything, but your words dissolve under the weight of her gaze. It’s calm and far too knowing for your liking, like she’s pulling apart every layer of you with ease.

And then, just as you think the moment can’t possibly get any more overwhelming, she does something that makes your thoughts screech to a halt.

Her tongue flicks over her bottom lip, unhurried and purposeful, as if savoring the last lingering taste of the wine. It’s a fleeting gesture, but one that feels maddeningly intentional, and the way her eyes darken as they hold yours sends a jolt of electricity straight through you.

As if perfectly aware of the effect she’s having on you, her expression shifts. Mischief crosses her features, the corner of her mouth tilting upward in a way that feels more dangerous than playful.

“Maybe” she says, her tone low, teasing, and just a touch too intimate “I should ask you out next Friday.”

The words land like a thunderclap. Your jaw slackens, your brain completely short-circuits, and you’re sure you’ve just imagined it. There’s no way she just said that.

“I—what?” you manage to stammer, your voice barely a whisper, your pulse now hammering in your ears to the point you fear you’ll grow deaf because of it.

Agatha tilts her head, her expression the picture of innocence, though the gleam in her eyes betrays her. “What?” she echoes, as though she has no idea why you’re reacting this way, casually swirling the wine in her glass like she hasn’t just flipped your entire world upside down.

You blink at her, your thoughts spiraling in every possible direction. There’s no way she means it. It’s a joke. It has to be a joke. But the way her eyes hold yours, the subtle curve of her lips, the raw energy she’s exuding - it all feels so charged, that you can’t help but question everything.

Your breath catches again as her smile deepens, and for a moment, you think she might actually say something else, something that’ll either clarify or completely unravel you.

But instead, she leans back against the counter, watching you with an expression that’s equal parts amusement and intrigue, like she’s waiting to see what you’ll do next.

You can’t move. You can’t think. All you can do is stand there, your thoughts looping in an endless cycle of ‘What just happened? Did I imagine that? What does she mean?’.

“I should, uh… go.” you finally mumble, retreating toward the door as your brain struggles to keep up with your body.

“Of course.” she says smoothly, her tone as composed as ever. And then, as you reach the door, she adds, “Early shift tomorrow, right? Seven, if I’m not mistaken.”

You freeze, your hand on the doorknob, and glance back at her. “How did you—?”

“You mentioned it once, a couple of months ago.” she replies casually, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I tend to remember things like that.”

Her gaze lingers just long enough to make your pulse spike up once again before she finally looks away, taking another sip of her wine. “Goodnight, hon.”

You barely even register the door clicking shut behind you. The night air greets you like a slap, cool against your flushed cheeks, but it does absolutely nothing to steady the whirlwind of emotions spiraling inside you. Your feet carry you forward on instinct, each step heavier than the last as her words loop endlessly in your head.

Maybe I should ask you out next Friday.

The sentence hits like a gong, reverberating through your entire body. She remembered your schedule. Not just vaguely, she knew the exact time your shift starts. And then she said… that.

Was it a joke? A casual tease? A test? A mistake? Was she - no, she didn’t seem drunk.

Your steps quicken, as if you can somehow outrun the storm in your mind, but it’s a losing battle. The echoes of her voice, the deliberate flicker in her gaze, the way she’d licked her lip like she knew exactly what it would do to you. It’s all still there, clinging to you like a second skin.

You stop dead in the middle of the sidewalk, pressing both hands to your head like you can physically stop the spiral. “Nope. Nope. Nope. That did not just happen.” you mutter, your voice growing louder with every word as if volume alone will make it less real. “She’s messing with me. She has to be messing with me.”

But even as you say it, doubt creeps in. You’d thought that before, but it couldn’t all be in your head, could it?

Your hands drop, and you stare blankly at the street ahead, your mind flitting through every possible explanation like a detective unraveling a conspiracy.

‘Ok, so she’s teasing me. No, she’s testing me. No—oh God, what if she’s just bored? What if I’m like, some kind of entertainment for her?’

And then, the most dangerous thought of all slinks into view, unbidden and relentless.

‘What if she wasn’t joking?’

Your knees nearly buckle at the thought, and you force yourself to keep walking, shaking your head like you can physically dislodge the idea.

By the time you reach your door, your heart is still pounding, your face still burning, and your thoughts are definitely still stuck in an endless loop of ‘what the actual fuck just happened?’.

You step inside, kicking the door shut behind you with a quiet thud. The thought of changing or even turning on the lights feels like too much effort, so you head straight to your room. Dropping your bag by the door, you collapse onto the bed face-first, muffling a groan into your pillow.

You let out a long sigh, turning your head just enough to breathe as the pillow muffles the rest of your thoughts. Your body sinks into the mattress, heavy with exhaustion, but your mind refuses to quiet down.

You close your eyes, willing the tension to drain from your shoulders. The weight of her words, of her gaze, of all of the questions. You just want sleep to come quickly and take it all away.

And somehow, after a few restless minutes, it does.

#agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness x you #agatha harkness x fem!reader #agatha x reader #agatha x you #aaa #aaa fanfic #agatha all along #agatha all along fanfic #agatha harkness #agatha coven of chaos

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sophiajones3324 · 2 months ago

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youtube

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executivesuitesintx · 14 days ago

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Office Suites as a Growth Strategy: Scaling Your Business Without Overhead

For ambitious entrepreneurs, startups, and small businesses, scaling is the goal but overhead is the enemy. Traditional office leases often come with long-term commitments, costly buildouts, and fixed square footage that rarely aligns with fast-changing business needs.

That’s where office suites come in. In dynamic hubs like Frisco, Texas, flexible and fully equipped office suites in Frisco are becoming the go-to growth strategy for companies that want to scale smart, not hard. Whether you're looking for a coworking space in Frisco TX, executive suites in Frisco Texas, or private office rental in Frisco, these spaces offer a powerful, low-risk path to expansion.

Let’s break down how modern office suites can help you grow your business without unnecessary overhead.

1. Lower Fixed Costs, Higher Flexibility

Traditional office space leases lock you into multi-year commitments with high upfront costs think furniture, IT infrastructure, cleaning, and maintenance. In contrast, leasing a furnished office space in Frisco through providers like Leezaspace dramatically reduces capital expenditure.

You get a move-in-ready office with amenities included no renovations, no extra utility bills, no stress. This allows you to allocate resources toward hiring, marketing, and innovation rather than overhead.

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One of the most powerful features of flexible office space in Frisco is the ability to scale up or down as your business evolves. Starting solo? Begin with a small business office in Frisco TX. Adding new team members? Upgrade to a larger shared office space in Frisco or even a cluster of executive suites in Frisco Texas.

The right provider will offer seamless transitions so growth doesn’t mean disruption. This eliminates the risk of paying for unused space and enables you to grow at your own pace.

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Your office is a reflection of your brand. Instead of meeting clients at cafés or your home office, a professional office suite in Frisco projects credibility and success.

Modern coworking spaces in Frisco are equipped with stylish furniture, high-speed internet, reception areas, meeting rooms, and kitchen facilities all designed to give you a polished presence at a fraction of the cost of traditional offices. This enhanced image helps attract better clients and talent, which fuels long-term growth.

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With office space for lease in Frisco TX, you get more than just square footage. You gain access to a business ecosystem fully managed and cost-controlled. This often includes:

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By bundling these into one monthly fee, your business becomes more efficient and agile. You no longer have to juggle service vendors or worry about overhead creeping in from multiple directions.

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Today’s professionals value flexibility, design, and location. Leasing a modern coworking space in Frisco Texas in a prime location gives your team access to local amenities, dining, and commuting convenience making you more attractive as an employer.

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executiveofficesuiteblog · 21 days ago

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Why Executive Suites Are a Smart Choice for Medical and Wellness Professionals

For medical, wellness, and mental health professionals, having the right office space can dramatically impact patient experience, workflow efficiency, and business growth. However, committing to traditional, long-term medical office leases often brings unnecessary overhead, inflexibility, and hidden costs.

That’s why more practitioners are turning to executive suites a modern, professional, and adaptable solution. Whether you're a therapist, chiropractor, nutritionist, counselor, or consultant, executive suites Carrollton TX provide the perfect balance of privacy, accessibility, and affordability.

1. HIPAA-Compliant Privacy in a Professional Setting

Private office space Carrollton TX gives wellness professionals a secure, quiet, and private environment, ideal for confidential sessions. Many executive suites are sound-insulated and designed to support discreet appointments, helping you meet client privacy and HIPAA compliance standards.

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Most traditional medical leases require multi-year commitments, which can be risky for growing or solo practices. Flexible office rentals in Carrollton offer month-to-month or short-term agreements, making it easy to adjust your space based on patient load or business changes.

3. Cost-Efficient, All-Inclusive Leasing

With executive office suites for lease, your monthly cost typically includes everything utilities, internet, janitorial services, and front desk support. There’s no need to hire reception staff, invest in infrastructure, or worry about utility bills. This is especially valuable for independent professionals managing their own practice.

4. Prime Location, Professional Appearance

A quality office near a desirable area can elevate your brand. Executive suites located near Castle Hills and other prominent neighborhoods enhance your reputation and make it easy for clients to find you. With executive suites for lease in Carrollton, you get a premium location without the premium price.

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Not every professional needs a full-time office. Some only see clients a few days a week. Executive suites allow wellness providers to lease only the space they need whether it's full-time, part-time, or just certain days keeping costs aligned with actual usage.

6. Shared Amenities That Support Practice Efficiency

Access to waiting rooms, break areas, printing services, and meeting spaces adds convenience to your day-to-day operations. For many medical offices for lease in Carrollton, executive suites offer these amenities in a professional, patient-friendly environment.

7. Grow at Your Own Pace

As your practice expands, you can easily scale up within the same facility. Need another consultation room or administrative office? Executive suites allow you to add space without changing your address or renegotiating an expensive lease.

Conclusion

Whether you're launching a new private practice or expanding an existing one, executive suites Carrollton TX offer a modern, flexible, and professional alternative to traditional office space. With all-inclusive pricing, strategic location, and the ability to grow at your own pace, they’re an ideal solution for medical and wellness professionals who value privacy, professionalism, and freedom.

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makeitworse · 26 days ago

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A YEAR

it’s been a year since you up and left without a word. but your fiancé hasn’t forgotten his end of the promise.

contains: f!reader x chris. exes to lovers. banter. alcohol. some flirting w ode (xdh). resolved tension. angst. light smut. 18+

for the past twenty minutes you’d been honed in your phone, barely blinking as you triple-checked call times, rehearsal slots, timesheets. desperate for anything to busy your mind with, you’d even checked your damn junk mail folder.

you had to clear your head— overwhelm the incoming thoughts with work. but, in preparation of tonight, you’d already gotten on top of all your tasks.

you were almost shivering with anxiety. you could damn near recite the event timetable of the night at this point, and you still hadn’t come up with a believable enough excuse for leaving so abruptly.

the venue outside was buzzing with energy. the hall was massive, illuminated by overhead fairy lights and filled with the low hum of chatter. banners lined the walls— an event commemorating Studio J, the sub-label of JYP Entertainment that you’d found yourself employed under (more like requested, but let’s not dwell on old news).

idols mingled with producers and executives. team members were woven between camera crews and reporters. distantly, an announcer’s voice echoes through a microphone.

you’d been enjoying yourself: glass of rosé in hand, laughing with a smile as you spoke with the boys of xdinary heroes, the group you had been appointed to manage.

that was until you heard a voice point out that the 3racha members had arrived. your breath caught in your throat.

you’d been drowning yourself in work up until the event to smother your anxiety about seeing him again. you promised yourself you’d stay cool, act unbothered, be unbothered. but when faced with the prospect of actually running into him, that thought had hightailed— and before you knew it you were excusing yourself from the circle.

you beelined out of the main venue, headed for the bathroom when you passed by a small, empty office. you’d found yourself settled down on a lounge-chair in there since, bouncing your leg as you endlessly scrolled through your phone.

it was nearing a year from the last time you saw chris. not in person. not since you left.

someone who trained by your side for years, who had your back as you had his. shared dreams in practice rooms and secrets over midnight. beautiful laughter and ugly tears. your best friend, your anchor, and eventually your fiancé.

for all of one month, that is, before you walked away.

a person you once considered to be your other half was now little more than a stranger. it’s kinda funny. it’s kinda fucking sad.

a ping from your phone snaps you back into reality. your head locks into focus, professional— but you sigh when you realise it’s just a notification from the xdh group chat. ode’s had an outfit malfunction, and he’s asking where you are.

hardly an emergency, more so just an excuse to lure you back to his company— but you’ll take the hint. you’re meant to be out there, supporting the boys at their side.

you crack your knuckles, roll your shoulders, and you step into the hallway— holding your breath as you enter back into the organised chaos of the showcase floor.

your eyes dart across the space, frantically taking note of where your boys had ended up (praying you didn’t lock eyes with a specific someone).

gunil and jungsu were leaning at the bar, chatting with someone from the studio team. jooyeon had his hands in a bag of chips, talking the ear off of a journalist with gaon standing beside him, nonverbal. junhan was seated on his own, one airpod in as he sipped from a wine flute, nodding in acknowledgement when he saw you.

you’re always quick to spot your boys amongst a crowd. you’ve adjusted to the chaos of managing a rock band; thrived in it, even. you were constantly running around after them— from schedules to setlists, from interviews to injuries. and you were damn good at it.

they loved you. the studio had faith in you to be in charge of managing the group. and it certainly didn’t hurt that you were a gorgeous, single woman around their age.

after you help ode out, you could probably ask to go somewhere quieter with him. you’re in need of another drink yesterday.

before your eyes can scan the venue again to find him, there’s a voice at your shoulder: smooth with a teasing edge.

“took you long enough,”

you jump slightly at the breath fanning your skin, whirling around to face ode. his lip curls into a playful grin.

“where’d you run off to? i was starting to worry.”

you cross your arms over your chest, your eyes darting over his body to check for the supposed ‘malfunction’. you raise a brow at him.

he opens his hand to a prada chain sitting in his palm. you click your tongue.

“you asked for me by name because your necklace came off.”

he chuckles. you can’t help yourself to smile, either. “guilty.”

he steps just a bit closer, holding his hand out to you. you roll your eyes, just to play into it— but you take the chain anyways, fingers sliding over his open palm.

your jaw tightens, equal parts amusement and caution, as your hands raise the chain to his shirt collar. he’s warm to the touch. you loop it around the back of his neck, softly chewing your lip as you clipped it on. you meet his stare, instantly noting how his mouth parted in a sigh.

“i’m your manager, not a babysitter.”

“difference is?”

your hands lingered at his chest, fingertips buzzing. you’ve always had a fondness for ode. he’d been such a good distraction from..

“i don’t think we’ve been introduced, miss.”

a voice cuts in— startling, yet uncomfortably familiar.

you should’ve known not to look.

“mind if i take her from here?”

one glance at chris was enough before you downturned your gaze, retracting your hands from ode at an alarming haste. you caught how his mouth was curved in that polite, all-knowing smile— all the things he could reveal about you on the tip of his tongue. it had your blood buzzing with adrenaline, but you bit the inside of your cheek to not cuss him out in front of everyone.

ode, albeit confused, passed you off to chris with the promise that he’d find you again later. you nod at him with a tight smile as he walks off— completely oblivious to your impending doom.

asking for a transfer to Studio J had bought you a year without having to face him, to explain yourself — but it seems after all this time he’s still taking the chance to corner you. enjoying it, even.

“come here often?”

you pick at your nails, craning your neck to stare anywhere in the room but him, searching for a server to beckon over.

“you should know that ignoring me doesn’t work.” you can hear the smirk in his voice.

you give him what he wants, turning your head to actually look at him. the words almost catch in your throat when your eyes land on his face. fuck.

“what do you want?” you sound unsure of yourself— not as firm as you intended. you cough, self-conscious. he just chuckles.

“missed you too,”

“fuck off, chris.”

“hey,” he pouts, playfully— annoyingly, then flashing his teeth in a smile. “play nice.”

his gaze drifts off, something behind you grabbing his attention. distantly, you feel an odd ache at his stare leaving you; you can’t help but wonder what caught his eye over you. you quickly swat those thoughts away like pests.

chris nods towards someone, raising a hand in a small wave. you turn, and spot the woman waving back. there’s a feeling you don’t want to name simmering under the surface just before you recognise her as a journalist from Dispatch. you remember having a conversation with her at some other event like this.

you’re so preoccupied with racing thoughts that you nearly forget to acknowledge her with a smile before you turn back to chris.

“what do you think she’ll write?” he quips, smirking with his tongue in cheek. he’s eyeing you curiously— almost uncertain.

you tilt your head, gaining the confidence to hold his gaze, daring him to look away first.

“hm,” you make a show of shifting your weight, placing your hand on your waist. his eyes follow your every move. “stray kids’ bangchan approaches woman who’s clearly uninterested.”

he nods along, humming. “how about mr. and mrs. bahng reunite?”

you scoff. “i wouldn’t take your last name.” you say, before you think— then chris’s smile cracks into a smirk.

“oh, i thought it was over?”

you have to clench your jaw till your teeth are about to shatter. chris watches you, a laugh almost escaping him. he’s living for this shit.

you cross your arms. “i’ll call for someone.”

he simply shrugs. “i can fight.”

your neck cranes forward, eyeing him like you’re silently asking if he’s fucking serious. when he doesn’t let up, you roll your eyes.

“okay. fine. but i’m getting a drink.”

you walk off, starting towards the bar— and for a moment you feel almost worried he’ll just stay there. but he follows shortly after.

“i should probably stay by you,” he says, dipping his head close to your shoulder. “make sure no men approach you when you’re clearly uninterested.”

you keep your gaze forward, tossing up a response before you settle on not answering. you won’t give him the satisfaction of getting any further under your skin.

you announce your presence to the bartender by slapping the counter. some heads turn, but you don’t care.

“tequila shot, please.” your voice goes breathy at the end, almost like you’re pleading.

“two.” chris hums from beside you. he flashes a smile when you narrow your eyes at him. “so, how’ve you been?”

you stifle a scoff. it’s almost infuriatingly casual. he’s acting like you didn’t ghost him after he got on his knees with a ring. you suppose you don’t have a right to complain— you would’ve put him through hell.

you sigh. “well, i work my ass off all day, running around after my boys.”

he hums in response. “xdinary heroes?”

you nod, and try to brush the comment off. of course he’d been keeping tabs on you. “—but i can’t complain. i’m in love with the job.”

“that’s really good to hear! you should feel proud.” he’s smiling at you, full of such warmth and kindness and something you’d rather not name. maybe it was just the remnants of what once was.

your attention turns to the bartender sliding the shots on the counter. you’re quick to grab yours, about to chuck it back when chris halts you with a soft hand on your forearm. you do a double take at it.

he raises his shot glass to you. “cheers?”

you hold your own up, not tapping his just yet. “what are we drinking to?”

he’s still smiling, but his lips press together firmly, and you catch an almost imperceptible flex of his jaw. “us.”

there’s a beat of silence— during which you run through all the different possibilities of responses. you consider tossing the shot in his face, or just flatly saying “no” and drinking it anyways. but you do neither.

you don’t know what you’re meant to say, so you say nothing; the only sound is the small clink of your glass on his before you chuck the shot back down your throat.

you’re a bit more eager with yours— the liquor flares in your chest, and you’re coughing till your eyes water. chris is there in an instant, a careful hand on your back, face dipping close to yours as he asks if you’re okay. you nod, hurriedly, unable to say with words for him to back the fuck up.

but he’s still there, brows pinched with worry, palm rubbing reassuring circles onto your back. his heavy breath fans your face— you can’t tell if it’s just because he’s concerned. you hope it’s not what you think.

you don’t know if it’s just the aftershocks of the tequila that compels you to say: “why are you here?”

chris’s body stills. he smiles, gives an uncertain laugh. “well, 3racha’s under Studio J—”

“—no, with me. why do you still want to be around me?”

his hand falters from your back. he shifts his weight, gaze falling from your face in thought before he looks back up again. you almost can’t hold it.

“why wouldn’t i want to?”

you face away from him, turning to watch the dance-floor. you let his words settle between you. you were so sure he just wanted to see you writhe, watch you panic as your karma catches up to you. you wouldn’t blame him one bit. but that’s not who chris is— you should know that.

it’s just easier, to think that he’d hate you for it. you’d have that in common. if he doesn’t, where did that leave the past year?

“i meant it,” he continued. you gulp, keeping your gaze forward. “when i said forever.”

the music blends into a slow tune. guys offer ladies their hand, couples put their arms around each other and sway along.

you can see chris’s hand in the corner of your eye— he’s holding it out to you, just barely keeping himself still.

it’s all too much.

you’re walking off without sparing him another glance, not listening as he calls after you. your eyes find a balcony, wading through the crowd with a determined glare.

you let out a heavy breath as you push past the glass door, throat constricting with a sob. you consider the urge to scream out at the horizon. but then you hear the glass slide open behind you.

chris calls your name. it’s soft. far from upset. you don’t get it. “are we really not going to talk about it?”

you bit the inside of your cheek. “that was the intent, yeah.”

you hear him sigh behind you. and then his footsteps slowly closing in. you hold your breath until he appears in your peripheral, staring out into the sky with you. when you see him face you, it takes everything in you to keep a poker face. your knuckles turn white as you grip the balcony railing.

his voice is calm, quiet. “where’d you go, baby?”

you sigh. it’s time to stop outrunning it, then.

“we’re young, chris. you’re an idol.” when you face him, you almost want to take the words back. his eyes are searching, pleading nearly. you’re not fully getting across to him. “you don’t need a burden like me. enjoy the fame.”

you give him a reassuring smile, as if to say you’ve made peace with the idea. you had far too many fears while wearing that ring on your finger. would he still remember where home is when he’s touring the world? would he still pick you amongst a crowd all competing for his attention?

you didn’t want to stick around to find out. it’s why you left— saves you both the trouble.

chris’s jaw hardens. you prepare for him to agree with you, to understand where you’re coming from. but his hand inches closer to yours on the railing.

“how could the woman i love be a burden?”

you shake your head, muttering a “don’t” as you chew your lip. you try to turn away from him, but he’s there, leaning after you.

“i held out hope, you know. since you never called it off.” his voice treads lightly, like you’re a deer that might run off from a branch snap. “the engagement.”

he always sees right through you. you felt naked. vulnerable. sometimes it felt liberating, to be understood to the marrow by another human being. and other times it was dangerous.

“do you still have the ring?” he tries to keep his tone even, but his own body betrays him— voice shaking with uncertainty ever so slightly.

of course you still had it. you couldn’t bring yourself to chuck it out— just hid it in a box in the back of your closet where it’s been collecting dust since. the thought behind it meant more than you’d admit to yourself.

“stop that.” you murmur.

chris dares to glide his fingers over your knuckles. you don’t budge. “stop what?”

“making me think about going back to you.”

chris chuckles— laughs with his whole damn chest. this smug, handsome, thorn in your side.

“is it working?” he slips his hand at the small of your back, just gently to test the waters. when your hands come off the railing, he turns you to face him by the waist. you cross your arms over your chest with a glare, not giving in fully just yet.

he’s looking back at you with eyes full of stars. he tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “you’re so cute when you’re mad.”

you place a hand on his chest, feeling the thudding of his heart under your palm. he sucks in a breath through his nose, lips parted with uncertainty. gaze heavy.

“you still want me, honey?”

your voice is dripping with charm, but there’s more to your words than just that. you need to hear him say it. you need to know, if this is what you’re really doing.

“the ring’s not just for decoration, baby.” his hand comes to hold your jaw, thumb tracing over your cheek. he’s practically already kissing you with his eyes. “you’re all i want for the rest of my life.”

your fingers curl around his tie, pulling his body flush against yours as you steal his breath in a kiss. chris’s hands are placid at first, just light on the sides of your body. but when you roll your hips against him, he groans down your throat— grip tightening as he presses you against him.

your hands thread through his hair, kiss deepening with your tongue teasing his. chris is eager now, his palms roaming over your curves as he elicits little mewls from your mouth.

lost in the haze, you rock against him, and (perhaps unintentionally) he bucks his hips back— his dick digging between your thighs through the layers of fabric. he whispers “missed you so much,” on your lips— and that’s when you pull away.

you’re still very much at an industry event.

shame washes over you like a tidal wave. you wipe the saliva from your chin— lips swollen from the force of chris’s kisses. he chuckles shyly, rubbing the back of his neck. your eyes dart down, taking note of his (what must be) painfully hard erection.

“your body hasn’t forgotten me, huh?” you tease, straightening up your clothes.

chris readjusts the front of his slacks— to little avail. you giggle. he shakes his head, flustered. “how could i?”

you fix up his tie, brush through his hair. “let’s get this over and done with. then we’ll continue this later, yeah?”

chris flashes you one last smile, opening the door for you to enter first. he can’t help himself to a light slap as you walk in.

you’re sure there must’ve been photos taken with shaky hands, or anonymous emails sent to media outlets. but that’s just what’ll come with this life, dating an idol. and you’re in this together: husband and wife to be.

note: i’m so sleepy pls ignore any mistakes lol

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