Summary: Agnes is set to be recognized for her work on a case, but getting her to the event leads to some... unexpected circumstances.
Ao3 + Part 1
Words: 10.6k
A/N: An enormous thank you to my beautiful beta readers; @saphiccarma , @louisaa-a , and @harknessshi who were kind enough to take their time and read over this for me!!!
Included: Established relationships, G!P, daddy kink, mommy kink, hand jobs, begging, dom/sub, kink exploration, car sex, accidental stimulation, accidental drug use, dirty talk, humiliation, possessive sex, porn with plot.
With sleep still clouding every corner of your mind, you sigh, trudging down the stairs.
The to-do list sits empty, which in theory allows for more time to relax; but relaxation often turns to boredom, and you find yourself missing Agnes. You sigh again as you aim for the kitchen, passing the living room.
Three steps past the living room you pause.
You know every inch of your home top-to-bottom, down to the scuffs on the baseboards from Agnes kicking her shoes into them—which is why you know the dark mass sitting on the couch shouldn’t be there. You back up and blink at the sight of your wife.
She’s clad in a flannel shirt and boxers, hair a frizzy halo around her head. Her glasses threaten to slide down her nose as she stares down at the pages of a book.
“You’re home today?” You ask.
“Chief told me to leave, take a ‘well deserved break.’” Agnes scoffs, not looking up from her book, “Just because we wrapped that case yesterday doesn’t mean there aren’t others.”
“True. But you can look at the others with fresher eyes if you rest.”
“If I didn’t know better I’d say you were conspiring with him. He said the same thing.”
“Common sense for those who believe in work-life balance.” You smile, crossing to the couch and sitting down, leaning into her, “What are you reading?”
An arm loops around you, pulling you more firmly into her side. Long fingers brush against the exposed bit of flesh on your side. Warmth radiates from her and you cuddle into every bit of contact she offers. The sigh that leaves you this time is pleased—dreamy.
Agnes switches to reading the book aloud. Yet you’re not paying attention to the words, but rather, her voice; the gravelly note in it as she keeps her voice low in the peace of the morning, how it speeds up and slows at different intervals depending on how eager she is to see what happens next. Head resting on her shoulder, you take in all of her with so much affection it could make you sick.
Like the details of your home, you know every contour of Agnes’ face as if you possess a map. You know every wrinkle and smile line, the subtle freckles that become brighter in the summer. If she’d let you, you’d kiss every mark on her face a dozen times over.
Instead, you settle for tracing your finger down the length of her nose. She pauses.
“What are you doing?” She asks.
“Admiring.”
Hesitation, then she shrugs it off, “Okay.”
She begins to read again, mouth twitching with a grin when you trace the sensitive spots of her skin. It makes you grin. Faintly, you have the thought of hooking a finger in her mouth to see how she’d react, but you’re enjoying the comfort of being near her too much.
Her lashes flutter when she blinks behind her glasses. The muscles in her jaw work double-time when she reads faster. You drag your finger along said jaw with agonizing tenderness.
Tenderness that fills you so fully you can’t keep silent any longer, murmuring, “My handsome girl.”
She swallows roughly.
“What is your deal?”
“I told you,” you smile, leaning in to kiss her jaw, “I’m admiring.”
“You’re distracting.”
“Part of my job, sorry.”
“Don’t remember that being in the vows.”
“If I remember correctly, you don’t remember any of the vows—your focus was on the wedding night. As if we’d never had sex before.”
Agnes barks out a laugh, “A lot of you was on display, what else could I focus on?”
“How much you love me, for starters.” You pout.
At the sight of your expression, Agnes rolls her eyes, the hint of a grin still pulling at the edges of her oh-so-kissable lips.
“That’s what the rest of our lives were for.” She waves you off, “The wedding night had its own purpose.”
“Loving and fucking can and do exist at the same time, you know.”
“You don’t say.”
You don’t dignify the comment with anything beyond a petulant huff.
Like a cat sure of their rightful spot, you curl back into your wife’s side as if you own the space; as if the curve of her body was molded to match your own. The length of a strong shoulder plays the part of your pillow.
Agnes’ fingers twitch around her book. She resumes reading, silent this time.
The allure of sleep still beckons with a convincing hand. Your eyelids droop—but though you may close them, sleep does not come. You alternate between opening them to make a half-hearted attempt at reading the pages and letting them slip closed on the hope of slipping away. Similar fatigue plagues the whole of your body.
A bird calls outside. There’s a brush against your foot as Scratchy hops by.
The lingering notes of Agnes’ cologne tickle your nose. You press closer—as if it’s possible— wanting to drown yourself in the scent, in her. She huffs a near-silent laugh.
Your stomach growls. It squeezes, searching and desperate. You should make something for the two of you, but that requires moving away, and you’d rather cut off your own hand than do that right now.
But the noise doesn’t escape your wife’s notice, “Let me finish this chapter and I’ll make breakfast.”
A simple, innocuous statement; yet it turns your heart to liquid.
Before Agnes, how many times did you trudge through the day, ignoring your own needs due to your exhaustion? How many past partners had cared enough to put their tasks on hold to do something like make you breakfast?
The offering doesn’t surprise you; you’ve been together too long—but in the silence, you’re painfully aware of a time where the idea of anyone caring felt impossible. You had only let yourself imagine someone like Agnes in the dead of night, where the lack twisted in your chest. And you had given up on ever finding what you needed… until she walked into your life and shook the foundations of what you knew to be true.
The affection and gratitude gnaws at your insides, desperate to be expressed. How do you express the gravity of a love like yours? How do you explain to Agnes the way she makes you feel without her waving you off, unwilling to hear praise?
Without a word, you spit in your palm and slide it past the waistband of her boxers.
Agnes jolts when you take her in hand. Her fingers press indents into the pages, eyes wide and searching your face for a hint of explanation.
“Keep reading.” You say, with more force than intended.
You’re stunned when she does so without argument.
Pages turn, minutes pass. You listen to how her breathing changes as your hand works over her length, varying your strokes, paying attention to what makes her hips twitch. The change is slow—gradual, the sun changing position as you bring Agnes’ cock to wakefulness.
You don’t mind the time it takes; allowing you to revel in the closeness, breathing in the scent of her and embracing her warmth as she slowly grows hard in your palm.
Every now and again, you’ll tilt your head back to admire her side profile again—the subtle pucker of her lips, her darling cheekbones, the beautiful meandering outline of her nose. You want to show her love so overwhelming that she never doubts her beauty again. You want to smother her in it. You want to sink your fucking teeth into her.
Agnes inhales sharply when you squeeze, sitting up a bit straighter. You smile into the skin of her neck at how hard she’s growing, and how with every minute that passes she loses control over her focus.
“Baby.” She whispers, pleading.
A strange desire for a different title comes to life in the back of your mind. You shove it down.
“Keep reading, Agnes.”
A throaty whine. You like watching her try to do what you ask, but you want to see her squirm more. You nip at her neck.
“You’re so perfect.” You whisper, hand stroking faster, “And all mine.”
Though Agnes’ eyes are focused on the book in her white-knuckle grip, they don’t move across the page. Her chest rises and falls, hips twitching as she bucks into your palm. A thin sheen of sweat clings to her temples.
When you run your thumb over the head of her cock, she whines, thrusting up.
“So responsive, aren’t you?” You run your tongue along the shell of her ear, “So needy for more of me around your cock. You just can’t get enough.”
The flutter of pages and a clatter as her book hits the floor. Head thrown back, she squeezes her eyes shut, throat bobbing. Slowing the movement of your hand, there’s a rush of heat between your legs at her pitiful little noises. God she’s fucking perfect.
Her cock throbs as you drag your hand over every tense inch. Fist so loose you’re hardly making contact, Agnes’ hand seeks your own; gripping you around the wrist and tightening the grip for you, fucking herself into the warmth of your palm.
That won’t do.
Extracting yourself entirely, you tsk, “I didn’t say you could touch.”
Agnes’ head rolls in your direction. Shadow falls over her face, her eyes darker for it. Pink and red paints an enchanting vision over her flesh. You resist the urge to give in and give her your cunt—because then she won’t learn, will she?
“Baby,” she grits out, jaw tense, “don’t tease.”
“I wouldn’t have to if you’d behave.”
“I’m not a fucking dog.”
“Oh?” Your head tilts. Her cock is pressed against the front of her boxers and you trace your finger along the outline of her, “But I thought you liked being a good boy.”
A violent throb beneath your touch. Her hands clench in the couch cushions.
“God.”
You bring your ghosting touch up to her throat. Sweat clings to your fingertip as you dip along the sharp structures of her physique. An idea pops into your head that has you clenching your thighs.
“Maybe I should put a collar on you. You’ll never forget who holds your leash if you’re wearing my name around your neck.”
“Fuck no.”
Agnes twitches.
You laugh—a mean sound that you don’t entirely recognize coming from your mouth. Oh. The sound of your own twisted confidence and the power wrapped within only deepens the heat between your thighs.
“No?”
A dangerous note lingers in your voice. Agnes—whether not noticing or not caring—snarls.
“No.”
“What a shame.”
In a beat, you’re gone; off the couch and out of her reach. You crouch to pick up her book and look up through your lashes. Agnes swallows, eyes blown out, cock straining enough that she must be in some kind of pain.
The weak, pleading look on her face has been replaced by something harder—the veneer of Detective O’Connor, who spits in the face of higher forces and never once stops to ask for forgiveness. Your mouth feels too full; your tongue desperate to trace along the hard line of her jaw and into the divots of her collarbones, the press of bone firm against your soft appendage.
You love her in power and control, but you want the glimpse caught in her office on Christmas Eve—you want her so desperate she’ll humiliate herself for a touch.
With a sweet smile, you throw the book into her lap, “Have fun with your hand.”
A brief glimpse of her shock makes you shiver with satisfaction. You’ve never walked away, never denied either of you; you’re the desperate one, willing to do any degrading little thing she suggests if it means she’ll take you.
You’re not sure where this desire to dominate has been hiding, but god if it isn’t delicious.
A step away from leaving the room, her raspy voice calls, “Wait.”
“Yes?”
“Don’t… Don’t leave me like this.”
Leaning against the doorway, you laugh, “I’m not taking orders.”
“Come on, baby,” She says, in a near-whine, “I don’t want my hand.”
“You want mine?”
For flair, you hold yours up, wiggling your fingers with a raised brow. She stares and gulps. Then, she nods.
“Words, Agnes.”
“Yeah. Yes.”
You step back into the room with an expression of faux-sympathy. But instead of returning to the couch where she waits, hard and wanting, you sink into the armchair at the edge of the room. The cushions caress your form without fuss. You sink deeper, getting comfortable.
Agnes' eyes haven’t left you for a moment—good. You fold one leg over the other and finally meet her gaze.
“You’ll have to come over here and earn it.”
She’s up from the couch in less than a second. Her feet wobble beneath her, but she’s so eager that the questionable footing doesn’t stop her.
You hold up a hand.
Agnes stops.
“Crawl.”
Her teeth make an appearance, lip curling. You brace for a mouthful of venom as you prod at the pride she protects so viciously—but Agnes sinks to her knees.
You feel as if you’re watching the scene in slow motion. Agnes crosses the space on all fours, hair obscuring her features, even as her eyes never leave your own—not even when the sharp rays of sun sneak through the slats of the blinds and light directly on the electric-blue orbs. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips.
Desire churns and makes you clench. The emptiness between your legs is so prominent that it’s painful. You want her inside you, but you have all day.
When Agnes reaches you, there’s a split second where she looks unsure, hands twitching in front of her as she tries to decide what to do with them. You wait. Even if you’re enjoying holding all the power, you love how she surprises you.
Agnes’ eyes leave you as she bends, pressing her lips to the sensitive skin of your ankle.
“My angel.” She murmurs, alternating to the other side, “My love.”
It’s a slow ascent. She’s taking her job seriously—worshipping every inch of you on her way up to the space between your legs, murmuring words of devotion and praise in a voice so reverent it almost feels out of place; you are the offering upon the altar she kneels before, and she’ll do whatever is required to demonstrate her piety.
Your chest is heaving by the time her lips make it to your inner thighs. How unfair, how so like her to steal the power back by completely surrendering herself to you—tears prick at your eyes, your body searching for a way to release all this emotion inside.
You have never loved or trusted anyone like her. You want to fucking ruin her for it.
Before she can reach your covered center, you weave a hand in her hair and yank her head back. She groans. The sound makes you clench. But it’s nothing compared to how she looks up at you.
The heart in your chest squeezes, you whisper, “Perfect.”
She bristles like the words are an insult. You don’t give her time to argue, leaning down to capture her lips. Your tongue sweeps across them and into her mouth with a desperation that makes your heart race—the need to taste her, to taste your flesh upon her, drives you to near-madness.
When you pull back a thin web of spit connects you and you lick it from where it meets her bottom lip.
Unyielding, you grip her jaw in a hand, and stare into her eyes, “Who do you belong to, Agnes?”
A beat.
“You.” She breathes.
It takes everything in you to keep your eyes from rolling back in your head.
“Stand up.”
Agnes does as you command as quickly as she can manage. You tamp down on your giggle when her knees crack, but you know she can see the amusement in your eyes; a matching look in her own.
Said look fades when you remove your sleep shirt and yank her boxers down.
The cold air of the room pebbles your nipples. From her position above you, Agnes licks her lips. You take her cock in hand once more and she throbs; no matter who is in control, she loses it seeing you beneath her.
You squeeze. Her hips thrust forward.
“Don’t tease, angel.” She begs.
“Behave and I won’t have to.”
Punctuating the statement with a firm stroke cuts off any arguments. Pretty blue eyes roll right back in her head, her hips moving, seeking more—soft little pants leaving her in place of words.
It’s not going to take long to make her cum.
When your hand falls into the rhythm that best suits, your mind begins to wander; it feels nice to touch her, taking your time—you’ve both found yourselves so caught up in life as of late that sex was a collection of frantic movements between tasks. Not that it was ever bad sex. But there’s something special about having time to tease and draw out the actions.
How fortunate you had no plans today.
You’re going to take your time and worship her like she worships you. You’re going to familiarize every inch of Agnes’ body with your tongue; imprinting her taste until it’s all you hold in your mouth. By the time you’re finished, every inch of her will shake at the reminder of how good you make her feel.
Looking up through your lashes, that warm devotion in your chest expands until it’s hard to breathe. Her hand digs into your shoulder as she thrusts, eyes closed, completely trusting you to hold her steady.
You push up the bottom of her shirt and press kisses to the soft skin of her stomach. Her hips stutter for a moment and you feel her tense, fighting her desire to check on you. But that isn’t what you want; you want her to take, to enjoy without guilt or worry.
“Who do you belong to?” You repeat, speeding up your movements.
Faintly, you remember why you don’t use your hand very often; your wrist hurts.
A choked gasp, “You.”
“Yeah you do.” You smile, bolstered by her affirmation, “Every inch of you is mine—mine to love, mine to cherish, mine to break. And I’m going to break you, baby. I’m going to fuck you until all you can do is pant like a fucking dog.”
Agnes keens. Her chest is rising and falling so fast you worry she might hyperventilate, but she doesn’t once stop moving, fucking into your hand while whimpers of “yours, all yours” leave her lips. The power of taking every ounce of her fight makes your head feel floaty.
Her thrusts grow more erratic as she nears her peak. The hands on your shoulders tense and loosen.
“Let me. Please l-let me—” She cries.
You tense out of nowhere, waves of pleasure coalescing and rocking through you as you cum without a touch. Heaving gasps of air as you breathe through it.
Your voice is weaker than you’d like, “Give me a pretty necklace, baby.”
Agnes wastes no time in fulfilling your request. With one final snap of her hips, they stop, and spurts of cum shoot from her cock, painting the bottom of your face and neck in her desire. You watch every inch of her face—the furrow of her brows as she works through the feeling, and how every muscle loosens as the pleasure settles like a warm blanket.
Carefully, you extract your hand from her softening length, licking her off your lips. She regards you through heavy-lidded eyes.
You scoot to the side and make room to tug her down next to you. She allows it. Soft and pliant, she curls wordlessly into you, head falling on your shoulder—only narrowly avoiding the mess she’s made.
“You did so well,” smiling, you kiss the top of her head, “you make me so happy when you let yourself have what you want. And you look so perfect when you do.”
She grunts in acknowledgement. Her body weight is pressing against you more insistently with every passing second, and you let it, running your hand up and down her back until her breathing evens out.
Even as she dozes off, you can resist whispering, “My love. My handsome girl.”
---
Days later, you curse, every muscle still sore as you answer the phone.
“Hello?”
“This is Chief Proctor, would you—”
You don’t think before rushing out, “What is it? What happened?”
Did something happen when Agnes was out following a lead? She rarely goes alone, but you know how stubborn she can be about being made to wait. Did some perp try to fight back, or get her before she could get them? Fuck, did she get shot?
“Everything’s fine, Agnes is just fine!” He rushes to reassure you, and you feel like you can breathe again, “I wanted to ask if you’d come in so I could run something by ya.”
You put your head in your hand. The heart in your chest is still beating too fast, fear still coursing through your veins even though there is no danger.
“Yeah. Yeah I’ll be there soon, Chief.”
---
A few heads pop up when you walk into the station, but you don’t give them any attention; too exhausted from the scare earlier to entertain polite conversation with Agnes’ coworkers. You beeline straight for the Chief’s office when you spy that your wife’s is empty.
Harold sits at his desk trying—and failing—to wipe a ketchup stain off his white shirt.
“Sarah’s stain treatment must be holy with all the messes you make.” You say by way of greeting, plopping into the chair opposite his desk.
An embarrassed flush works up his cheeks. He clears his throat, dropping the crumpled napkin on the desktop and straightening up.
“Thanks for coming in. Sorry for scaring ya.”
Waving off the apology, “What’s up?”
“Well, you know the annual State banquet is coming up. I was wondering if you could get Agnes to be there.”
You raise a brow. It takes all your will-power not to scoff at the request.
“Chief, she hates those things.”
“I know, I know—but look, they, uh, well what I mean to say is we—”
“Chief.”
“They want to recognize Agnes for her work in the Maximoff case.” He blurts.
The second he says it, you know you have no choice but to figure out a way to get her there.
Ten months; that’s how long you watched Agnes agonize over the Maximoff case, obsessing over the details she was missing. She’d leave before dawn and come back after dark. And even when she was home, she spent half her time sitting at the kitchen table, staring down at all the photos. Some nights she brought Vidal with her—others, she sat in the dim kitchen alone, head in her hands while the world went on outside.
She’d have worked 24/7 if you hadn’t insisted on days off. When she took them, she slept the whole day.
Agnes doesn’t do her job for rewards, but you’ll be damned if you let her pass up recognition from the state; especially after everything she went through.
“Fuck.” Dragging a hand down your face, you sigh, “She’s going to be a bear about this.”
“Yeah, well, you’re the bigger bear. You’ll find a way.”
---
“Did you pick up your suit from the dry-cleaners?” You ask in lieu of a greeting.
Agnes’ scoff is faint. The front door shuts with a half-hearted slam. Then, the squeak of rubber on wood; you wish she would stop doing that.
“No, honey, I came straight home after you texted me about it seven times.”
She comes into the kitchen, plastic-covered suit in hand, and you relax. That’s the last thing on your list, ready and secured.
“Oh bite me.”
Agnes grins, “With pleasure.”
You turn when she rounds to you and accept her hello kiss. The taste of un-burnt coffee lingers on her lips and you frown.
“Did you go out for lunch again?”
“The guys needed a pick-me-up.”
“Agnes.” You groan.
“It was a few sandwiches, baby. It’s not going to break us.”
“That would be true if you didn’t buy ‘a few sandwiches’ three times a week.”
A hand is dragged down her face. She sighs.
“I’m going to put the suit in the closet and do some work in the office, yeah? Yell when dinner’s ready.”
You grab her before she can go too far, “No, hey, I’m sorry—I just, there’s been a lot coming out of the account this month and I’m worked up over it. I’m sorry. Stay, please.”
Worked up over it being an understatement—the state you were in after paying the final installment on Nicky’s funeral arrangements this morning could’ve earned you an Oscar. But you don’t want to dwell on that. You want to finish dinner with some light banter from your wife, sit next to her at the table, and cuddle up in bed talking about nonsense; none of which you can do if she locks herself in her office.
Agnes relaxes in your hold. She may let you handle the finances, but she’s just as aware of the bills, and likely has a hunch of which are bothering you.
“When do you plan on telling me where we’re going?”
“Just enjoy the surprise, baby.”
“It wouldn’t take much digging to uncover your evil plans,” she says, making you snort, “if you save me the work I’m sure we can strike a deal.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Tell me what I want to know and we can knock your time down from six hours to three—less, with good behavior.”
There’s a purposeful press of her hips against you. She’s not hard, yet, but you take her meaning.
“You can’t last that long and you know it.” You taunt.
“Practice makes perfect.”
You roll your eyes. Playfully pushing her away, her grin nearly makes you melt—but you focus back on dinner before she can tempt you into letting it burn.
“Go hang your suit up and stop harassing me.”
Her grin feels like a brand when she kisses your cheek, “Yes, ma’am.”
---
The door clicks open and you get a whiff of Agnes’ cologne. You smile, not looking up from where you’re fastening your own bracelet.
“Can you help me with the tie?”
After several failed attempts, you loop the clasp through the chain link. Looking up, your breath stops. You swallow.
Agnes stands in the doorway of the bathroom in a deep brown suit, the jacket button undone to reveal the dress shirt beneath. It’s a bit big, offering a slouchy silhouette that makes her look phenomenal. The matching tie sits unraveled around the back of her neck just waiting for your hands.
You stand to help and she shifts. The adjustment moves one side of the suit jacket and that’s when you see it—the carabiner with her keys attached to one of the belt loops; simple, something she has on her everyday, but the sight of it has you sinking to your knees in front of her.
“Fuck, baby.”
She smirks down at you through the mane of hair she hasn’t pulled back yet, “Stand up.”
“I need you,” you whine, hands reaching for her belt-buckle, “please, Daddy, I need you so bad.”
Her hands pause as they reach for you. Clear as a whistle, you both register the desperate want in your voice; the kind she’d expect to hear after edging you a few times.
Something about the suit is driving you wild—sending you from 0 to 60 from the mere sight of her. Maybe it’s the effortless way she pulls it off. Maybe it’s that she’s so comfortable in a way she’s only displayed wearing her flannels. Maybe it’s both, combined with the reminder that this woman is yours.
You love her so much it threatens to stop your heart and you need to fuck her about it.
“Please.”
Agnes snaps back into movement. Her hand grips your chin, firm, “I gave you an order. Stand up.”
It’s mean and unfair and so fucking hot. You whine, but you do as she says—though not before pressing a kiss to the front of her pants, longing for the prize past the layer of fabric.
“What did I ask you to do?” Agnes says when you’re stable on your feet.
“Help you with the tie.”
“Then what are you waiting for?”
Your hands find the fabric and go about the motions, though you have to slow down when your hands stutter. Even if she rarely wears them, you’re glad you memorized how to fix a tie, or this would be a significant loss to her ensemble.
God you want her so bad.
“Could we… just something quick?” You ask.
“Oh no, honey, you’ve been on my ass about this dinner for weeks.” Agnes laughs, something cruel, “I’m not living in suspense any longer. You can handle an hour.”
For an agonizing moment, you consider breaking—telling her that you’re about to be stuck in a stuffy government building with sub-par food, so she’ll refuse to go and punish you for trying to trick her—but then you remember the nights she ate Planter’s peanuts straight from the canister and got two hours of sleep, all so she wouldn’t leave the case for too long.
“Okay.”
Her smile softens, “Good girl. You’ll meet me downstairs when you’re ready?”
“I shouldn’t be long.”
She nods. Agnes presses a kiss to your forehead and squeezes you in a sweet gesture, before heading for the bedroom door. You listen to her go, unable to look—if you do, you might be tempted to use the rest of your time getting ready with your favorite vibrator.
Half-way down the stairs, she calls, “Do we still have ibuprofen? My head is killing me.”
“In the medicine cabinet. Bottom shelf.”
She grunts an acknowledgement and you laugh. Staring at yourself in the mirror, you take a few deep breaths; it’s only a few hours—you can handle it.
---
The second you pull up to the State House, Agnes stiffens. Her leg that’s been bouncing with agitation the past half-hour stills.
“What the hell are we doing here?”
“You’re the detective, you tell me.”
Agnes glares, “Turn around.”
“No.”
Some defiance is commonplace in your relationship; it’s hard to earn a punishment if you don’t act up a little bit, after all—but the note in your voice now is firm, the kind you’d employ in the middle of a fight. Agnes regards you with steely eyes.
“Excuse me?” She asks, slow.
Her voice is tight, her jaw too. Slowly, you watch her hands tense over the armrests, as if she’s trying to measure her patience. A small murmur of fear prods you.
This isn’t Agnes putting on a stern act to remind you of your place. This isn’t even a mild bit of annoyance you can tread lightly around. This is the type of anger that builds over time—and making her walk through those doors might drive it to bubble over.
Chief Proctor’s words echo in your mind, “Yeah, well, you’re the bigger bear. You’ll find a way.”
You’ve driven the hour and a half here and she’s going to be pissed regardless. In for a penny…
“I didn’t stutter.” You raise a brow, making direct eye contact, “I’ve driven us all the way here and I told the Chief we were coming. So we’re going to go inside, sit through this dinner, and play nice. Am I understood?”
For a split second, you see her eyes widen. Then her face flushes a deeper red and her hand tightens on the armrest again. You are so dead.
Her voice is surprisingly entreating, “Baby—”
“Am I understood, Agnes?”
A long, long moment of silence.
“Fine.”
You smile, triumphant. Leaning over the middle console and giving her ample time to reject your nearness, smugness burrows into your mood when she leans in closer; and you press a sweet kiss to her lips.
Whispering against them when you pull back, “That’s my good boy.”
Her broken groan makes you feel alive.
---
As far as State banquets go, you’ve been through worse. They must’ve upped the budget in the years since the two of you stopped attending—the food isn’t half-bad and there’s an open bar; which is exactly where you’re waiting to get Agnes a drink when a warm presence slides up beside you.
“I’m surprised you got her to come.” An amused voice comments.
Agent Vidal is a vision in deep green. Her dark hair lays in soft waves over her shoulders, offset by gold earrings that catch the light when she shifts. A small smirk plays at the edges of her mouth.
“She didn’t know until we pulled up outside.” You admit.
That startles a laugh out of the woman. It’s a bit maniacal, but you like it—it suits her.
“No wonder she looks so pissed,” A glass of champagne is passed over the bar and she takes it with a nod, “You’re playing with fire, sweetheart.”
“Don’t I know it.”
Silence lapses between the two of you, but it’s not uncomfortable as you’d expect. The bartender is dipping around and under the makeshift bar; you perk up, recognizing the ingredients for the drink you ordered Agnes.
You glance over at Agnes and find her distracted; a couple of detectives have wandered over to your table. Her face is still flushed though she doesn’t seem as upset. Frowning, you wonder if maybe she’s coming down with something.
The bartender passes you Agnes’ drink and you smile. Vidal hasn’t left your side. She looks you up and down with those rich brown eyes of hers.
“I never had a chance to thank you for my Christmas gift.” A sultry grin replaces her smirk, and it’s your turn to flush, catching onto her meaning, “Though I’m disappointed it wasn’t delivered in person.”
Your throat feels dry. Staring at the drink in hand, you consider whether a sip will help.
“It was a spur of the moment thing.”
“I guessed as much. Still, I was impressed.”
“Thank you.” You smile, not sure if it’s the proper response.
“Should you two ever find yourselves in my city and willing, don’t hesitate to call me up, sweetheart.”
Vidal doesn’t give you time to respond before vanishing into the crowd. Good—you’re not entirely sure what you would’ve said. But it does a good job of reigniting your desire from earlier in the evening.
There are people rushing around near the podium, which means you don’t have enough time to drag Agnes into the bathroom for a little relief. You settle for taking your seat next to her and lacing your fingers together. Though you blink at the heat coming from her.
It isn’t until the other detectives take their leave that you murmur, “Do we need to go?”
To hell with the award or recognition or whatever it is. Agnes’ health takes priority over everything.
“I’m fine,” she says, gruff, “let’s just get through this and go home.”
“My love—”
“Leave it.”
Every part of you screams to do the opposite, but you sigh and settle into your chair. You pull Agnes’ hand to your lips and kiss the back of it. Her eyes soften and that’s enough for you.
You hold onto that soft look in her face as people step up to the podium and drone on about numbers and figures; nothing the actual workers in the room care about, but necessary to show the government officials in attendance that the state forces are still worth funding. As if they need even half of what the budgets are. To keep yourself from going crazy, you steal a few sips of Agnes’ drink.
About an hour has gone by when Vidal steps up to the podium, unfolding a pair of glasses. You realize her purpose here seconds before understanding dawns on Anges—who turns with an inscrutable look.
Pressing another kiss to the back of her hand, you smile.
What Vidal says goes in one ear and out the other, try as you might to pay attention; but you’re too caught up in watching the emotions pass over Agnes’ face—surprise, hesitant softness, feigned indifference. She deserves every kind word being leveled her way, deserves to have everyone in this room know the hours she put in, deserves to be appreciated.
When the clapping starts and all eyes turn to her, her flush deepens, and she looks unsure. Her eyes meet your own as she searches for comfort.
You lean in and kiss her cheek, whispering in her ear, “I’m so proud of you.”
And the look she gives you—fond, watery eyes and a hesitant smile—makes the entire evening worth it.
---
When the speeches wind down, the two of you are swarmed by state officials and officers alike who want to give Agnes a kind word. She’s a bit tense through every interaction, but takes it in stride. Some well wishes are no trouble.
It’s when the people you know come over that you can feel the trouble start. You hide your grin when they start trading jokes, Agnes scoffing, back in her element.
Her glass sits empty on the table and you snatch it up discreetly.
You manage to catch the bartender before he cleans up for the night. And though you can tell he’s not thrilled to do more work, he makes the drink—you slip him a twenty and his mood perks up.
In the few minutes you were gone the table was completely occupied by your friends; Chief Proctor and his wife Sarah, John, a few of the other Westview detectives and some from Eastview, even Vidal. Every seat at the table is filled. You grin as their laughter echoes in the room, drawing eyes from other lingering groups.
Vidal has stolen your seat. She leans back in it with the same air of poise she possesses in everything. Not for the first time, you completely understand what drew Agnes to her.
While Chief Proctor captures the table's attention with a story, you offer Agnes her drink, and slip into her lap, unbothered. You can’t help the little squeak you let out. And though your wife manages to tamp down on any noises, her hand is digging into your hip, blunt nails threatening to draw blood.
Agnes is painfully hard beneath you.
Her behavior starts to make sense; the flushed face, how stilted her movements have been, her agitation. You blink. Agnes has been off since the drive here.
Without thinking, you adjust to get comfortable, and her grip tightens.
Hissing so only the two of you can hear, “Don’t fucking move.”
You’re impressed, past all the worry—she hasn’t been like this since Christmas Eve, and even then you think this might be worse. And you’ve put her in a precarious situation without meaning to.
You’re deeply reminded of the moment in her office; how little it had taken to drive her over the edge. It’d been fun, though unintentional. But there’s an audience now.
Her breath is ragged. When you chance a look, her mouth is pinched, but her eyes are blown out. One shift—either in you standing up or moving on accident—and she’s going to put on the show of a lifetime. And no one seems in a hurry to leave.
An idea hits you.
“Where is your phone?” You whisper.
Agnes slides it off the tabletop and into your hands without a word. She’s trying to measure her breathing—in 5, out 5. But the throbbing under you only seems to get stronger.
You find the number without much fuss.
You: Be discreet, but I need your help.
If you weren’t moments from disaster, you’d be impressed; the recipient doesn’t so much as glance your way. They respond without even a blink out of place.
Vidal: Go on.
You: I need you to find a way to get everyone to leave.
Vidal pauses after reading the message. She turns her attention back to the group while your heart beats in your ears. Then, you see her regard the two of you from her periphery. The corner of her mouth twitches.
Vidal: What’s in it for me?
You: Are you serious?
Vidal: As a heart-attack.
Vidal: Tick-tock. It doesn’t look like she can hold out much longer.
You resist the urge to sigh, worried it’ll jostle too much.
You: Your offer becomes a promise. If we’re in your area, we’ll call.
Vidal: You’ve got a deal, sweetheart.
It doesn’t happen all at once. Rather, Vidal employs a slow form of manipulation on the group that leaves you breathless; she starts a small story you don’t really hear, drawing everyone in, only to end it with an exaggerated yawn.
A yawn that passes through every other person at the table.
God she’s good.
Putting on an apologetic smile, she stands, “It’s been a long night—I know you all have a long drive home. Congratulations again, Agnes.”
She throws a smile your way, eyes twinkling. Everyone else at the table stands as if on cue, offering their own apologetic goodbyes; leaving you to wonder if Vidal is some kind of witch.
Only when everyone has departed do you turn to Agnes. Her face is covered in a thin sheen of sweat.
“If I move, are you going to…” You ask, soft.
A hesitant nod.
“What can I do?”
Her voice is gravelly, “Just—give me a minute. Don’t talk.”
You raise a brow at the second command, but don’t open your mouth to question her. She relaxes beneath you by just a hair. Each breath is slow, measured.
Some of the organizers have begun to clean up around the edges of the room. They avoid interacting directly with any of the lingering guests, but their pointed looks aren’t subtle.
A few groups take the hint and begin to head toward the front. It’s around this time that Agnes taps a finger against your hip.
“Get up, carefully.”
A despicable part of you considers doing the exact opposite. The room is mostly empty and she’s capable of being quiet when she tries; if you were to grind down hard and fast, she couldn’t do anything but accept the inevitable—the humiliating inevitable.
But you shove that down and stand, using the arms of the chair to lift yourself so there’s as little friction as possible.
Agnes huffs out a breath.
“Are you okay to walk to the car?” You murmur.
“I’m not going to lose it from walking,” she scoffs, “give me a little credit.”
“You’re being very mean to the woman who could’ve utterly humiliated you a minute ago.”
“The same woman who gets off on that?”
You don’t deign to respond to that comment. Rather, you hold your hand out, wiggling your fingers expectantly. Agnes’ fond smile warms you as her hand slots into place in yours.
The night air seems to help as you cross the parking lot. Agnes’ breathing loses its ragged edge, her gait a bit smoother. There’s only the sound of your intermingled breaths and the jingle of her keys; the reminder of earlier making you throb.
Releasing her hand, you reach the passenger door before she can and pull it open, “Your carriage awaits.”
Agnes scoffs.
“Thanks.” She kisses your cheek before sliding into the car.
You rush around to the driver’s side and don’t even turn the car on before leaning over, scrambling with her suit jacket to reach the belt buckle on her pants. Agnes straightens in her seat. When you brush her cock in your search, she twitches, swearing under her breath. A strong hand grabs your wrists.
Blinking, you take her in with a look of disbelief.
“Are you trying to torture yourself? Because that’s my job.”
“You’re just—You’re going a bit fast.”
“I’d say this is overdue in your current state.”
“Drive and we can handle this at the house, yeah? Not in the car like a couple of horny teenagers.”
You laugh, disbelief coloring the sound.
“I think being hard this long has stopped the blood flow to your brain.” You deadpan, “Just let me suck you off and we can go home.”
Agnes' eyes widen just a fraction. Inches from your hands, her hips twitch, as if unable to hold her movements back. But her grip on your wrists only gets tighter.
“Let’s wait.”
“We’ve both been thinking about your cock in my mouth since before we left.”
“Baby—”
“Do you not want my mouth? Because I’m more than ready to take you if we want to climb in the backseat and—”
In your haste to fulfill your mutual desires, you missed the signs staring you right in the face. Or maybe you wanted to miss them.
Agnes’ head hits the headrest with a thud that goes unheard beneath the volume of her moan. Every muscle in her form tenses, with the exception of her hips—which are rutting forward in search of anything to deepen the pleasure.
Where you expect the hand on your wrist to slacken, it grows tighter. And as if on instinct, said hand falls to her length, effectively using yours to stroke herself through the rest of her orgasm. It’s messy, and her desire is seeping through her pants, but you can’t look away—not as her hips hump forward, almost in a frenzy, and as her mouth parts to let escape her groans.
In time, her hips still. Silence reigns over the space.
Your hand rests over her suit pants, where you can feel her cock continue to give weak little throbs. Her eyes have fallen closed.
“Did I just get you off with my… voice?” You whisper.
A breathless laugh, “You sound surprised.”
“I’ve never heard of that happening before.”
Her eyes open, then. It’s too dark to see the look in them, but what little light exists makes them sparkle. Your heart squeezes.
How the hell did you get so lucky?
Then she opens her mouth and says, ever so soft, “There’s no part of you that doesn’t drive me crazy.”
You blink. Heat flares in your face and you look away, suddenly shy. But her finger beneath your chin brings your gaze right back up.
“Agnes…”
“Where’s all that boldness now?”
Your blush deepens, “You liked it.”
“Yeah, I guess I did.” She sounds slightly puzzled by the information, “You surprise me. Not many can.”
There’s a lingering exhaustion in both of you that prompts you to start driving, eager to get home. Agnes sets one hand in the center console, palm up; and you place your own into hers.
“Is that why you married me? Cause it gives you plenty of time to figure out my mind?” You tease once you’re safely on the highway.
“Don’t sell yourself short, baby—your mouth was a contributing factor too.”
You giggle. Your face flushes, again, despite the circumstances; Agnes has seen you in more situations of embarrassment and desire than anyone could hope to, and yet you still blush at her dirty jokes.
In your periphery, the lights over the highway catch her smirk.
“The same mouth I oh-so-generously offered, and you denied?” You ask with mock-hurt.
“‘Oh-so-generously’ my ass. Don’t pretend that was a selfless act.”
“Doesn’t matter now, does it?” You pout, “You couldn’t keep yourself together long enough to get out of your pants.”
Her hand tightens in yours. She jolts in her seat, as if flinching from the remark, and you glance over—but her face is impassive.
You shake off the moment and settle into the rhythm of driving. Singing along to the music, there’s a calm over you as you traverse the open road, enjoying the lack of other drivers at this time of night. Agnes settles back into her seat, singing under her breath to the songs she knows—early 2000s rock, mostly.
Halfway through the drive the song changes and you perk up. It’s modern with a heavy beat, the singer going back and forth between high notes and breathless singing, and you match it with a passion, not thinking too much about it.
Agnes watches every movement.
And when the song ends and you lean into the seat again, you hear a soft ‘fuck’ from her. You look over, brow raised.
“Baby?”
“Focus on the road.” She snaps.
She avoids your eyes as you squint. The muscles in her neck are taut, a few straining, kinda like when—
Oh. Oh.
“Agnes, are you hard again?”
“I’m fine.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Agnes huffs out a breath. Two fingers pinch the bridge of her nose, “I don’t—This isn’t normal.”
“You’re just having an up-day in the hormone department. It’s not a bad thing.”
“This isn’t… It’s like I’m in my twenties again, getting turned on at the drop of a hat. I wouldn’t mind if not for this fucking headache.”
The information swirls around in your brain for a moment before striking like a snake. No fucking way. She couldn’t have been that careless, right?
“Baby, what color were the pills you took?”
She pauses, “What?”
“The pills. For your headache. What color were they?”
Agnes throws her hands up, looking baffled by the turn in conversation, “Blue, I think. What does it matter?”
You laugh. You laugh so hard tears begin to form in the corners of your eyes—and you almost miss taking the first exit you find, looking for a dark, empty lot.
“Ibuprofen is pink.” You finally force out.
Her brows furrow. Then, like a switch flipped, it registers. Pink crawls up her neck. Veined hands tense on the armrests.
A song comes on that is upbeat, a little cheery. Agnes slams the off button.
“Why the fuck were those in the same place?”
“It is the medicine cabinet. That’s where medicine goes.”
You find a dark, empty lot and pull in. Agnes doesn’t seem to notice as she watches you.
“That’s—You—Why were they on the same shelf?!”
Your wife. Your beautiful, brilliant, decorated detective of a wife—who somehow managed to miss the bold label on the pill bottle. Another round of laughter bubbles up.
“You’re an idiot,” you say, voice fond as you throw the car in park, “and I’m going to fuck you so hard.”
Her mouth snaps shut. Something inside you purrs.
You continue, “Get in the backseat, Agnes.”
There’s a moment where she bristles. She leans toward the middle console, lip curling. But then—she winces. The car is turned off, then, with a deafening finality.
It is only you and your wife and the wind outside.
Leaning closer, your hand finds the length of her with ease. You trace a finger along all her straining inches. Dark, wanting eyes don’t blink as they take in the sight of you. Agnes is exquisite, cast in shadow and moonlight through the windshield.
“I won’t ask again.”
“And if I don’t?” She murmurs.
“You’ll spend a lot of quality time with your hand.”
Leaves rustle like insect wings. Trees above sway, dipping into the light kissing Agnes’ strong jaw.
Her seatbelt unclicks.
You smile. Agnes rolls her eyes.
“This is your fault. It’s only right you fix it.” She grouses.
Neither of you pay much attention to your surroundings as you clamber into the backseat. You’re parked in the middle of a town you don’t know, where any patrol officer could see you, but you don’t care—Agnes would talk her way out of it.
No, all you care about at this moment is having her inside you.
You straddle her thighs as she furiously works the buckle of her belt. In her eagerness, her hands are fumbling, and you take over with a laugh. Strong hands settle on your hips. The hold pulls you forward a fraction, just enough to press her cock against your core.
“Ass.” There is no way that action wasn’t intentional, “Condom or no condom?”
“Need to feel you.”
Her honesty is rewarded with a kiss. Managing to unclasp her belt, you waste no time in slipping a hand inside to free her. A stuttered gasp is your reward.
Agnes is heavy in your palm. She’s throbbing, veins prominent along her length, absolutely flushed. You run your thumb over the tip to collect the fluid there and spread it down her slowly. It won’t be enough, though—so you reach between your legs for some more.
When you spread the wetness down her and give an experimental pump, her hips jump. Agnes’ head falls against the headrest with a low moan.
In shades of grey shadow she is a vision; limbs sprawled across the backseat, hair wild around her head. Her throat bobs as she swallows. Eyes squeezed shut, her mouth parting when you squeeze. Ecstasy softens her hard angles when you stroke reverently.
Tears bead at the corners of your eyes. You blink them away.
“My sweet, stupid baby.” Tittering, you tighten your grip, “Too silly to read the label on the bottles. Or are you so desperate for this pussy that you took them anyway?”
You push your panties aside and rub yourself against her. Agnes grunts, pushing up for more. The tip of her cock hits your clit and stars erupt behind your eyes.
“‘Was an accident.” Agnes defends.
The defense feels pretty weak when she’s humping her cock against you like she’s never cum before, but you’re not much better. You’ve been wet and wanting since sitting in her lap. And even if you’re playing tough, all you want is to sink down on her length and ride her until you know nothing more than how she stretches your cunt.
You clench at the mere thought of her. Of how perfect it feels to be so connected—and how warm you feel when she spills herself inside you, clutching any bit of you she can get her hands on. Fuck, you need her so bad.
But—a little part of you whispers—don’t you want to play?
“I’m sure. Just a dumb little mistake.”
“Mhm.”
Seemingly unsatisfied with sitting back, Agnes sits up to mouth at your breasts over your clothing. It makes you bear down where you grind against her. The vibrations from her moan and the muted scrape of her teeth over your nipple makes the emptiness unbearable.
You reach between the two of you and—tentatively—slap her cock. Her startled whimper drives you wild.
You’re reminded of your idea from a few days ago; of putting a pretty collar around her neck and treating her like a dog. It’d take some convincing, but she’d like it—letting you take control, the denial of begging, the heated destruction of her pride as she humps your flesh like she can’t help herself.
Another blow to her length.
Toes curling at the sound of her pretty little cry, you can’t stand the separation any longer. You need her deep inside you. If you don’t get it, it’ll kill you.
“It’s so generous of me to fix your mistake for you, isn’t it?” You ask, “What do you say?”
Whining, pathetic little breaths, “Thank you.”
“You want this pussy, baby boy?”
“Yes, yes. Fuck.”
A thought bubbles up inside you—that wayward desire from the day she spent at home once more rearing its head, urging you to give it life. You’ve thought about it at length only in private moments. The want makes you hurt.
But will it be too much? Will this be where Agnes draws the line?
Fuck it.
Trying to sound as sure as possible, “Tell Mommy how bad you want it.”
The second you give it life, you’re terrified of seeing it die. You hadn’t been honest with yourself about just how bad you wanted it—too scared that it was wrong, or shameful. Calling Agnes Daddy has always been natural; but is calling you Mommy… wrong?
You hold your breath as Agnes gasps. Tears threaten your composure. As you stare up at the ceiling of the car, you try to rid yourself of them.
She’s going to laugh. Shame bubbles up. You should’ve kept it to yourself.
Agnes’ nails dig into your flesh as she whines into your neck, “Mommy—please, please let me—let me have you, cum in you—I’ll be your good boy—please.”
The tears fall, but they’re not sad—they’re euphoric.
Not bothering to hide them as you line her up and sink down, adjusting to the stretch, you hope she knows how happy she makes you; how safe you feel in her arms, admitting the lurid desires in your mind and just being. With every inch of her cock you hope she understands that she is your everything.
Her hands shake when she bottoms out. You can feel how desperate she is to just take it, but she waits. For you.
Kissing her cheeks, lips, the tip of her nose, her forehead; you can’t get enough of her handsome face, “Take what you need, baby.”
The dam holding back her need breaks. Hips snap up hard and you would gasp—if you could draw enough breath between thrusts. Shivers descend through your body as she chases her peak, brushing that perfect spot inside you with every movement.
This would normally be where Agnes taunts you, prying admissions between thrusts and holding back to make you talk; but both of you are too far gone to prolong what you want.
Little uh uh uh moans dissolve into something more primal, grunting and growling into the flesh of your neck. It makes you clench hard around her.
“Fuck.”
You couldn’t have said it better yourself.
“You like that?”
Agnes nods against your neck. She’s panting, and the sound feels deafening in the silence of the backseat. At the speed she’s pistoning her cock inside you, she’s going to be sore tomorrow.
You reach down and toy with your clit, fingers slipping over the little bundle of nerves. Every thrust of Agnes’ cock drags more wetness from you. It fills your ears just as your wife’s noises do. You whine, struggling to get friction where you need it most.
Long fingers brush your own away. They slip against the same spot but with better coverage. Then, she does it again.
“Right there, right there.”
Her fingers never leave your clit. Even as you lift yourself up and slam back down, taking every inch of her with growing fervor. Even as her thrusts falter in their speed at how you clench. Agnes is dedicated, even when staring down her own ecstasy.
She gives so much—and to no one more than you.
A home. A love. Comfort from the hard edges of the world and a soft place to expose the truths of yourself. Agnes gives all of these things without hesitation, without asking for much in return. It’s her turn to take.
You tamp down on the whine as you secure both of her wrists and hold them away from you. Her eyes—which had slipped closed in the heat of the moment—snap open.
“What are you—”
The question cuts off when you take the entire length of her once again. It becomes a pained-sounding groan, but her eyes don’t close. You clench and try not to come at the sight of her staring like you hung the moon.
Agnes fights your hold admirably. Her hands ache to settle on some part of you, to make you feel good because that’s what she does. But you can’t let her—not right now. This has to be all about her.
“The first time I saw you, I couldn’t take my eyes off you. All I could think about was how I’d do anything to have you.” You pant, “And now look at you. You’re all mine.”
Her agreement comes quicker than you anticipate, “All yours.”
“All yours who?”
“All yours, Mommy.”
“That’s right. And you want to be Mommy’s good boy, don’t you?”
A particularly violent throb inside you.
The answering nod is a touch frantic, “Yes—yes.”
“Then I’m going to give you instructions, and I expect you to follow them to the letter. Because you’re so good for me.”
No verbal response. Rather, Agnes' head falls to your chest, groaning into the fabric still separating the two of you. You continue to ride her even as her throbbing grows more insistent. You need to stop, to slow down, but the idea of stopping her pleasure for even a second hurts you.
Continuing while you still can, “You’re going to use me like I’m a toy that only exists to please you. Can you do that, baby?”
“Fuck, yes.”
It’s a miracle she’s held herself back this long; given how tormented she’s been all evening. But she won’t be tormented any longer. No—she is driving herself into you at a punishing clip, so deep it hurts in just the way you crave.
She’s snarling in your ear like an animal, and your eyes roll back in your head. This won’t take long if she’s descended to this level of pleasure.
A few moments pass in which she says nothing. There’s the smacking of joining flesh and her ragged breath. Her hips begin to falter in rhythm as she fights your hold on her wrists.
“‘Wanna fuck a baby into you,” she pants, “make it stick this time.”
Your toes curl at the thought, “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Wanna make you a Mama again.”
Grabbing her by the hair and dragging her into a kiss, your hips frantic, Agnes shudders. She’s almost there. You are too.
“Fill me,” you breathe against her lips, “I want it all. Want the world to see that you own me. Want you to make a baby in me.”
Agnes freezes and snarls in your ear, “Fucking take it.”
She spills herself inside you in forceful spurts. And you shudder, your walls squeezing as you come, milking her for all you’re worth.
As you feel your orgasm fade, you wait, sitting still as Agnes’ continues. You’re so warm that you can’t tell if she’s still shooting, but you can feel the weakening throbs. With the extra assistance still in her system you gather it may be a minute. But you don’t mind.
“You’re so perfect.” You murmur against her skin, “So beautiful.”
Agnes only grunts in acknowledgment.
You press little kisses wherever you can reach, but don’t say much else, letting her come down from the high. Her breathing slows, heartbeat no longer fluttering.
One hand begins to rub circles on your back.
“Thank you.” She whispers.
Chuckling, “It was my pleasure. Literally.”
“Not for that.”
You soften. Brushing a few sweat-soaked pieces of hair from her face, you take in every inch of her; reveling in the feeling of skin on skin.
“I’ve got you, baby. Always.”
Agnes joins the two of you in a slow kiss. You sigh, utterly content, even if the two of you are tangled in the backseat of the car—because you have her, the woman others could only dream of.
You shift to get closer and Agnes releases a pained noise; you had forgotten she was still inside you.
“Is it safe to go home, or will we have to make another stop?” You ask.
“I think I’ve hit my quota for the night.”
“Aw.”
She chuckles, “Greedy.”
“Guilty.” You grin, “Take me away, detective.”
She does. She finishes the drive home with a hand on your thigh, smirking everytime you fidget; more of her leaking out of you each minute. The jerk.
Somewhere along the way you fall asleep. And when she glances over every now and again to check up, she can’t help but grin.
I give up. I fail to understand what sort of "marketing" ploy or tool this entire charade is attempting to accomplish by passing off this ridiculously negative individual as Caitríona Balfe's husband.
Who does it benefit? And HOW?
Hello Caitríona ~ STARZ is not doing you any favors. I can't imagine what kind of pressure has been exerted on both you and Sam. Gratefully, Sam dropped the blonde narrative and that is a relief.
So many, many happy charismatic moments have been captured of
Caitríona M. Balfe and Sam R. Heughan.
Because of their joy of being together while being interviewed over the years I ALWAYS stop what I'm doing to watch them interact. I will tell you quite honestly that any time the fake other pops up I feel a wave of nausea and CHANGE or SHUT OFF what I'm watching.
HOW IS THAT GOOD MARKETING???
I chose the above GIF because they are both in costume yet it is a candid interview or, as many say, not canon! Certainly not acting.
While out on a walk, I found this slim insect sprinting across the sidewalk with the aim to go from the wilderness to the dirt and grasses just before the road (as seen in Picture 10). As such, I picked it up for a closer look, and already it begun to bluff its ferocity by arching its abdomen upwards. With a name like that, this Beetle has to be dangerous, right? Certainly not, this is just a bluff; despite its Ant-like appearance, this insect possesses no sting, no burning fluids, nor venom that can be administered from its rear. And while it may also superficially resemble an Earwig, it has no claws to restrain a provoker (but it does have adequate mandibles). Admittedly, there are some species of Rove Beetle - specifically those in the genus Paederus - which have strong chemical defenses in their hemolymph (blood), this specie is not one of those. It may emit a mild odor from abdominal glands if it is disturbed, but that's only a bother to the insects that have a hungry interest in this Beetle. Otherwise, the arching of this insect's body (and the opening of its mandibles) could make it appear like its going to strike, which may startle an agitator long enough so the Beetle can sprint away and find safety beneath a plant's leaves, a flattened stone or another large fortified object. In this case, this Rove Beetle sought safety in the comfort and shadows of my jacket's left sleeve. This was most startling, believe me!
Truthfully, I had picked up this Beetle not simply to get a closer look at it, but also to try and take a video of such a delightful specimen. Not only would it allow a chance to see the recording capabilities of the Pixel 8a, but a Rove Beetle hasn't appeared on this blog in video form, and it would've been novel to capture its movement and unique postures. However, all plans were abandoned once the Beetle hurriedly rushed into my sleeve and concealed itself. Where it not for my jacket's sleeves being able to open up and fold back (as seen in Picture 2), the Beetle may have never been found or returned to the grass (where it subsequently tried multiple hiding spots beneath small plant leaves) it was trying to get to. Although a video was not recorded, these pictures are worthy addition in observing this specie, and I feel that this latest image set has captured this insect's details well, especially considering I didn't use magnification beyond 2x. It was also fortunate that Picture 1 gives a small glimpse at this Beetle's mandibles which are tucked in just beneath the head. Take note, there is clearly a tooth on this insect's left mandible. In an earlier post, I noted that Ocypus Rove Beetle species (like this Coach Horse) have shorter, enlarged mandibles with a secondary tooth on the inner curve, and there is a visible tooth on left mandible. This separates it from the similar looking Tasgius Rove Beetle species which have slim, gently curving, fine-tipped mandibles.
...or perhaps this is another specie of Rove Beetle altogether. It's quite a family of Beetles with an immense multitude of species to consider.
Pictures were taken on April 23, 2025 with a Google Pixel 8a.
I've seen all the adorable people and character dolls floating around on Insta and FB and I wanted one for Alex but refused to use AI to do it. So I spent an unnecessary amount of time making my own little Alex doll in Photoshop. She's not perfect, but I'm really happy with how she came out!
Alex is wearing my favorite HWU outfit for her. It's a red polka dotted dress with a heart cut out and black bow belt.
For her accessories, we have her favorite white sunglasses, iced coffee which she is NEVER without, and a script for Centaurus Lost, which one day I will finish writing the series for that film.
Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x Ellie Shepherd (F!MC)
Book: Open Heart (late book one)
Rating/Warnings: general, angst without a happy ending
Word Count: ~1,400
A/N: This is part of my "a kiss" series of writing requests. This one is for @loreofyore and the prompt "a kiss out of envy"
Synopsis: Edenbrooks doctors are raising money at a charity gala but there is only one person keeping Dr. Ethan Ramsey's attention.
If only Ethan had left early like he always did.
He hadn't intended to linger. He hated pandering to philanthropists who cared more about plaques on walls than patients in beds. Medicine should be about saving people, not sucking up to those who know nothing of the field. He made a habit of putting in his required appearance early in the evening and then leaving as soon as socially acceptable. But tonight... tonight was different.
Despite his best efforts to turn away, Ethan's gaze kept drifting back to the intern in the black sequin dress. Her laughter lit up the room. Her smile, so genuine and carefree, could make anyone stop and consider whatever it was she had to say. She moved with grace above her years. She wasn't like the other interns. And yet, no matter how much he wished she was anything else, she was still an intern. Still his intern.
He tried to shake away the look the last donor had given her. The way his lips curled as his gaze swept over every inch of her. The way his hand settled on her lower back, fingers teasing lower as he leaned in to "hear her more clearly". Or the one before him who had paid careful attention to her necklace, though he was certain that was not quite what had captured his attention. Animals. All of them. They preen as though their money makes them better. More attractive. Deserving of anything and anyone they desire.
He nursed his scotch, taking another sip, his thoughts distracted.
"So what do you think?" questioned a doctor beside him at the bar who had been attempting to foster favor with the diagnostician, despite his obvious lack of attention.
"Hmm?" Ethan's attention shifted to the doctor beside him. Dr. Patel, if he remembered correctly. He was an up-and-coming immunologist who was vying for a spot on the diagnostics team. "Send me your ..." his focus fell back to her.
Ellie's smile widened as the cocky surgical intern leaned against the wall beside her. Ethan knew Bryce Lahela was a rising star. Far better age-wise for Ellie than he was. And yet, he couldn't stomach the idea of the rumored party boy dragging down the brilliance of Ellie. She had too much potential. She needed to focus, to study, and to work to become the greatest she could be. Even better than him, perhaps.
"Dr. Ramsey?" Dr. Patel called his attention back.
"Yes?"
"You were saying?"
"Yes, sorry." Ethan shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He wasn't usually like this. Distracted. "Send your resume to my office. I'll take a look."
The young doctor shook the attending's hand with an excitement that was not returned.
"If you'll excuse me."
Without another word, Ethan stepped away from the bar. Despite himself, his feet pulled him closer to her—his greatest weakness.
"I love that idea, Bryce," Ellie gushed, her hand resting lightly on his forearm. "It sounds like a perfect date."
The last word stopped Ethan in his tracks.
Date.
With Bryce.
Bryce Lahela.
Ethan hadn't cared about the number of interns, nurses, and even residents circling the surgical intern, looking for his attention, because she hadn't been one. At least not before now.
He knew he had no right to interfere.
He just couldn't get her out of his head.
Not since the moment he met her.
Especially not since Miami.
If only he could.
She was a distraction.
But it was more than that.
His stomach turned.
He knew it was more than that.
More than a distraction.
Jealousy. Envy. A want. A need.
Her.
And he hated that.
Hated himself for it.
He had thought himself better than that.
Better than the rest of his kind.
But he wasn't.
He was just like the others.
An animal.
"Dr. Shepherd," Ethan stated plainly, waiting to make sure he had her attention before continuing, "a word if you would?" He didn't wait for a reply, he turned and walked away, hoping she'd follow.
"Dr. Ramsey?" Ellie's voice was light as she met him in the hall outside the main room of the gala. A few people moved about, but none took care of the pair to the side.
Ethan's mouth opened and closed as he carefully considered his words. This wasn't like him. He was in uncharted territories where each step could lead him to his end. "You can do better."
"What?" she questioned unsure. "Look, if this is about the donors. I know I only had three so far, but I know I can get more."
His face fell for a moment. He hated himself. "No, it's not that."
Her head shook to the sides. "Then, what?"
"Dr. Shepherd... Ellie..." His voice softened, a vulnerability filling his tone. "I—"
Her green eyes met his, giving him time, seeing him in a way no one had in a long time. "Is everything okay?"
Ethan stepped forward, closing the gap between them. His hands cradled her face as his lips met hers. His eyes closed, his heart beating faster as she kissed him back. She was his weakness. She had this way of making him forget himself and the expectations he held himself to. This shouldn't be happening, but he couldn't stop himself. His body relaxed as he gave himself into her.
His thumb brushed gently over her cheek as the kiss slowed. He rested his forehead on hers, letting the moment linger.
"Ethan." She breathed his name against his lips. "I—" She couldn't stop the smile spreading on her face. There were no words. This was what she had wanted. She leaned forward, capturing his lips again, but the tenderness that had greeted her a minute earlier had vanished. Instead, she was met with the cold, stiff posture she had become used to.
"I'm sorry." He pulled himself back, straightening his tie.
"Ethan." She reached for him but he shifted away.
"I shouldn't have done that. I had no right."
Her mind filled with things to say, but there was only one thing she wanted to know. "Then, why did you?"
"Does it matter?"
"It does to me, Ethan?"
His fingers threaded through his hair as he fought himself. "I saw you with him?"
"Him?"
"Lahela," he answered under his breath. "Dr. Lahela."
Ellie's jaw fell open. "What are you talking about?"
"I know you made a date with him."
"No, I didn't."
"I know it's none of my business and you don't have to explain yourself to me, but I know what I heard just before I came over."
"OH! That wasn't about me," Ellie laughed softly. "Bryce was asking if I thought Olivia would like to go on a whale-watching tour with him."
"The pediatric intern?"
"Yeah..."
"Hmm." Ethan considered it a moment. "She might be good for him."
"But not me?" Ellie folded her arms across her chest, catching him off guard. "I wonder why that is. Care to weigh in on that?"
"I shouldn't have intervened."
"You're right, you shouldn't have," her voice raised slightly, but noticing the gaze of a passerby, she lowered it again. "But you did. Ethan, you did and you know why."
"It's not what you think."
"Then what is it?"
"Ellie, I can't."
Her lips pressed together and her eyes filled with unshed tears. "Why do you keep doing this?"
"Keep doing what?"
"Fighting this. Fighting us."
"You know why."
"Do I?"
"We can't."
"But what if we could?" She gave him one last look before turning away.
If only they could.
"Ellie—" He grabbed her hand, holding it in his own as he guided her back. He wanted to say all the things plaguing his brain. He wanted to tell her that she drove him crazy. That he can't get her out of his head. That he wished she wasn't his intern. That he wished their situation wasn't what it was.
Her fingers traced his jaw as if she could sense his thoughts. "Give us a chance."
"I'm sorry," was the only thing he could offer.
Her hand fell to her side. "So am I."
He couldn't do anything other than watch her walk away. He was the head of diagnostics and she was his intern. It didn't matter how he felt about her. That dynamic wouldn't change. He was her mentor and she his student. She deserved to learn all she could from him and not be distracted. For her own good, he couldn't give in. Not again. Not now. Not ever.
If only it didn’t hurt so much. If only...
Ahhh I hope this reads okay! I don’t typically write angst, and I’ve never written Ethan x Ellie during Book One before. I don’t think I’ve written Ethan in about two years—and I haven’t read an Ethan fic in even longer. So it’s definitely been a while. I just hope this still captures him.
I know this fic doesn't have a "happy" ending, but just think about Bryce and Olivia going whale watching and Bryce showing off his marine biology knowledge and how cute they'd be and then thinking about how Makoa is going to be a marine biologist!
