Archive of Our Own ^beta

The conference room was too quiet for noon.

Sunlight cut through the blinds in angled stripes, slashing across the table and leaving shadowed lines over the scattered folders, case notes, and half-empty coffee cups. The air smelled like printer ink and stale sugar packets—evidence of the early start you’d all had. You stood near the far end of the table, sleeves rolled to your elbows, gloves still stuffed in your back pocket from the last postmortem. Your eyes stayed on the whiteboard.

Three names. Three photos. Three bodies.

All dead center. All clean shots. All gone before they hit the ground. Two of them had been on your table in the last six months. The third… had just arrived. Rio leaned against the edge of the table, arms crossed, blazer sleeves cuffed at the wrist. Her heels clicked once as she shifted, eyes tracking the board like it might move if she stared hard enough. “Same shot placement,” she said finally. “Center mass. No struggle. No sign of forced entry. Just…” She gestured to the last photo. “Execution.”

Agnes—Agnes, only on paper—stood beside you, shoulder brushing yours ever so slightly. Her hair was up. Her blouse had the faintest hint of rose perfume woven into the threads. She tapped the end of her pen once against the table. “Timing’s irregular. First one was six months ago. Then four. Now two.”

You looked down at your notes. “And you think there’ll be another.”

Agnes didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. Rio’s jaw ticked. Her arms were still crossed, but her fingers twitched against the fabric of her sleeves. “It’s not random.”

You reached for the folder nearest your elbow and opened it with a practiced flick. The photos were arranged in sequence—wide shots, wound tracks, organ displacement. You turned one toward them. Close-up. Entry wound. Clean. Center mass. “He’s fast,” you said, tapping the image. “Surgical. Knows where to shoot. No mess. The wounds were so precise I almost thought we were dealing with a professional hit.”

Agnes cocked her head, eyes narrowing. “Almost?”

You dragged another photo closer, flicking to the last three autopsy reports on your tablet with a few quick strokes. “No hesitation wounds. No panic. No emotional hesitation. But there’s no cleanup either. No posturing. Just… efficiency.” You turned the folder again, laying the image flat. “It’s practiced. But not polished. Like someone who’s pulled a trigger before and doesn’t care what the aftermath looks like—as long as they’re dead before they hit the ground.”

Agnes leaned forward, her knuckles resting against the table edge. “These are close-range shots. Real close. No burn pattern. No powder tattooing. Whoever it is, he knows how to get close. No hesitation. No fumble. No second shot.”

You didn’t say anything for a beat. Just nodded, fingers already dancing across the keyboard. The click of each key filled the silence like a ticking clock. Agnes watched you, her gaze heavy. Then she tapped her pen against the margin of the printed profile. Once. Twice. “Whoever did this got close. Calm. Controlled. No spray, no struggle. They knew how to line up the shot, didn’t blink when they pulled the trigger.”

Your eyes stayed on the screen, reading over your notes. “It’s the kind of shooting you see in warzones,” you murmured. “Or in people who’ve trained themselves not to flinch. Or someone who wants to see the person die for no other reason than the high of it.”

Rio’s attention didn’t shift from the whiteboard. Her arms were still crossed, one boot angled against the floor like she’d been pacing a minute ago. “It’s too clean,” she said. “But not professional. There’s something about it that feels… deliberate. Like they need it to look a certain way.”

You looked back at the image of the second victim—center mass wound, forward collapse, hands still relaxed. Not defensive. No bruising on the wrists. The profile of the third looked almost identical. Agnes leaned in. “This isn’t random. Someone’s choosing them. Maybe not for who they are—but for how they’ll fall.”

That landed heavier than you expected. You exhaled. “They’re just bodies to him.”

Rio’s brow furrowed. “More like targets.”

Agnes looked down at the notes again. “And he doesn’t miss.”

You leaned forward; the glow of your monitor casting shadows under your eyes. "Different ages. Different builds. Racial profiles don’t match. Even geographic habits are inconsistent. But the wounds…” You pulled up the scanned autopsies, angling the screen toward them. “Center-mass. Close range. All of them dropped where they stood. Bullet paths were nearly identical. Whoever did this wasn’t improvising.”

Agnes tilted her head. “So, what—ritual?”

You shook your head. “Not ritual. Routine.”

That caught Rio’s attention. Her eyes flicked to yours. “He’s not playing with them,” you continued, fingers tapping once on the image. “He’s dispatching. Clean, fast, over.”

You reached for your coffee—forgot it was empty—and pushed it aside with a quiet huff. “The bodies aren’t trophies. The kill is.”

Agnes crossed her arms. “That’s a hell of a distinction.”

You didn’t blink. “It’s the only one that matters. The others kill for satisfaction. This one kills for certainty.”

Rio’s lips parted, just slightly. Like she hadn’t expected that, she glanced at Agnes, then back to you. “So, we’re not looking for a sadist,” she said slowly. “We’re looking for a marksman.”

You nodded. “A marksman with a need. But not for chaos. For control.” Agnes muttered something under her breath and reached for the latest case file. “I hate when she’s right,” she grumbled.

Rio stepped back a little from the table, but only to circle toward you. The weight of her gaze passed over the file, then you—resting longer this time. Her hand came to your shoulder like it always did steady, familiar, and warm through your thin cotton shirt. Just a quiet graze of her thumb against the back of your collarbone.

You leaned into it before you could stop yourself. The gesture was nothing. And everything. The space between you thinned. Agnes noticed. Of course she did, a smirk tugging at her mouth. Her arms crossed over her chest, but her eyes—sharp, lined with amusement—stayed on you. “So?” Agnes asked, voice lower now, like she was testing the air between you. “How are you today?”

You didn’t look up right away. You blinked at your screen. “Busy.”

A pause. Her smile twitched—subtle, crooked. Behind you, Rio’s hand shifted ever so slightly. Her fingers curled at the base of your neck, then settled again with a kind of practiced patience that felt more than it showed. Agnes tilted her head, watching. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

You sighed through your nose. “It’s been a long week.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Mm. Tired, then?”

You gave a half-shrug, keeping your eyes on the screen. “A little.”

“A little tired,” she repeated—like it was a confession. She shifted her weight, crossing one ankle over the other as she leaned against your desk. Her eyes swept over you, lingering on the tension in your shoulders, the faint smudges under your eyes. “A lot overworked. Probably haven’t eaten since yesterday. And now you’re casually trying to link three cold bodies before I’ve even finished my damn coffee.”

That earned her a twitch of your jaw. She grinned, slow and predatory. “So,” she said again, drawing it out. “You’re needy.” Rio made a low sound behind you—amused. And maybe something else. Her hand tightened slightly at your nape, her thumb pressing into the muscle just enough to make you feel it.

You shot Agnes a look. “Didn’t say that.”

“No,” she murmured, her eyes softening in a way that only made them sharper. “But your body did.” She took a half-step closer. And maybe it was the angle of the light, or the smirk tugging at her mouth—but for all her teasing, there was something almost eager in her tone. Her arms stayed crossed, but her fingers had curled in a little at the hem of her sleeve. Like she was the one waiting for something.

Rio leaned in just slightly behind you, voice brushing your ear. “Maybe we should take you home early.”

Her breath stirred your hair. The heat coiled low in your stomach, tense, familiar. Agnes didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But the look she gave you then was hungry. You didn’t say anything at first. Just leaned back slightly enough that your shoulder brushed more fully into Rio’s chest. Her hand, still warm at the nape of your neck, stayed firm.

Agnes watched the movement like a hawk, the curl of her mouth faltering for a split second. That was your in. You tilted your head, let your gaze drag slowly up the length of her body until it met her eyes. “You’re the one who sounds needy,” you murmured.

Her lips parted—but no words came. Your hand slid up to Rio’s, where it rested against your collar. Your fingers found hers, curling around them in silent acknowledgment. Rio’s grip tightened, slow and possessive.  Agnes’s eyes darkened, heat blooming across her face like a sudden flush. Rio didn’t miss it. She never missed anything.

She leaned in again—just a fraction—her voice low, deliberate. The kind of quiet that meant she wasn’t teasing. Not really.

“How bad do you want her needy for you, O’Connor?” Rio murmured, thumb brushing along your shoulder like punctuation. “Because from where I’m standing… you’re the one squirming.”

Agnes stiffened. You didn’t. You just looked up from your seat, chin tilted, smile lazy. “Careful,” you said, voice all honey and heat. “You keep looking at me like that, and I’m gonna assume you want to be the one on your knees tonight.”

Agnes’s lips parted, just slightly. Her pulse kicked at her throat. You gave her a second. Then added, “Might even let you get there first. If you ask real nice.”

That had been six weeks ago. God, maybe eight. Now, you weren’t sure what day it was. Could’ve been Friday. Could’ve been Sunday. It didn’t matter. Time had stopped making sense somewhere between the third press briefing and the second night in a row you woke up still wearing shoes and your scrubs.

Rio had been running interference with the media. Agnes had been buried in witness statements and security footage. Between late reports that wouldn’t write themselves. Between bodies that wouldn’t stop showing up. Between a department that couldn’t coordinate its own protocols if someone stapled the instructions to their chest. Everyone was busy.

But you had been nonstop. Worse, you’d been the one who couldn’t say no. No breaks. No one to trade off with. Autopsies. Lab work. Cross-town pickups. Late-night calls. No sleep. No food. Just caffeine and compression socks and the last five days of pretending you weren’t running on fumes. You’d hit the edge of exhaustion and walked right off the ledge.

At home, it wasn’t better. The bed was warm in patches, but never full. You’d started waking up in the middle of the night, reaching for someone who wasn’t there. A shoulder. A hand. Anything. You’d been kissed on the forehead in passing. Had your hair brushed back when you were too tired to sit up straight. But lately, that was it.

A kiss to your temple. A squeeze of your shoulder. “Drink water.” “I’m heading out.” “You good?”

You wanted to say no. But they didn’t ask like they really wanted the answer. They were working. So were you. But that didn’t stop the gnawing ache in your chest. The quiet humiliation of being a need no one had time to meet. A craving that went unseen because it wasn’t loud. Because it wasn’t bleeding.

Yesterday, Rio found you asleep at your desk—hands in your lap, and a pen hanging loose between two fingers. Agnes had brought you food without asking and stood there, silent, until you took a bite. You muttered a tired thanks. “Don’t thank me,” she’d said. “Eat.”

It had been like that for weeks. Love stretched thin over obligation. Kindness layered over fatigue. No fights. No breakdowns. But the silence was starting to rot. You didn’t remember falling asleep at your desk. Just waking to the sound of Agnes’s boots, followed by the soft, devastating sound of her sigh. She didn’t speak at first. Just set a covered plate beside you and pressed a hand to the small of your back. You flinched from the warmth of it, the kindness too much. “You’ve been up thirty-five hours,” she said. “Eat something.” You started to argue. She cut you off with a look. “I’ll stand here until you take a bite.” So you did. Eventually, and maybe it helped for a minute. Maybe it reminded your body that it was human. That it needed things.

A few days later, they had passed by your lab around noon on a Tuesday. Deep in conversation. Rio had a tablet in her hand, and Agnes was halfway through a muttered complaint about jurisdiction. Neither of them looked up. Not through the glass. Not through the half-open door. Not when your name was still listed as the attending on every damn case they’d brought in this week.

They didn’t see you standing there. Didn’t see the way your shoulders hunched under the oversized white coat. Didn’t notice the half-eaten protein bar on your desk. The second cup of coffee gone cold at your elbow. The bags under your eyes that concealer had long since given up trying to hide. You weren’t expecting them to stop. But God, you wanted them to look. Just once.

They didn’t see you. You hadn’t realized how much you wanted them to. Not until the moment was already gone. Agnes said something. Rio tilted her head and laughed. Low. Familiar. Like she was leaning in on instinct. You stared at the tray in front of you, breath fogging against the plastic face shield. For one wild second, you hated the warmth that pooled in your chest at the sound of that laugh.

And then—just as fast—you hated yourself for feeling that way.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like they were chewing glass.  Your coffee had gone cold again—half-full, ringed with that bitter sludge of overexposure and neglect. You didn’t bother reheating it. The bitterness fit the week.

It was Thursday, and you were halfway through logging the blood tox panel from the Matthews case when the door opened without a knock. Agnes. Rio behind her. You didn’t stop moving. Didn’t need to. You’d already processed the results, triple-checked the file, uploaded the PDF to the shared drive, and timestamped it across two systems before they even crossed the threshold.

“Need the tox panel from Prescott,” Rio said casually, like it wasn’t the fifth thing you’d done without acknowledgment today.

Your hands didn’t stop moving. Didn’t need to. You’d already run the numbers, written the report, double-checked the vitals, uploaded the files, and logged the final time stamps before they even crossed the threshold. You didn’t look up. “Already emailed. Two hours ago.”

She blinked. “Oh.”

Agnes took a step forward, glancing at the wall screen. “You cross-check it with the wound profile from the first?”

You turned. Slow. Controlled. “Forty minutes ago. It’s on the drive.” Rio’s head tilted. Her expression didn’t change, but you saw the flicker of something in her eyes. Discomfort, maybe. Or worse. Realization.

“Thanks,” she offered.

“Wow,” you added, breath hitching just enough to betray the crack underneath. “You can see me. Guess those files must’ve made me important enough to recognize today.”

You didn’t blink. Just stared at them both. The overhead lights glared white off your lenses, your eyes dry, stinging. Exhaustion had stripped you raw, leaving only precision and sarcasm behind. You let your eyes sweep over them like a scalpel might a cadaver.

Neither of them moved. Agnes shifted, just barely. Like she might say something, like her mouth had started to form the words but didn’t commit. Rio’s eyes flicked to your hands. The gloves. The tension in your knuckles where they curled around the tray.

But neither of them spoke. And that silence? That pause? That was the worst of it. So you let it stretch a second longer. Then raised a gloved hand, palm up, sterile and final. “Forget it,” you said softly, like the words weighed more than they should’ve. “Just let me know when I matter again. Or better yet—don’t.” You turned back to your work. Back to the stillness. Back to the only thing that listened when you talked. Because the dead didn’t pretend not to see you.

You’d fallen asleep at your desk again. Forehead pressed to your arm, the back of your neck stiff, your coat still on. The reports you’d meant to finish were creased beneath your elbow. The coffee on the tray next to you had congealed into a bitter film. You hadn’t gone home. Not last night. Not the night before that, either. You had too many questions and not enough answers. You didn’t even remember hearing your phone go off or if it had. Your entire body ached like it had been poured into your skin the wrong way—tight, sore, running on fumes. The walls felt too close. The air too chemical.

You shoved your chair back. “Need five fucking minutes of sun,” you muttered hoarsely. “Or a resurrection.”

You didn’t bother with your coat, just stepped out into the corridor like it might save you. Just one breath of different air and actual sunshine on your face. Just one taste of not being seen as a utility. You didn’t make it far. “Whoa—”

A shoulder rammed into yours. Hard. The jolt snapped through your spine like a taser. You stumbled sideways, palm bracing against the wall to stop the spin, pain biting through your hip and shoulder where it collided with the wall. The man turned, walking backward now, sipping his coffee without a care. “Shit, Doc. Didn’t see you there,” he said, grinning. “Guess we both needed a wake-up call.” Your shoulders were still square. Still tight. You didn’t speak. “You okay?” he added with a chuckle. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost—or maybe just haven’t had a decent fuck in a while.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t blink. Didn’t roll your eyes or flash your badge or hit him with a verbal scalpel like usual. You just stood there. Exhausted. Tired in a way that showed in your posture. In your silence. In your eyes that didn’t even flinch when he smiled wider. “Damn,” he said, lifting one hand in mock surrender, still smiling like a predator who thought he was charming. “Sorry, Doc. Just playin’. Didn’t know bumping into you’d bruise your ego and your ass. But hey—if you need someone to rub it better—”

You didn’t look at him. Didn’t acknowledge him. Just turned—slow, deliberate—and walked away. Back toward the one place where no one expected anything else from you. Not quickly. Not angrily. Just… gone. Like there was nothing left in you to give. You made it three steps before the pressure hit your chest again, tight and familiar. A pressure that used to be caffeine. Now it was loneliness.

Ten steps down the hallway, Rio turned the corner—coffee in hand, clipboard under her arm—and stopped mid-stride.  She’d come around the corner right as the cop’s shoulder hit yours, and you hit the wall. She’d heard every word. She saw the way the heat in your face drained into blankness.  The way your hands didn’t shake, but your exhale stuttered like a body trying not to cry. She saw your spine straighten out of habit, not strength. It hit her like a punch: the stiffness in your walk, the way your head dipped just slightly lower, the way you hadn’t said a word when usually your mouth would’ve carved him into ribbons.

That silence spoke louder than anything else could’ve. The cop laughed once more to himself and turned the other way, still smug. Still alive.  You looked shattered. Not outwardly. Not in a way anyone else would’ve caught. She didn’t say a word as the cop swaggered past, clueless. Just tracked him with her eyes—deadpan, unreadable—until he was out of earshot. Then she turned back, slowly, gaze falling on your retreating frame.

You’d made it barely ten feet into the lab. You didn’t look at her when the door clicked shut behind her. You didn’t have it in you. She didn’t knock. Didn’t ask. Just stepped inside, the door sealing the two of you into the sterile quiet of metal, paper, and hums of machinery. “Hey,” she said softly. But not too soft. Not pitying. Not yet.

You didn’t answer right away. You just finished scribbling your final note on the autopsy sheet you had fallen asleep on and set the pen down a little too hard. The sound cracked like tension across the table. Rio cocked her head. You could feel the weight of her eyes on you even with your back turned. “I saw what happened in the hall,” she said. Calm. Measured. “You didn’t say a word.”

You shrugged. “Didn’t seem worth the breath.” She didn’t respond to that.  Didn’t need to. You finally turned, arms crossed, exhaustion dragging through every inch of your frame. Her silhouette was framed in the doorway light—heels, slacks, blazer still damp from the walk in, but sharp and solid. Commanding.

Your eyes dragged up to hers, lashes heavy, vision burning. You wanted to snarl. To cry. To scream. Something. Anything. But all that came out was silence, thick and trembling in your throat. Rio moved closer. Not in anger. Not in heat. With that tone she used when she meant to pull you back into yourself—like a rope being lowered into the dark. Like she’d dive in after you if you didn’t grab on. “Go home,” she said, low and deliberate. “Take a shower. Get in bed. Let it go for one damn hour.”

You turned. Not fast. Not dramatic. Just enough. Just slow enough to bleed meaning. You angled your head over your shoulder, jaw tight, expression unreadable. “Make me.”

Rio’s gaze swept your face. One blink. No flinch. Her body didn’t move. Not yet. But something behind her eyes shifted—like a fuse lit behind glass. You felt it settle behind your sternum, heavy and sharp, a weight born of tension too long restrained.

“You look like you’re about to unravel,” she said flatly. Not cruel. Not coddling. Just… fact. “You’re working yourself into the ground. You haven’t been home. You barely speak to either of us unless you’re logging a body or correcting someone’s grammar in a case file.”

You swallowed hard, but the bitterness stayed. “I don’t speak because no one listens,” you said, voice low, brittle. “Not here. Not at home. Half the precinct treats me like background noise until they need something translated into fucking Latin, and you two…”

Your throat seized. “You two don’t even look at me anymore unless I’m wearing someone else’s blood or holding a report. It’s like I stopped existing the second I started holding the weight by myself.”

That silence that followed? It was different now. Heavier. Rio stepped closer—quiet, steady. Her voice dropped with it. “You think staying busy makes you untouchable? Invisible?” she asked. “That we won’t notice when you don’t come home? That I won’t see the way your face lives in Agnes’s pillow, wearing my clothes when I see you in bed?”

Her words landed with surgical precision—each one slicing through that exhaustion-numbed shell you’d been using as armor. Your breath caught. “I see you,” she whispered. Her hand hovered near yours. Not touching. Just there. Just… possible. “You need to go home.”

You shook your head before the words even formed. “I can’t,” you whispered.

Rio leaned back just far enough to see your eyes, her jaw flexing. She scanned your expression like she was reading vitals. Not soft. Not angry. Just… assessing. Calculating the edge of your collapse. “Why?” she asked.

You hesitated. One breath. “One more body,” you said. “Maybe two. I’ve got preliminary work to finish before I can even start uploading tox screens.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe for a beat. Then, quieter than before, her voice like a knife dragged down velvet: “I’m not asking for your convenience,” she said. “I’m telling you what you need.” Your eyes snapped to hers. “And when you’re done,” Rio murmured, voice low and dark and thick with promise, “I’m going to remind you exactly how it feels to be wanted.”

She leaned in. “Not used. Not tolerated. Wanted.”

What was supposed to be two hours had bled into five. The clock on the far wall blinked 10:17 in sterile red digits, and you could feel it—behind your eyes, in the corners of your jaw, at the base of your spine. The way time dragged when you hadn’t meant to give it. When the body on your table had long since given you everything it could, but the bureaucracy refused to stop asking for more.

Your second coffee sat untouched beside the vent hood, already cold. The first was a distant ghost. Paramore echoed low from your speaker—“Decode,” maybe, or “Told You So”—a heartbeat of drums and bassline pressing behind your ribs, angry enough to match the way your molars ground together. You let the song loop. Over. And over. And over.

The last of your stitching had gone smooth, deliberate. Too slow for your own liking. Your muscles were exhausted—your fingers starting to cramp again from tension, not effort. You’d wanted to leave hours ago. Wanted to do what Rio said. Go home. Shower. Let yourself feel something other than the weight of the fluorescent haze.

But no. There was always one more thing.

And now…

The sharp buzz of your phone ripped through the room like a scalpel to bone. You didn’t flinch. Just stared at it for a beat, breath tight. Then came another buzz. You peeled off your gloves with clinical precision—blue latex snapping once, twice into the silence—then reached for the phone like it had personally wronged you.

Pressed it to your ear. You didn’t say hello. You didn’t have to. “What now?” you snapped. There was a pause. The sound of shuffling. Hesitation. Then: “Doc—hey—it’s uh, it’s Mendoza. We’ve got a new one. Downtown. Real bad. Chief says they want you out there ASAP.”

You blinked slowly. The overhead lights blurred again. Your fingers clenched tighter around the phone. “Are you serious.”

“Yeah,” he said, unsure. “I mean—it looks like the others.” The others. Your jaw locked. The music kept playing. Riot drums in your ribs. You didn’t answer. Just closed your eyes. Counted to three. Then pulled the phone from your ear and stared at it like you could set it on fire with your mind.

Because of course it looked like the others. Of course they needed you. Of course you weren’t done.  Your jaw locked. You blinked. Once. Twice.  “He said it’s been open a few hours. Thought someone already called you—”

“He thought?” Your voice dropped. No yelling. You didn’t need to. You looked down at the body in front of you—still open, chest cavity glistening under the surgical light. You had just started cataloguing internal bruising. Just started honoring this one.

Your hand hovered over the incision, then curled gently into a fist. “Of course he did,” you muttered. “Of course.” You didn’t speak to the phone again. Not yet. Instead, you looked back at the body. Pale. Cold. Quiet. “Sorry, love,” you whispered softly, tugging a fresh glove from the box and snapping it on. “Gotta go deal with the living and all their fuckups.”

You cleaned up the body, writing notes for when you came back. There was a reverence to it. A pause. “I’ll be back to finish what they can’t do right,” you murmured, pulling the bag closed over the face. “I promise.”

Only then did you bring the phone back to your ear. “I’m thirty minutes out,” you said, your voice low and controlled. “If O’Connor and Vidal are there, tell them if anyone touches that scene before I get there, I’ll put the next body bag over the Chief. And someone better tarp that body.”

“Y-yes, ma’am.” You hung up without another word.

The locker room light flickered once overhead as you stepped in—harsh and humming, bouncing off dented metal and water-stained tile. Your fingers were stiff from the chill of the lab, your shoulders aching from hours hunched over a table. You peeled off your scrubs one layer at a time, movements slow and automatic, like muscle memory was the only thing left keeping you upright.

The lemon-scented wipes stung as you dragged them across your neck, collarbone, the inside of your wrists. You didn’t wince. You just scrubbed harder. You tossed the soiled scrubs into the bin and turned to your locker. Half-shut. Neat inside, but... empty. Your brow furrowed. You leaned closer. Then cursed under your breath.

“Fanfuckingtastic”

You’d forgotten to pack a change of clothes. Again. You stood there for a moment, towel half-tucked at your hip, bare feet chilled against tile, staring like clean clothes might materialize if you looked hard enough. They didn’t. Your gaze drifted. Three lockers down. Unlabeled, but you didn’t need a nameplate. You’d cracked it before. Her scent hit first. Clean and musky, like leather that had been worn hard and oiled back to life. Underneath that: lavender, cinnamon, sweat, and control. Everything about Rio always radiated control, even when she wasn’t in the room.

They were soft from wear, seams faintly stretched, the denim broken in along the thighs and waistband. You could feel her shape in them. Long legs, strong hips, the line of tension where her thigh holster usually sat. You stepped into them like stepping into memory—like you’d done this before and never been caught. They sat lower on your hips than your own did. A little loose in the waist. You yanked them up and cinched the button closed, feeling the fabric tug against your thighs. Comfortable. Familiar. Possessed. Let yourself feel the way they clung—how they held your body like a threat waiting to be answered.

Next locker over: Agnes’s. You knew it by the way she folded her shirts, as if discipline were applied to cotton. Every seam lined with precision; every edge squared. Even now, the white button-down lay waiting, crisp and quiet, like it had been waiting for you. You reached for it slowly.  It was a little too big. Always had been. You shrugged it on anyway, pulling it over your shoulders like armor. The fabric slid against your skin, sleeves falling past your wrists until you rolled them. The hem hung low against your hips, uneven over the waistband of Rio’s borrowed jeans. You left it open at the top. No tie. No apology.

It still smelled like her. Not just perfume—though that was there too, sharp and intentional, violet-laced with warning. Beneath it, though: clove cigarettes, the kind she’d stopped smoking but never quite gave up. Black coffee was left too long on the burner. The waxy trace of dark lipstick, sealed into the collar. You could feel her in it—her mouth at your ear, her fingers gripping your jaw, the sharp edge of her folded into every crease. The combination was maddening. Rio’s jeans. Agnes’s shirt. One loose, one tight. One made for heat, the other for command.

You looked at yourself in the mirror and almost didn’t recognize what you saw. Exhausted. Fuming. Covered in them. You were clothed in their absence. And still—you were alone. Your chest tightened just a little. A flicker of comfort. A ghost of warmth in a space that had none.  The department field jacket hung on its hook beside your boots. You shrugged into both and slammed the locker shut. You pulled your hair back. Tied it off with a band you found near Rio’s spare watch.

Another glance at your reflection in the metal. Collarbone bare. Shirt damp at the cuffs from your wipe down. Eyes darker than you remembered. You looked like someone who might pick a fight. The silence echoed behind you as you walked out, each step carrying the weight of bone-deep fatigue and borrowed authority.

You slid into the driver’s seat, slammed the door harder than necessary, and didn’t bother buckling in until the windshield fogged halfway over. The rain hit steadily. Relentless. Fat drops scattering across the glass like teeth chattering. You clicked the wipers on. They squeaked once—angrily—and dragged the world back into focus.

Your hands tightened around the wheel. And then—it hit you again. That itch. Sharp. Sudden. Persistent. You rolled your shoulder, grimaced, reached back to scratch just beneath the edge of your bra strap where the lines of your tattoo had started to scab. It was healing well—Nova had done good work—but God, it itched like hell.

You scratched with your knuckles, not your nails. It didn’t help. “Fucking perfect,” you muttered. The shirt—Agnes’s—rubbed right against it every time you moved. Every brush of the fabric made your skin twitch. And it wasn’t just the shirt. Wasn’t just the tattoo. Wasn’t even the Chief’s inability to do his goddamn job.

Days of back-to-back double shifts, late-night field calls, and crime scenes that bled together in your sleep. Weeks since Rio’s hands last held you down. Since Agnes had pressed her chest to your back and made you stop thinking. Since neither of them had done more than glance at you on the way out the door.

Your thighs clenched instinctively. You gritted your teeth. It shouldn’t have mattered. You weren’t a fucking brat about it. But your body didn’t care. The exhaustion had gone sour. Every sleepless hour, every untouched nerve ending, every look they gave you that wasn’t enough—it all rotted under your skin like fire in a closed room. The crime scene was two miles out. Rain hammered the roof of the car like it had something personal to prove, and the storm hadn’t let up in hours. The tires hissed over wet asphalt as you pulled up to the scene.

Flashing lights cut through the storm in alternating pulses—red, blue, red, blue—blurring the rain into something almost beautiful if you weren’t already exhausted. A strip of yellow tape snapped weakly in the wind at the edge of the perimeter, sagging like it had been forgotten. Two squad cars. One coroner van. Floodlights perched on unstable tripods, bleaching the lot with cold, clinical white that turned blood into rust and skin into marble. You exhaled through your nose. Loud. Sharp.

One hand still on the wheel, the other pressed to your thigh as you tried, and failed to breathe through the weight pressing down behind your eyes.  Your tattoo flared under your shirt again—burning now. You resisted the urge to scratch it. Resisted the urge to scream. You rolled your shoulder against the seat. Didn’t help. You gritted your teeth.  Your fingers twitched once. Then you opened the door. The rain greeted you like an insult. It crashed across your shoulders and poured down the collar of your department field coat, soaking into the stitching, dragging the weight of the storm down your back. It was cold. Sharp. Steady. And it made everything worse. The fabric beneath Agnes’s white shirt had already begun to cling. The shoulders were damp, the front marked with spots that had bled through the coat’s zipper. It stuck to your ribs. Your sternum. You adjusted the cuffs once, muttering under your breath, but it didn’t help.

Your boots hit the pavement like punctuation. Hard. Loud. Final. You crossed the lot with purpose, mud sucking at your soles, water pooling around you. The wind knifed through your body and pressed the rain even deeper into your shirt. You didn’t flinch. And they saw you before you reached the tape.

Rio was leaned against the unmarked, arms folded across her chest, rain catching in the curve of her jaw. Her blazer was dark with water, shoulders soaked clean through, but her posture hadn’t budged. Her heels were planted. Perfect. Immaculate. She tilted her head as you approached, her eyes tracking you with something between calculation and hunger. Her gaze slipped down—boots, jeans, shirt. Paused. Lingered. She didn’t say anything. But her mouth twitched like she was holding something sharp behind her teeth.

Agnes stood further back, just past the edge of the floodlight spill. Her coat collar was flipped up against the wind, and her gloves were tucked at her waist. She hadn’t moved. Not even a shift of weight. But her eyes? Her eyes had been on you since the moment you stepped out of the car. They dropped to the shirt. The familiar collar. The too-wide fit. Then backup. She always saw the details. Her jaw tightened. But her eyes narrowed. A quiet flare. A warning. Nothing else moved.

You flashed your badge at the nearest patrol officer as you stepped under the tape, not bothering with small talk. The rain hissed down your back. Every breath you took tasted like static.  “Doc—Doc, hey, I was just about to text—”

You turned your head just enough to see Chief Jones coming toward you, folder clutched like a shield. The cop stepped aside fast. But the Chief caught up anyway, his hand raising like you were about to hug. “Listen, I thought someone had called—this one came in messy, and dispatch got screwed up and—”

You stopped. Turned your full body toward him. Rain dripped from your jaw. Your collar. Your gloves. “You thought?”

He glanced you over. Shirt clinging at your chest. Jacket soaked. Eyes flat. “You look—uh…Doc, you look tired.”

Your smile was glacial. “Eat my ass, Chief.”

From across the lot, Rio let out a sharp, surprised snort of laughter. Tried to stifle it with the back of her hand. Failed. The sound cracked through the rain like thunder—a single, irreverent bark of amusement. You didn’t look at her. You just stepped past the Chief, boots kicking up rain. “Scene’s mine now.” He raised his hands in surrender. “R-right. Yeah. Totally. Carry on.”

The scene unfolded in front of you—sloppy, open, disrespected. The body was still uncovered, half-wrapped in a tarp that had clearly been dragged back. The rain had soaked through the clothes. The blood had spread into the gravel and mud. Boot prints crossed through the entire perimeter—shallow, overlapping, indistinct. Evidence lost. Compromise baked into the scene like rot under bleach. You crouched low beside the corpse. A field tech stepped up with a clipboard, mumbling something about estimated time of death. You didn’t answer. You didn’t even look at him. You just pulled your gloves on, snapped them tight at the wrists, and clicked the camera on.

Flash. Flash. Flash.

The light caught the angles of the jaw, the distortion of the face, the blackened blood trail leaking into the grit below. Each shutter echoed behind your eyes. Behind your teeth. In the center of your spine, where tension had lived for weeks. Your grip on the camera was too tight. Your breath shallow. “Maybe if protocol meant a damn thing in this department,” you muttered, low but unmistakable, “the body wouldn’t have been trampled before I got here.”

No one answered. The silence hung like wet fabric. But you didn’t stop. You moved around the body with precision—photo after photo, angles adjusted by habit, measurements logged without being asked. You barked corrections at a tech who mishandled the evidence markers. Another almost stepped into the blood trail and you snapped— “Look where you’re fucking going!” He flinched. Stumbled back. You didn’t apologize. The storm kept falling.

Rain lashed the back of your coat, running down your spine in rivulets that made you flinch—not from the cold, but from the distraction. Agnes’s white shirt clung in damp folds across your shoulder blades, the fabric nearly see-through now beneath your field jacket, itching where it stuck to your ribs. You could still smell her on it—clove and coffee and lipstick and authority. Rio’s jeans were worse—wet in patches, stiff where they pulled at the backs of your knees, warm where they’d soaked through to your thighs. The fit was too close, too intimate. You hated how grounding it was. You shifted, stepping around the body again, looking for a clearer angle of the wound beneath the ribs. You adjusted the focus ring, fingers tight, shoulders hunched—

And then you felt her. Agnes. She didn’t say your name. Didn’t bark. She was just suddenly there, a breath beside you, boots silent in the muck. “Be careful,” she said, voice low, command wrapped in silk. “You’re tracking close to the splatter edge.”

You didn’t look at her. Didn’t pause. “Didn’t ask for a babysitter,” you said, too flat to be teasing. Agnes stilled. But you kept moving, dragging the lens tighter, crouching lower, cold mud biting through the knees of Rio’s jeans. You knew they were watching. You could feel it. That press of attention like static across your spine.

Then—another voice. Rio. From a few feet behind, her tone was drier than the air had been in weeks. “Try not to slip, Doc. You fall in the blood, I’m not pulling you out.”

You rolled your eyes. Stayed focused on the angle. The light. The line of the wound. “Tired of cleaning up after me already?” you muttered—not quite loud enough for the techs, but just loud enough for them. You snapped another photo. The shutter clicked. The storm rumbled low, like the sky was chewing something it didn’t want to swallow. Then you shifted again, rising to your feet, flicking your gloves with a snap.

And just loud enough for only them to hear— “I’ll try not to bleed too much. Wouldn’t want to stain the cuffs.” Agnes exhaled. Sharp. Controlled. Rio tilted her head and gave that tongue-in-cheek smile. The kind that promised violence or reward, depending on your next move.

And then—

You heard it. Two uniforms, crouched beneath the open door of a squad car, shoulders hunched close against the rain. Their voices were low, but not low enough. Not for you. Not for the way your name cut through their teeth like a joke they didn’t care if you heard. “She’s getting worse,” one muttered, tone edged in mock concern. “You ask me, it’s what happens when a bitch gets too much power and not enough cock.”

The other snorted. “Power? Please. She barks orders like she thinks her lab coat and PhD makes her a detective. A lab coat doesn’t cover what she really needs.” A laugh. Mean. Sharp.

You didn’t turn. Didn’t move. You just took the next photo with a click so tight your knuckles whitened on the camera. “Fucking hell,” the first one added. “If I talked to people like that, I’d be bent over someone’s desk until I learned my manners.” A rustle of nylon. The hiss of shifting weight. “Bet she only opens her mouth to give orders—or to suck off the women keeping her in that job.” You froze. Your spine stiffened. Your teeth locked.

“Not that I’d mind teaching her a little respect,” one of them added. “Could break that mouth in real good.”

You exhaled. Once, and kept working. You leaned in closer to the body—low, slow, steady—until your boots sank just enough into the muck that you could feel the water rising around the soles. The rain had washed away half the blood already, diluting it into rust-colored ribbons, but not enough to lose the story. Up close, every corpse whispered something different. This one was quieter than most. You tilted the angle, caught the mark along the ribs again, shutter flashing. The shot wouldn’t hold. The evidence wouldn’t last. And then, almost inaudibly, under your breath: “Sorry it took this long.”

Your ritual. Always the same. Just that one line. Not for anyone else. Just for you and the dead. You drew in a breath through your nose—wet denim clinging to your knees, collar damp where it brushed your jaw—and let the rain soak your silence. You tapped the shutter one more time. Then pushed up to your feet. The coroner’s team had finally arrived. You nodded once—tight, professional—and stepped back into the gravel.

The lead tech hesitated. Saw your eyes. Then moved in with gloved hands. The stretcher came in—quiet wheels on soaked asphalt. You watched them work: the measured lift, the slick sound of a zipper pulled closed across someone’s final hour. You didn’t flinch. But you did track every movement, arms crossed, camera at your hip, body braced against the sick weight of it all.

That was when you felt it. Not the rain. Not the wind. Them. Agnes had shifted behind you, maybe ten feet off, boots planted like she was holding back an impulse. Her coat was still open, the edges darkened with water, her hand flexing once at her side like she was stopping herself from speaking. Her mouth was set. Sharp and unreadable. Rio had moved, too. Leaning now against the passenger side of their unmarked car, arms crossed under her chest, one heel still hooked over the edge of the curb. But her gaze— Her gaze hadn’t left you once. She wasn’t smiling now. No tease. No smirk. Just watchful. Focused. Predatory.

You turned away from both of them before it could register too deeply. Not with the storm still crawling down your neck, and the scent of Agnes’s perfume rising up through the wet cotton like memory. The storm pressed down harder. Your boots hissed with each step as you moved toward the far end of the clearing.

One final sweep. You crouched again. Adjusted the lens. Took more photos. Not just of the blood. The gravel. The angle of impact. You shot the drag marks. The splatter radius. The barely-there imprint of a footprint edging out of bounds. You documented the cigarette butts too close to the body, the torn glove someone had discarded by the tarp, the smudged boot print from the idiot who stepped too close, even the inside edge of a coffee cup someone had dropped and never picked up. You caught it all.  Because no one else would.

When you stood again, a faint ache throbbed at the base of your spine. You rolled your shoulder once. Let the camera fall against your chest. Flexed your fingers. Then paused. You looked up and realized the world had gone still. The techs were gone. The coroner’s van was half-closed. The last pair of uniformed officers left in their patrol car. No more footsteps. No more chatter. The scene was cleared.

Everyone else was gone. Only three people remained: You. Agnes. Rio. The rain had soaked through every layer by now—Rio’s jeans clinging to your thighs, the hem of Agnes’s shirt nearly transparent where it stuck to your chest, your field jacket cold and heavy and no longer doing its damn job. Your body ached with exhaustion. With hours. With fury that hadn’t found a name yet.

Your fingers itched around the shutter, but there was nothing left to shoot. Only them. Agnes, a dark silhouette under the edge of the crime scene tape, her collar turned up, jaw sharp and unreadable. Rio’s eyes fixed on you like a challenge she’d already accepted.

You exhaled once and turned to leave. The gravel hissed under your boots as you made your way back. You kept your eyes forward, not looking at either of them, you muttered it. Low. Pointed. Laced in defiance. “Guess I’ll write the fucking report too since I seem to be the only one doing their job.”

The words barely cleared your mouth before you heard the wet smack of something landing in a hand—keys.

You blinked. Turned. Agnes was already moving. She’d tossed Rio the keys without looking and she was closing the distance between you. Slow. Controlled. Her boots crunched over wet gravel, coat flaring slightly behind her, hair pulled back so tight not a strand moved. Her eyes were on you and you felt it all the way to your ribs.

You didn’t back up. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. She stepped close enough that you could smell her again—clove and coffee and the threat of something ancient coiled beneath her skin. She tilted her head. Voice low. Almost calm. “Say that again, doll.”

You didn’t hesitate. Didn’t soften. You looked her dead in the eye and said it slower this time. “I said maybe if protocol meant a little more fucking follow-through—oh wait Agnes… you can see me now! I must have become important again.”

She didn’t wait for the end of it. Her hand snapped forward—not violent, but firm—and caught your elbow in a grip that made your breath stutter. She turned you toward the unmarked car. Not rough. Not rushed. But with the kind of force that said everything.

Your back landed hard enough to knock water from the roof and send it cascading down the back of your jacket. You gasped. Tried to push up—but she was already crowding into your space, body pressing yours back against the door. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You want attention? You’ll get it.” You swallowed hard, pulse slamming in your throat. She leaned in closer. Her lips brushed your ear—not a kiss, but a promise.

Her hand slid down between your legs, through soaked denim, and you whimpered before you could stop it. Then she pulled back. You gasped. Tried to move forward. Her fingers hovered. “No,” she whispered. “Not yet.” You shuddered, caught between the cold and the ache and the wet heat of being seen. Another pass of her hand—barely there—and you clenched around the absence, needing more, desperate for friction. For pressure. “Loud little mouth,” Agnes murmured against your jaw. “No wonder Rio keeps you close. Someone’s got to keep you in line.” Another whimper escaped you.

“Fuck you—”

“No, no. Not tonight.” She smiled. Pulled back. You almost fell forward chasing her hand.

The door to the car opened beside you. She shoved you in with enough force to make your teeth click. You landed hard in the passenger seat, thighs spread, shirt damp and clinging to your spine, jacket shoved halfway off your shoulder like even your clothes knew you’d crossed a line. The door slammed shut behind you.

She didn’t get in right away. Through the rain-streaked windshield, you caught a glimpse of Rio heading toward your car—your car—already spinning the keys Agnes had tossed her. No hesitation. No fanfare. Just the confident clip of her heels against wet pavement. Her coat whipping behind her like she was walking into battle. Fuming. Fucking focused.

Rio peeled out with the kind of precision only she could manage—clean, fast, no wheelspin. No brake lights. Just the growl of the engine cutting through the rain as she disappeared into the street, alone.

You blinked after her. Only then did the other door open. Agnes slid in beside you. The car dipped with her weight. Her coat rustled as she settled behind the wheel. You didn’t look at her, but you felt her eyes on you—on the shake in your thighs, the rise and fall of your breath, the way your soaked shirt clung to your chest like you’d been claimed.

She didn’t speak. Just turned the key in the ignition and let the heater sputter on. Warm air crawled across your damp skin. Not enough to dry you. Just enough to remind you how cold you’d let yourself get. Your thighs were still trembling. Your jaw clenched. The need burned low and dangerously in your belly, made worse by how calmly she rested her hand on the steering wheel, like she hadn’t just humiliated you in the rain. Like she hadn’t owned you, fingertip by fingertip, then left you aching.

You stayed silent. Because whatever line you’d crossed out there in the mud—whatever fire you lit with your mouth—this was the consequence. And she was going to make sure you felt every inch of it.

The rain followed you all the way to the porch—slick and insistent, like it didn’t want to let you go. By the time you stepped inside, your field coat was dripping at the hem, water beading and rolling off your cuffs. The white shirt beneath clung to your skin, translucent in places, the fabric heavier now with the weight of the storm—and of everything Agnes had done to you in the car and everything she hadn’t.

The front door slammed shut behind you with a force that felt personal. The sound echoed—not loud, not sharp. Just final. Like a verdict dropped in a quiet courtroom. Agnes didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

She walked in ahead of you, each step a statement. Her hand reached for the table by the entryway and set the keys down with a click—soft, deliberate, surgical. Not thrown. Not slammed. Just placed, with that same merciless precision she always used when she was about to cut you open. Her coat came off in one clean slide, shoulders rolling, fabric folding like surrender was for other people. She didn’t glance back. She didn’t ask if you were coming. You were still one step inside. Still soaked. Still shaking. Still ruined.

Your thighs trembled with the memory of how she’d touched you—too little, too much, too fucking exact. Your core pulsed like it had a mind of its own, synched with the heartbeat thudding traitorously against your ribs. The back of your jeans still clung to the car door’s impression. The heat of her palm hadn’t left you. It ached.

She disappeared down the hall. You slipped off your muddy boots and then followed. Not because she told you to, but because your legs moved like they belonged to her now. Maybe they always had. The house was warm but silent—silent in the way a loaded gun is silent. You could hear your own breath. The soft, rhythmic tick of water dripping from your jacket onto the hardwood. The low hum of the fridge in the next room. Thunder, far off. The ghost of lightning. Only one lamp was on—set low in the corner of the living room. The light cast long shadows against the walls, golden and trembling.

Agnes stood near the center. Her back was to you at first. She hadn’t bothered turning when she heard you enter. She knew. Her coat had been thrown over a chair, sleeves still damp. Her blouse clung faintly to her spine, sheer in the light. Her hair—usually flawless—was mussed from the storm, curling slightly at the nape. Her hands were bare, knuckles white. She was still. Not calm. Poised.

You stopped just inside the room, but she didn’t turn yet. When she did, it was slow. Measured. Her gaze met yours like a strike of lightning—no thunder, no warning. You froze. She didn’t look angry. Anger would’ve been a kindness. This was something colder. Sharper. Something earned.

Her voice came quiet, but deadly. “You want to explain what the hell that was back there?” You didn’t answer. Not fast enough. Not the right way. Her eyes lifted. Found yours. And she smiled. Slow. Sharp. Cruel.

“Oh. Don’t go shy on me now, doll. You had plenty to say out in the field.” Your jaw locked. Your breath hitched. And Agnes stepped forward—into the room, into you. The storm was behind you now. But you weren’t safe. Not even close. You held her gaze. Barely. Jaw tight. Shoulders squared. Chest rising and falling like you were trying to convince your lungs this wasn’t already a mistake.

But you didn’t look away. She noticed. The lamp’s low light caught on her eyes, dark as stormwater, gleaming with something sharper than anger. Her mouth curled, slow and tight, like she could taste your resistance from across the room. You should’ve shut up. You didn’t. “Oh, don’t give me that look,” you said, too sharp, too fast. “You wanted a show? Maybe try calling your techs next time instead of relying on broken chain-of-command bullshit. Or don’t—seems like you got off on watching me lose it.”

Agnes didn’t blink. She just tilted her head slightly to the side, like you were something beneath a slide, under glass, still twitching. But something in her posture shifted. A subtle roll through her shoulders. A closing of distance. Her smile returned—soft and slow and terrifying. “Cute,” she murmured. “Real cute. Still don’t know when to stop running that mouth, do you? Watch your tone.”

Your breath came shallow. Not fear. Not shame. Just heat. Friction. That fucked-up, familiar high of playing with fire you’d convinced yourself you could handle. You should’ve listened. But your mouth was already open. “Why?” you shot back, chin lifted. “Afraid someone might figure out you don’t actually know how to handle me?”

Her smile didn't reach her eyes. She stepped in again, closer now, chest brushing yours, her hand braced against the wall beside your head. “Handle you?” she echoed, voice a low drag of disbelief. “Sweetheart, I built you.”

You blinked. The air caught in your throat. She leaned in—close enough that her breath coasted across your cheek. “You think this thing you do—this biting, bratty little act—is new to me?” she said, the words a hiss between her teeth.

You clenched your jaw. She noticed. “There it is,” she breathed. “That twitch. That fight. Like you’ve still got something left to prove.” Her hand came up—not touching, not yet—hovering just beneath your jaw, a silent promise of possession. “You walk into my scene, wearing my shirt, mouthing off—”

Your breath hitched. She smiled again. “—and you still think you’re the one in control?” You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your body had already betrayed you. Your thighs shifted. Your hips rolled, just slightly, trying to find friction, relief, contact. Anything. She watched it all. “Pathetic,” she whispered. “Look at you. Already soaking through those borrowed jeans. I bet if I checked, I’d find my name slicked across your pussy like a fucking signature.”

You whimpered. A real one. She didn’t let up. “You just want someone to tell you what to do. Someone to fuck the fight out of you.” Your lips parted—but no words came. She tilted her head again, mockingly soft. “Go on. Mouth off again. Give me a reason to drag you to the floor and remind you exactly what kind of girl you are.”

Your tongue swiped the inside of your cheek. You could’ve let it go. Could’ve taken the out. But your pulse was already thrumming, your thighs clenched, and the look in her eyes—steady, cold, waiting—lit something reckless inside you.

“Didn’t realize you were fragile now.” That smile she wore froze. Just a fraction. The line of her jaw locked tight, and she stepped in—closer, closer still—until her boots were braced on either side of your chair.

“Careful,” she said quietly.

You arched an eyebrow. Slow. Defiant. “Or what?”

Agnes inhaled through her nose. Long. Controlled. But her hands twitched at her sides—like they wanted to do something they weren’t allowed to yet. “You really want to play this game right now?” she murmured.

You tilted your head, slow and poisonous. “You’re the one still talking.”

Agnes didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. The look she gave you then was all steel-like, as if she were measuring the exact weight of your disobedience, carving you up in real time. One heartbeat passed. Then another. Agnes stepped into you so fast your breath punched out of your lungs. Her hands braced your shoulders, and before you could blink, you were stumbling backward—feet slipping slightly on the hardwood—until the backs of your thighs hit the edge of the living room chair. You landed hard, spine jarring against the cushion, legs spread by the angle of the seat and her knee immediately pressing between them.

She stood over you like the fucking gallows. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?” she said, voice low and cutting. “Running your mouth like you want to be punished.”

You opened it again—couldn’t stop yourself—but she was already pressing one hand to your chest, holding you there like a pinned specimen. “Say something clever now,” she sneered. “Go on. Make it worth the breath.”

Your mouth twitched. You weren’t going to give her the satisfaction—until her other hand slid up your thigh. Not inside. Not even close. Just a slow drag of fingertips against the soaked denim she already knew wasn’t yours. Rio’s jeans. Her shirt. Her storm.

Agnes looked down. Smirked. “Wearing her pants, my shirt, strutting into a scene like you own the whole damn task force,” she murmured. “Is that what this is? A cry for attention?”

You didn’t answer. You were too focused on the way her palm pressed just slightly firmer, just enough to promise something. Threaten it. Deny it. “Look at you,” she said, almost gently, almost bored. “So fucking full of attitude out there. All mouth. No discipline. No control.”

Her hand moved. Slid higher. Just enough to brush the seam. You gasped. She pulled away. “There it is,” she said, her voice sharpening. “The real you. Soaked and silent the second someone puts their hands on you. You act tough, but you’re just aching to be told what to do, aren’t you?”

Your body jerked—humiliated, aroused, furious—and she laughed. Cold and clean and cruel. “You really thought you’d get fucked tonight?” she whispered, dragging her nails lightly over your thigh.

Her smile turned sharp. Her words dropped low, right against your mouth. “You think that is how you get what you want?” she asked.

That’s when she grabbed you again, hard this time. Her palm returned between your legs, firmer now, pressing down until your hips twitched up to meet her hand—but she didn’t give you friction. Just pressure. Just power. Just the maddening weight of her restraint. You opened your mouth, breath catching— Her eyes flicked up, sharp. “Don’t,” she warned.

But you did anyway, something half-formed, half-defiant. She pushed you harder into the chair. Her hand clamped down. Your body jolted. “Pathetic little scientist,” she muttered, almost with affection. “So smart in the lab, so fucking dumb when you’re desperate.”

Your cheeks burned. But you didn’t move. Not even when she slid her hand up—palm dragging over the damp front of your jeans, knuckles grazing your waistband, slow and cruel. “What would they think,” she asked, “if they saw you like this? Field coat half-unzipped, collar popped, my shirt soaking through against your tits, your thighs twitching just because I’m in the same room.”

You gasped, but she didn’t stop. “No wonder Rio walked away. She saw it too. The way you tremble when someone gives you orders. The way you pretend you don’t love being owned.” Her hand disappeared again. Gone. You whined before you could stop it. Agnes smiled, like a scalpel finding the softest tissue. “Oh,” she said softly. “Do you miss me already?”

You clenched your fists in your lap. Refused to answer. “Still trying to pretend you have any control left at all?” She crouched in front of you—slow, deliberate—until she was eye-level, her hands resting on your knees. The chair groaned beneath you. “You don’t,” she whispered. “You gave it up the second you put on my shirt.”

Then, just as you leaned forward, as if drawn toward her by gravity alone, she pushed your knees apart and stood. You gasped, heat flaring in your chest. That simple motion—calm, unhurried—somehow made you feel more exposed than if she’d stripped you bare.

She hovered there for a breath, gaze raking down your front, then turned, pacing slowly behind you like she could read your pulse from the back of your neck. Her hand returned between your thighs without warning—firmer now. Not rubbing. Just pressing. Just there. “You really think you’re subtle?” she said, voice tight with disbelief. “Storming into a scene like you weren’t begging to get dragged home and put in your place.”

Her fingers flexed once. You twitched. She chuckled low. “Not even a full touch,” she murmured. “And you’re already leaking through your goddamn underwear.” You whimpered, face burning. “You’re a disgrace,” she continued, circling back in front of you. “To the badge, to the department—hell, to that degree we let you hang on the wall.”

She crouched again; fingers still hot against the soaked cotton between your thighs. “But I know what you really want,” she said, voice dropping. “You want to be broken down right here. In your little borrowed clothes, fucked raw with your jeans still on.” Your head dropped—ashamed, aroused, overwhelmed. “Don’t even think about taking them off,” she snapped. “You don’t get to undress until I say.”

You nodded—barely. “Sit still,” she ordered. “Feel every second of it.” Her hand left you again, and you shivered, clenching around nothing. Needing. Starving. She stood over you, calm and cold as a knife laid across the tongue. “God,” she said, almost like a sigh. “You’re so easy it’s almost boring.” But her eyes—dark, steady, dilated—said something else entirely.

Her boot nudged your ankle, a little push then firmer, spreading you wider in the chair. She didn’t crouch this time. Just leaned forward, both hands braced on the arms of the chair, her face inches from yours. “You think you’re holding out?” she murmured. “You’re fucking trembling.” You bit your lip. The fabric between your legs felt drenched now—sticky, soaked, humiliating.

Her hand moved again. Not inside. Never inside. Just over your core—slow, slow pressure, palm grinding through the ruined cotton like she was savoring the heat. “Look at you,” she whispered. “Ruining my shirt. Making a mess of Rio’s jeans like you don’t even care what they cost.”

You whimpered. “Oh no,” she breathed. “You don’t get to hide now. You wanted this.” Her palm dragged up—too much friction and not enough all at once. You gasped, thighs twitching against the constraint of her boot. “Keep your legs open,” she warned, pushing you wider again. “If I see them close even once, we start over.”

You nodded—but the moment her hand left, your hips rolled forward instinctively, chasing friction. Desperate. She caught it. Saw it. “Needy little slut,” she hissed. “Is that it? You want to hump my hand like some desperate thing?” You swallowed hard. You couldn’t answer. Her fingers returned—two of them now, sliding over the damp curve with maddening precision. Still no relief. Still no real contact. Just pressure. Enough to make your whole body light up. Not enough to push you over.

“You’re going to sit here,” she said, dragging her fingers back, “until you forget your own name.” You moaned—high and broken—and she smirked. “What’s that?” she asked softly. “Still trying to talk back?”

Another slow grind. You choked on your own breath. “That’s what I thought.” She straightened, her hand leaving you once more. The emptiness was brutal. “Say thank you.” You hesitated. She leaned back down, one hand fisting in your hair, the other ghosting just above—close enough that your hips jerked again, betrayed by muscle memory.

“Say it,” she said, low and cold. “Or I walk.” Your throat burned. You didn’t want to. You didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. But your body answered before your pride could. “Thank you,” you whispered. “Fuck—thank you.”

She smiled like she’d won a war. “Good girl,” she purred—but there was venom in it. Sweet. Mocking. Triumphant. Like she hadn’t just won a round, but the entire fucking war.

Her hand didn’t leave you. Two fingers pressed firmer against the soaked denim between your thighs, slow and deliberate. The circles she drew were maddening—just enough pressure to make your hips twitch, just enough heat to hollow you out. Never enough to end it. “You’re shaking,” she said quietly, almost with amusement. “Pathetic.”

You bit down on the whimper, clawing its way up your throat. Your hands gripped the arms of the chair, knuckles white, nails digging into the grain. The fabric between your legs was already clinging to your skin, soaked through and stretched tight from every twitch you couldn’t control. Agnes’s gaze dropped—sharp, clinical. Watching the way your body betrayed you. “You were already soaked when I touched you,” she said, matter-of-factly. “Like you showed up to the scene dripping through my shirt and thought no one would notice.”

Her hand never stopped moving. Every drag of her knuckles pressed into you with intent—calculated pressure that sent your hips rolling just to meet it. But still—she didn’t speed up. Didn’t dip beneath the waistband. Didn’t unzip. Just slow, relentless strokes that teased every nerve without giving you an ounce of relief. “Tell me,” she murmured, thumb brushing one of your belt loops like she could undo you just by touch alone. “When exactly did you think it would be smart to act out?” You clenched your jaw. A mistake. “Speak.”

“I didn’t—” Her fingers snapped up, catching your chin in one sharp grip. She turned your face toward hers. No mercy in her eyes. No warmth. “Wrong answer.” And then—finally—she pressed harder between your thighs. Her knuckles ground against you through the jeans, just above where you needed her, cruel in their precision. You gasped. Your spine arched. “There she is,” she breathed. “That little scientist act doesn’t hold up when you’re this wet, does it?”

You gasped. She didn’t stop. Fingers grinding in a slow, cruel rhythm. Circling. Retreating. Circling again. Never where you needed. Never what you begged for in the coil of your breath. “You’re throbbing,” she whispered, mouth at your jaw. “Clenching around nothing. You want to cum so bad you can’t breathe,” she said, voice honey-thick and cruel. “But you’re not even close to deserving it.”

Her breath grazed your cheek. Her other hand gripped the arm of the chair beside your thigh, anchoring her as she kept the pressure steady, relentless, maddening. Her fingers circled again, slow and brutal. You whimpered. “God,” she murmured. “Do you even hear yourself?”

You were already panting. Already trembling. She pressed down hard. The pressure jolted through your hips. Your eyes flew wide. “You feel that?” she asked softly. “That flutter? That perfect little stutter your body gives when it thinks—maybe—just maybe—you’ll get to finish?”

You nodded. Barely. “Don’t even think about it,” she snapped. “If you cum without permission, I’ll make sure you regret it.” Another circle. Slow. Deep. Devastating. “Say you won’t.”

You choked on the sound. “I won’t.”

“What was that? I couldn’t hear you.”

“I won’t,” you gasped.

She smiled. Her hand didn’t stop. “Good girl.” Her voice dipped into something lower now—velvet, dark, ruinous. She leaned closer, her lips brushing the edge of your temple. Her hand didn’t stop.

You whimpered. Loud. She hummed, pleased, and her fingers pushed just a little deeper, right over the seam, pressing where she knew you’d feel it worst. Right where you needed her. The pressure made your back lift from the chair, a helpless jolt, your thighs clenching. She didn’t ease up. “Don’t move,” she said. Calm. Deadly. “You don’t get to chase. Not yet.” You forced yourself, still shaking, jaw locked, trying to breathe through it. Her palm never stopped moving. Torturously slow. Down, then up again. Circling. Stroking. Missing.

Your mouth opened. Nothing came out but a choked, broken gasp. Your eyes stung. Agnes smirked. “That’s better,” she said. “There’s my little genius. All theory, no control. Just a soaked, trembling mess in borrowed clothes.”

Her thumb dragged slow and cruel over the center seam. “I want to hear it,” she said, voice low and dangerous. “Tell me how it feels.” You shook your head, but her hand pressed harder. “Say it.”

You whimpered, voice cracking. “It’s so good it… hurts.”

Her smile was all teeth now. “Good.” Her hand pulled back completely. Your hips bucked up before you could stop them, chasing the loss like it was a lifeline, but she just stood there, hands at her sides, watching you crumble. “You’re going to sit there,” she said coldly, “and feel every second of it. Every throb. Every little twitch your body gives while it begs for friction.” You moaned—quiet, broken. “Sit. Still,” she snapped. “And don’t you dare move until I say.”

You obeyed. Barely. Your hands gripped the arms of the chair so tightly your knuckles ached. Your thighs quivered, torn between slamming shut and staying open like she’d left them—wide, obedient, ruined. The wet heat between your legs pulsed with every second that passed. Your jeans clung to you like a punishment, the soaked fabric pressing against your swollen clit in a way that felt unbearable, maddening.

Agnes crouched again. Still right in front of you. Not moving. Not saying a word. Just watching. Her gaze dragged over you like a razor—slow, precise, devastating. Your damp shirt clung to your chest in patches where the rain hadn’t fully dried. Your skin burned beneath it. The scent of her still lingered on the collar, thick and sharp and dark as her stare.

You didn’t realize you’d whimpered again until her brow lifted. “You poor thing,” she murmured, voice like poison wrapped in silk. “You look like you’re about to cry.” You were. She leaned forward just enough to brush her lips against your cheek—mocking, not tender. “Maybe I should leave you like this,” she whispered. “Let you soak through those jeans all night. Let Rio find you like this—shaking, swollen, soaked through the clothes you stole.”

You shuddered. Her hand finally moved again—but not between your thighs. This time, her palm cupped your jaw, thumb brushing beneath your lip like she was inspecting something fragile. She tilted your face up. “Don’t you dare look away from me,” she said. “I want you to remember this. The way it feels to want something so badly you’d give up everything else for it.”

You tried to nod. Tried to hold her gaze. But her fingers slid again. Down your throat. Between your breasts. Lower—until her palm pressed flat over your stomach. She could feel the way it jumped beneath her touch, your whole body reacting like it didn’t belong to you anymore.

She smiled. Cruel. Pleased. Her fingers returned to that soaked seam—and this time, they didn’t move. They just pressed. Steady. Unrelenting. You whimpered again. Your body leaned toward her. She didn’t let you have it. “You’re going to stay right there,” she said, her voice curling with satisfaction, “and feel everything I let you feel. Nothing more. Not until I say.”

She watched your nod with amusement—like she was humoring a child who still thought they had a choice. “Mm.” A low, thoughtful hum left her throat as her fingers stayed pressed to the soaked denim between your thighs. “You’re trying so hard. Sitting so still. So obedient now. What happened to that mouth, huh?” She shifted her weight slightly, her hand dragging just a little—just enough to make you twitch, breath stuttering. “No comeback?” she whispered, fingers moving in one slow, ruthless stroke. “What, did I fuck the attitude out of you already? And I haven’t even gotten my hand past your zipper.”

You whimpered—and regretted it instantly. Agnes’ fingers lifted. Gone. Your whole body lurched with the absence.  Your thighs snapped shut on reflex, but she caught it. “Don’t,” she warned, voice sharp. “Don’t even try to hide it.”

Her boot nudged between your knees. “You wanted this. You wanted to be ruined. You wore my shirt and Rio’s jeans like a fucking invitation.” You opened your mouth to speak, but you didn’t get the chance. Her hand shot out—gripped your arm, tight, possessive—and yanked you upright from the chair like you weighed nothing. You staggered once on shaky legs, but she didn’t give you time to steady yourself. She turned you, stepped behind you then slid into the seat you’d just vacated.

Spine straight. Legs spread. Commanding. You barely caught your breath before her voice came again, low and velvety: “On the floor.” You hesitated. That smirk twitched at her mouth again—just enough to make your stomach knot. “Facing me. Legs apart. I want to see your face when I decide what you’re allowed to feel.”

You sank down, slow. Body facing hers, knees bent, thighs parted where her boots nudged them wider. The floor was cold against your back. Your chest still heaved beneath her shirt, your jeans still soaked. But none of that compared to the way she looked sitting above you—sprawled like a goddess of judgment, her cock straining against the zipper of her pants, thick and hard and utterly off-limits.

Your eyes flicked lower. You couldn’t help it. She noticed. “Mm,” she murmured. “There it is.” Your breath stuttered. She watched it like she tasted it. Her hand moved—one long drag down her abdomen, fingers slipping beneath the waistband. A slow, deliberate unzip.

You gasped. She didn’t rush. Didn’t jerk it out like it was just a prop. No—Agnes revealed herself. When she pulled her cock free, it hung heavy in her palm, flushed dark, glistening with her own arousal. You whimpered. She laughed. “God,” she said. “Look at you.” She gave herself a few strokes, slow, savoring it. Her hand glided down the length, base to tip, thumb brushing the head before circling.

You couldn’t look away. Your mouth parted. Your hips shifted. Your body ached. Another stroke. She squeezed once at the base, hard enough to make the veins stand out. Your thighs twitched. She noticed that too. “You don’t even realize what you look like, do you?” “Spread out on the floor like a fucking offering, eyes wide, mouth open, watching my cock like you think it’s yours.”

You let out a broken noise—barely even a sound. Your hips arched toward her boot, just slightly. Just a twitch. She didn’t move. Didn’t give you anything. Just watched you break. “Say it,” she said softly. “Say what you want.” You choked. You couldn’t. Her thumb brushed the tip of her cock again, gathering moisture. The sound of it made you tremble. “No?” she said. “Then I guess I’ll just sit here. Stroke my cock. Watch you squirm.”

And she did. Her hand moved slow and steady—every pump a taunt, every stroke an act of ownership. You were flat on your back, legs spread wide between her boots, watching her hand work over the cock you weren’t allowed to touch. You could feel the heat between your legs—slick, swollen, aching—and still, she gave you nothing. She watched you a moment longer, still stroking her cock like it was routine—like your unraveling wasn’t even the focus yet. Without a word, she stood. Her cock fell heavy against her thigh as she moved—still exposed, flushed, the tip gleaming with arousal and threat.

You didn’t breathe. She stepped forward. One slow boot at a time. The distance between you disappeared, and then she was there—between your spread thighs, above you, eyes dark and merciless. “Don’t move.”

You didn’t. She crouched—slow, predatory—and brought herself down, letting the length of her cock drag across the inside of your jeans. You gasped at the contact. Even through layers, you could feel it. The heat. The shape. The promise of what she wasn’t going to give you.

Then—worse—her hand slipped between your bodies, pressed her cock down, she rolled her hips forward. You moaned. Loud. Desperate. “That’s it,” she murmured. “Feel it. All of it.” She ground against you—her cock flat, heavy, cruel between your legs, the soaked denim doing nothing to protect you from the sheer pressure of her presence. “Look at you,” she breathed. “Can’t even handle the weight of me.”

You whimpered, hips twitching, chest heaving against the tight grip of her shirt. And then, just as you thought she might keep going— Her hands shifted. One slid beneath your thigh. The other gripped your waist. And she turned you. Effortless. Controlling. One twist and you were on your stomach—sprawled, arms tucked beneath you, cheek pressed to the hardwood, thighs still open. You barely had time to catch your breath before she climbed over you again. Loomed. Her body moved slow as she let the length of her cock fall over your ass, her hips pressing downward until you could feel it drag across the seam of your jeans.

You sobbed. Quiet and real. “God,” she whispered. “Even through the denim I can feel how bad you want it.”

Her chest hovered just above your back, not quite touching—her breath brushing the back of your neck. Then—one long, torturous grind. Her cock rolled between your cheeks, down the curve of your ass, right there, until your spine arched and your hips pushed back, desperate for more.

She didn’t stop you. She moved again. Let your body take it. Let you feel everything. She sped up. Not violently. Not even urgently. Just more. More drag. More weight. More deliberate control. Her cock—bare and flushed, slick from her own arousal—pressed directly into the seam of your jeans. The fabric did nothing to soften the contact. If anything, it made it worse. You could feel everything: the pulse, the girth, the impossible length of her grinding between your ass cheeks like she meant to press the shape of it into your body.

She didn’t thrust. Didn’t fuck. But she moved—hips rolling in that devastating grind, her cock heavy and hot against you, thick enough to part you through the fabric. Every motion slotted the ridge of it right where you needed, and never gave in.

You moaned, helpless. “Feel that?” she breathed. Her chest hovered over your spine, breath warm at your neck. “That’s mine. All of it. The size. The weight. The power.”

Her cock slid down again, nudging into the seam at the center of your jeans. You jerked beneath her hips, stuttering. A sob rose in your throat. “You thought you could run your mouth and get away with it? Tell me—do you feel owned yet?”

You did. You weren’t breathing right. The floor pressed into your chest with every drag of her hips. Your clit throbbed with every rock of her cock. You couldn’t tell if you were soaked with slick or sweat anymore—and it didn’t matter.

You were riding the edge with your clothes still on. She ground into you harder—once, twice, dragging the full length of it across you until you gasped, your thighs shaking, your hands balling into fists under your stomach. “That’s it,” she whispered. “That’s the sweet spot, isn’t it?”

Another push. You screamed into the floor. “You’re going to cum in your jeans if I don’t stop,” she murmured. “You’re going to make a fucking mess without ever touching me.”

One more roll of her hips. The pressure was perfect. Then she adjusted the angle and lined up right where your entrance would be, if Rio’s jeans weren’t still plastered to your skin. Agnes rocked forward once—just enough for the heavy weight of her to drag slow and thick over the seam of your jeans. You choked. A sound halfway between a gasp and a plea. Agnes didn’t flinch. Her eyes cut to yours. “Feel that?” she asked softly. You couldn’t speak. “Mm.” A small, cruel sound in her throat. Her thumb traced idly along her shaft, still slick from her own need, her cock dragged higher against your clothed core, heat pressed to soaked denim.

Your breath hitched—desperate, soaked, dizzy with pressure and friction. You were so close, and she knew it. She always knew it. Agnes rocked forward again—slow. Precision. She let her cock grind right over that perfect spot where your clit throbbed beneath the fabric, dragging against you like a warning. The pressure jolted through your body. Your head tipped back. She didn’t let up. “Tell me,” she said. “Is this what you wanted when you mouthed off? Hmm?” Her voice was low. Dangerous. “You want to get fucked back into your place?” You whimpered—hips arching without permission.

She laughed. Low. Cruel. “Oh, baby,” she said. “You’d beg for it, wouldn’t you?” She leaned in, hot breath against your neck. “You want me to split you open right here. Fuck you so deep you forget your own name.”

You nodded. Couldn’t help it. Agnes tisked. “That’s not how this works.” She leaned back just slightly—just enough to let her gaze drag over your ruined state. Her hand still wrapped tightly around the base of her cock, the other braced beside your thigh. Her hips didn’t move yet. She made you feel every second of stillness.

“Fine,” she hissed. “Since you’re clearly desperate—let’s see how wet you really are.” You barely had time to breathe before she reached down and popped the button on your jeans with one sharp flick. The zipper came next, teeth parting slow, like she wanted you to hear it.

She didn’t pull them down all the way. Just enough. Enough to expose the soaked cotton clinging to your folds. Enough to humiliate you with it. “All soaked through,” she murmured, the words nearly a moan. “Jeans stuck like you’re begging me to mark you through them.”

She pressed forward. Her cock—thick, flushed, heavy in her grip—slid right up the center of your clothed slit, grinding cruelly, deliberately, against the swollen heat at your core. You sobbed. “Right here,” she hissed, rocking again harder. “Against this pretty little pussy. Spill all over your clothes. Watch it soak through. Make you walk around all night with the shape of my cock and the smell of me dripping down your thighs.”

A moan punched from your chest—shameless and cracked. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she goaded, voice sliding between cruel and ruinous. “Let Rio come home to see you covered. Still untouched. Still denied. But so fucking wet you could drown someone.”

You were shaking now. Your thighs kept twitching open without meaning to. Your hips rolled helplessly into every grind she gave you. Agnes dropped her head just for a second. Moaned. Low and sharp. “Fuck—” she muttered, voice splintered at the edges. Her cock dragged higher again, the head of it catching the seam of your soaked underwear just enough to send lightning through your spine.

“You’re clenching,” she said—smirking now. One hand snapped to your hip, pinning you down. “So fucking desperate for it. I can feel you fluttering through your jeans.”

You cried out—loud and ruined—and her hips bucked harder. She groaned. Let her forehead brush your shoulder for one second before dragging her hips in one slow, cruel stroke up your slit again. “Jesus,” she groaned. “You’re gonna make me cum just watching you suffer.”

Her breathing stuttered. Her grip tightened. Her cock ground against your opening, every drag of it thick and precise, her tip catching just where your body begged for her to press in— But she didn’t. You moaned her name. Loud. Needy. Your hips chased hers—pathetic. Frantic.

She laughed. Low. Mean. Still panting. Then she stopped. The weight of her cock still pressed against your soaked underwear, but unmoving now. The stillness more punishing than anything. “No,” she breathed, standing up with lazy grace. Her cock still glistened in her hand. Her breath still hitched. But her eyes? Cold. Controlled. Cruel.

She stood. “Now,” she murmured. “Be a good girl and sit the fuck back down.” Your limbs obeyed before your thoughts could catch up. You scrambled, half on instinct, back into the chair—jeans tugged up, hands fumbling with the button. Everything burned. The seam dragged across your soaked folds like punishment, like proof. You flinched just trying to zip it.

Agnes said nothing as you settled. Just stood over you, gaze dragging down your body with calculated indifference. Your thighs trembled. Your hands gripped the arms of the chair like restraint alone might keep you from begging.

Then she stepped closer. Feet bracketing your legs. Standing tall, looming, one palm braced against the back of the chair. The other? Still wrapped around her cock. She pumped it once. Slow. Deliberate. You moaned—barely a breath—but it was enough to make her grin. “I said don’t move,” she warned, her tone dipped in danger and delight. “Don’t shift. Don’t squirm. Just sit there and watch while I decide where this ends.”

She moved again—long, smooth strokes that made her cock throb in her palm, tip flushed and leaking. Close. God, she was close. You could see it. Hear it. Feel it echoing between your legs like a second heartbeat.

But she didn’t speed up. Just stroked herself steady, dragging her palm over the head with a soft, lewd sound that had you biting your lip hard enough to taste blood. Her breath caught again—her lashes fluttering, hips stuttering forward just once before she reined it back in. “I could cum right now,” she muttered, voice jagged. “Right fucking now. All over those smug little jeans. Ruin them. Ruin you.”

Your whole body shivered. The ache between your thighs was blinding. She bent forward—closer—her hand never stopping. Her mouth right at your ear now, her hips angled just so. You felt the heat of her, the smell of her, every pulse and breath and slick stroke. Her moan tore free like she was trying to hold it back and failing. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she whispered. “Let me finish right here. Mark you. Make you sit in it. Go back to work like nothing happened.”

Your hands twitched on the arms of the chair. She moaned again—lower this time, tighter—and your name broke from her lips like a threat. She just kept stroking—slow, cruel, and just out of reach. The promise of release built and broke with every breath. Her cock, thick and flushed, hovered inches from your stomach, angled down like a threat, like a promise she’d never let you keep. Your shirt had ridden up in the struggle, baring the soft skin just above Rio’s jeans. A sliver of vulnerability. That was where her eyes fell now. That was where she aimed.

The swollen head of her cock ghosted over your skin. You twitched. “Aht Aht,” she said coolly, her voice the sound of a blade leaving its sheath. “I want you to feel every second of this.” Her left hand clutched the back of the chair above your shoulder, holding her steady—keeping the angle cruelly precise. Her right never stopped stroking. Long, deliberate pumps that left her glistening, wet with want, just inches from your trembling body.

Her hand stayed right where it was—wrapped tight around the base, guiding every stroke with merciless control. But it wasn’t the motion of her fist that undid you. The slow, deliberate weight of her cock pressed down against your stomach, bare skin to bare skin, the head slick from pre-cum, dragging through the dip between your navel and waistband with each shallow rock of her hips.

No warning. No words. Only breath. Agnes exhaled hard through her nose—then again, faster, when your hips twitched. Her knuckles flexed white around the chair, holding herself still enough to keep from fucking forward. But her restraint faltered. Her cock twitched. Another moan—guttural, low, almost startled—tore from her throat as she rubbed harder against the soft curve of your belly. You could feel how hard she was. The full shape of her. The heat. The slick slide. She didn’t ease up. Just pressed again, and again—slow, firm thrusts that sent every nerve in your body screaming with need.

You whimpered. That sound made her moan again—sharp, broken, dragged through clenched teeth. She shuddered over you. Her thighs tensed, cock grinding just a little higher with each pass, the head catching right beneath the edge of your shirt. Your breath stuttered. Her next exhale broke in a hiss. She was close. You could feel it. Every part of her body was tight.

Tight like her grip on the chair. Tight like the coil behind your ribs. Tight like the friction that dragged her cock through the dip of your belly again, harder now, the sound wetter, rougher, like she was barely holding back. She pulled away You felt the air shift before you felt the loss. Agnes’s body lifted, the heavy drag of her cock against your stomach, one final punishment before absence. She reached down, tucking herself back into her trousers with a few efficient motions—no rush, no softness, only control. One hand lingered. Adjusting. Cupping. Exhaling sharp, measured breath like she was leashing something violent inside her.

She didn’t walk away. Not yet. She leaned in—not far, just enough for the scent of her skin to replace the echo of her moans in your head. Sweat and leather. Rain. Sex. The weight of everything you didn’t get to have.

Her eyes softened. Just a breath. Just enough. “Color?” she asked.

Your heart cracked. Not because you were breaking. But because she saw you. You blinked, breath catching—and whispered, “Green.”

Agnes exhaled slowly. Relief threaded the sound, even if she didn’t show it anywhere else. Her palm rose to hover just beside your thigh. “Good girl,” she said gently. “Still mine?”

You nodded again, this time with a little more force. “Yours.”

Her smile returned—but it was different now. No longer cruel. Still dangerous, still powerful, but laced with something sacred. Protective. Reverent. “All right,” she said. “Then we’ll keep going.”

And then she stood. Cold. Controlled. Her hands straightened your shirt, brushed along the top button of your jeans—fastening it like sealing a vault. “Don’t move,” she murmured, stepping back. “I want that seat still warm when Rio gets here.”

Her footsteps moved off into the house towards the kitchen. You didn’t breathe.

The front door slammed. You flinched. Heels echoed down the hallway. Sharp. Measured. Not rushed—but deliberate. A rhythm that made your whole body tense like it already knew who it was. Agnes didn’t even turn her head as she poured a glass of water at the sink. “What took you so long?”

Rio’s voice answered from the hallway—low, taut, and edged with something dangerous. “Had to clean up her mess. Everyone saw it. You want this department to take her seriously, you better start putting her in her place.”

Rio stepped into the room like a storm on two legs. Her jacket hung open at the shoulders, soaked at the collar and sleeves, the black fabric clinging to the shape of her arms like armor. Her dress pants were darker at the hem, heavy from the rain, plastered to her thighs with every deliberate step. She moved like she had something to prove—and something to punish.

The moment her eyes found you—slumped in the chair, jaw trembling, thighs squeezed together beneath soaked denim and shame—you could feel it. Her fury didn’t crackle like Agnes’s. It simmered. It burned low. Controlled. Deadly. She didn’t say a word. Just crossed the floor in strides and grabbed you—one hand wrapping tight around your upper arm, yanking you up so fast your breath caught, your balance tipped. The other hand slid behind you in a flash, seizing your wrists and pinning them together with a grip that felt like command incarnate.

Her palm pressed against your pulse. You gasped. Not in pain. In relief. “Move,” she said, right against your ear. Her voice was smoke and steel—flat, clipped, seething with restrained control. The kind of command that vibrated through bone. The kind that left no room for questions.

You obeyed. Legs shaking. Breathing uneven. You didn’t look at Agnes. Didn’t need to. You felt her shift, caught the subtle change in air pressure as she stepped forward.

The hallway stretched before you like a sentence being carried out—long, shadowed, lined with low golden light and the soft percussion of rain ticking against the windows. Your feet dragged slightly on the hardwood. Rio controlled your center of gravity now. Her hand on your wrists was no longer just restraint—it was a declaration.

She owned your steps. Owned your silence.  Her grip shifted tighter. Higher. You gasped. Stumbled. She didn’t pause. “You keep acting out like someone who’s never been properly handled,” she said, voice low, surgical. “That ends tonight.”

The heel of her palm drove into the small of your back—sharp, commanding—steering you harder down the hallway like you were just another part of the house she owned. Her other hand moved with brutal precision, sliding down—no hesitation, no pause—until it cupped low against your ass. Not soft. Not exploring. Claiming. The rigid pressure of her strap kissed through both layers of fabric—unmistakable, punishing, already positioned where it needed to be. Your knees buckled like your body had recognized it before your brain could. A moan caught at the base of your throat. You didn’t even have time to feel ashamed of it.

She felt it. Of course she did. The shape of it carved between your thighs, dragging the heat of her body into yours like a brand. Not teasing. Not an invitation. A warning. The strap had been there all along—cinched tight around her hips beneath rain-darkened slacks, soaked with the storm you thought had ended. She’d packed it before the call. Before the tech forgot to notify you. Before you snapped at Chief Jones, mouthed off to Agnes, and pulled on that white shirt like a dare.

You didn’t dare look back. But Agnes—Agnes did. She followed two steps behind, silent but bristling. Her feet hit with every beat of tension, her mouth pressed tight, her breath catching every time your shoulders bumped the wall or Rio jerked you forward without care. You stumbled—just slightly—as she guided you around the corner, your foot catching on the hallway rug. The second it happened, Rio’s hand snapped out. Not gentle. Not cruel. Just certain.

She caught you under the ribs, her palm sliding against your side, steadying you with the same deadly precision she used to unholster her weapon. Her touch wasn’t soft—it was possessive. Directive. Like she was adjusting her grip on something that already belonged to her.

Your breath hitched. Your spine straightened. The quiet gasp that escaped you was more reflex than sound. “Careful,” she murmured, eyes fixed ahead. “You trip again, and I’ll take it as a sign you need to be put on the floor.” You barely caught yourself. Barely stayed upright. Behind you, Agnes’s breath hitched like she meant to speak. “Rio—”

Rio stopped. Only for a breath. Her head turned—slow and sharp—like a blade pivoting midair. Her eyes met Agnes’s, unreadable beneath the low hallway light. Rain streaked down the back window. The whole house seemed to hold its breath with you.

“Say one more word,” Rio said, voice calm enough to be terrifying, “and I’ll drag her in that room and lock the fucking door.”

Then so soft it burned “I’m going to fuck the attitude out of her,” she said, ice braided through every syllable. “And if that’s too much for you, you can wait outside.”

A pause. Her gaze dropped, calculated and cold. “Hell, I’ll toss you out of the bedroom myself and start over.” Your pulse throbbed behind your ribs. Agnes said nothing. Rio’s voice dropped even lower, quiet enough to slice skin. “You really wanna hear her break twice, Agnes? Break around a strap and not you?”

Silence. Rio turned her head just enough to catch her in one final look. “I don’t care if she’s our girl.” Her jaw flexed. Her fingers tightened around your wrists. “Right now, she’s a brat. And I’m the one putting her in her place.” Your breath hitched—ragged, involuntary. The back of your throat burned. “not one word, unless you’re ready to see just how far I’ll go.”

Without slowing, Rio shoved the door open with one hand and pushed you through with the other. Her palm on your spine was steady and sharp, steering you forward like she was delivering a sentence. You staggered once across the threshold, feet dragging across the floor—and then she caught you again. Her grip returned to your arm. Redirected.

The mattress loomed, low and wide, the sheets still rumpled from this morning’s calm. A memory you no longer deserved. She stopped at the edge and shoved you forward. “Bend.”

You did, because there was no other option. Your thighs hit the mattress. Your knees locked. And then you folded at the waist, chest flush to the cold sheets, arms sprawling beneth you as if bracing for impact. The silence that followed wasn't kind. It was clinical. Tense. Held open like a wound.

Rio said nothing at first. You could hear her behind you. Hear her breath. The faint drip of rain from her jacket. The sound of leather shifting beneath her coat as she rolled her sleeves up slowly, with purpose. But still—she didn’t touch you.

“Do you even understand the position you’ve put me in?” she asked finally. Her voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. The authority in it made you burn. “You want to act like a child at work? Drag your personal bullshit into a murder scene and make me deal with the fallout?”

Your cheek pressed harder to the mattress. You opened your mouth. Nothing came. “You think Agnes looked furious?” she continued. “Try being the one who had to clean up after you. Had to pull rank. Had to apologize for your fuckup without even flinching—because the second I show a crack; they’d stop taking you seriously.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. The sheets were cool against your chest, but your skin burned. Every inch of your body was hyperaware of the silence, the power behind you, the weight of her gaze that never lifted. Your jeans were still on, stretched tight across your ass, damp from rain and friction. Your feet planted. Your hands flat on the bed like a punishment pose.

And Rio let it sit. The quiet between you was surgical. No teasing. No praise. No relief. Just control—unshakable and thick enough to choke on.

The floor creaked behind you. Not footsteps. A shift.  You could feel it in the air before you felt her breath. She didn’t touch you, didn’t have to. Just leaned over you slowly until her body cast a shadow across your spine. You could feel her presence like a hand around your throat.

Instead, her lips hovered just above your skin. Her words poured directly into you, sinking deeper than any grip could’ve reached. “Let me be perfectly clear,” she said. “You are not in charge right now. You don’t get to pace this. You don’t get to move until I say. Do you understand me?”

You nodded. Too fast. Too desperate. She chuckled. Cold. Cruel. “No. Say it.”

Your voice cracked. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I understand.”

Rio didn’t speak right away. Instead, she shifted leaning over your back with a low, grounding breath. Her palm stayed steady between your shoulder blades, warm through the fabric, but her other hand moved, reaching up, brushing a few damp strands of hair gently from your cheek.

Her fingers lingered there. Careful. Sweeter than you'd expected. “Mi amor,” she murmured, barely more than a breath. You closed your eyes. The way she said it wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t sharp. It was an offering. “Come back to me a second.”

Your breath hitched. The tenderness in her voice cracked something open, deeper than the heat and punishment. It was her. Still her. You blinked, and she smiled—small, but real. “There you are,” she whispered.  “I know you want this,” she said quietly. “I know what we talked about earlier. But I need to hear it again from you right now. Just us. Are you still with me?”

Your lips parted. “Yes.”

Rio nodded, brushing the backs of her fingers down your jaw. “Color?”

You exhaled. “Green.”

A soft breath left her lips. You felt it at the nape of your neck. Her forehead tipped forward until it nearly touched your shoulder. And then—

“Safe word?” she asked.

“…Purple.”

Her touch paused, still soft against your face. “Still want this, baby?”

You nodded once, then again, a little more certain. “Yes. Still want this.”

Rio didn’t move right away. Her thumb rested on your cheek, anchoring you there. Then, softly—without letting the power between you slip—she asked, “Do you feel safe with me?”

Your breath caught. Not because the answer was uncertain—but because she’d asked. Because the woman who had you folded over the bed, fully clothed and trembling, still cared enough to make sure. To wait.

“I do,” you whispered. “I feel safe with you.” Your throat thickened. “Always.”

Rio exhaled slowly. That reverent kind of breath she only ever let go when something mattered. Her lips quirked—not quite a smile, but something near it. “Good girl,” she murmured. “That’s everything.” Rio stayed there for another beat—her weight still hovering over you, her touch grounding, her breath warm.

Then, quieter—just for you, just this once—she added, “You’ve got me. Right here. I’m not going anywhere.” Rio glanced over her shoulder.

No words. Just a nod. Subtle. Sure. An unspoken call across the room. Agnes pushed off the wall without hesitation. Her steps were slow, measured. Still dressed, still composed—but something softer in the way she moved now. No swagger. No challenge. Just intent. Her hand brushed Rio’s hand that was by your side as she passed—something silent exchanged between them—and then she knelt. Right in front of you.

You blinked. The world shifted. Suddenly you weren’t bent and trembling with your face buried in the sheets. You were held in the space between two women who saw you, who were asking without demanding. Agnes’s palm came to rest lightly on the mattress near your shoulder, steadying herself as she met your eyes.

Agnes leaned in a little closer, just enough to whisper, “Hi, sweetheart.”

Your throat tightened. Her other hand lifted—not fast, not forceful—just enough to brush a damp strand of hair away from your temple. Her fingertips traced along your hairline, slow and grounding, before settling there. The warmth of her skin lingered like a tether, a pulse you didn’t realize you were waiting for.

She paused. Gave you space to breathe. “Can I check in too?” she asked softly, her thumb brushing just once across your temple.

You nodded, lips parting without sound. “Yeah,” you breathed.

“Okay.” Her hand stayed where it was, a gentle press of skin. “Look at me.”

You did. Because how could you not? Her voice was different now—low, grounded. Her usual edge stripped away. “Are you still okay?”

You swallowed. “Yes.”

“Color?”

“Green.”

She didn’t speak right away. Instead, she just looked at you—really looked—like she was scanning for something even your words couldn’t say. Her next question came in a whisper, barely more than a breath. “Do you want to talk about anything first?” she asked. “Anything on your mind that we should name before we move forward?”

For one fragile second, your chest cracked open. Just a little. Just enough. The question wasn’t perfunctory; it was holy. A soft place to land before the fall. You shook your head slowly. “No. Nothing we haven’t already said.”

Agnes nodded once, slow and reverent, like she was receiving something sacred. “Do you need anything right now?” she continued, her voice just as careful. “Water, break, reposition?” Her fingertips moved slightly, brushing your hair back again, then resting above your ear. “Is anything hurting?” she asked gently. “Anything feel different—off, too much?”

“No,” you whispered. “I’m okay. I just…” Your breath hitched. “I want to keep going.”

A breath left her—not rushed, not performative. Just Agnes, letting herself feel the answer. Her thumb dragged one more time across your cheekbone, and her eyes softened. “You’re doing so fucking well,” she murmured.

Agnes’s thumb had just left your cheekbone when Rio shifted again. Her palm stayed warm between your shoulder blades, but her other hand reached out, brushing lightly against Agnes’s wrist. The contact was brief—reassurance more than possession—and when Rio spoke, her voice was low. Not for you this time. Just for her. “You okay?”

Agnes nodded once. “Yeah.”

Rio didn’t stop. “No—really.”

That made Agnes pause. Her jaw twitched. Her gaze flicked back to you for a heartbeat, then to Rio. “I’m okay.”

Rio studied her carefully. “You’ve been holding her on edge,” she said softly. “Kept her aching, wide open. And you—” Her voice dipped. “You’re still hard.”

Agnes didn’t flinch. But she didn’t speak either. “I know what that takes,” Rio said. “To keep her like that. To not take what you wanted. To stay in control.” Her palm on your back didn’t budge. “So, I need to ask—did any of it get too close? Are you still good to stay here with us?”

Agnes exhaled slowly, like she’d been waiting for someone to ask. “I’m good.”

“Do you feel safe?” she asked, voice quieter. “In your body. With what we’re doing.”

“Yes” Agnes’s throat worked. Her fingers flexed at her sides.

Rio murmured, “just know this strap—” she tipped her chin slightly—“can’t do what you can.”

Agnes looked at her. Her eyes flicked toward the bed, to where you still waited, bent and breathless. Then back to Rio. “I know.”

Rio didn’t move. Not yet. “Do you believe me?”

A pause. Then—“I do.”

“You’re the only one who can cum inside us,” Rio said simply. “Me and her. You’re the only one who gets to stay.” Something shifted in Agnes’s eyes. Her posture wavered—less guarded now, more open, raw. “And after this,” she added, voice low, “I’ll take care of you too.” Agnes exhaled. That sharp edge softened. Her body leaned just slightly into Rio’s. “Promise,” Rio whispered. “You’re not going to bed aching tonight. Not after what you gave us.”

“What about you? Are you okay?” Agnes asked, voice low. Not a whisper, not hidden—but soft enough that it felt like a secret. “You good to keep going?”

Rio’s expression didn’t shift immediately. She breathed in through her nose, then out through parted lips. Grounding herself. When she spoke, it wasn’t just with words—it was with certainty. “Yeah,” she said. “I’m good.”

Agnes’s thumb brushed the inside of her wrist once, like a thank-you. “Need to talk about anything first?”

Rio’s eyes darted—once to you, then back to Agnes. “Nope. We’re solid.”

A beat. Then Agnes asked, gently, “And do you feel safe?” It was the kind of question that could have sounded silly coming from anyone else. But not here. Not from her. Rio’s shoulders loosened a fraction. Something like gratitude flickered behind her lashes. “I do,” she said quietly. “With both of you.”

Agnes’s hand lingered just a second longer before she pulled back. Not abrupt. Not cold. Just final. A soft pat to your cheek—then she stood, gaze still lingering as she moved. You felt the moment she left your periphery, her heat replaced by air, by absence. The quiet sound of her footsteps padded across the floor.

She returned to the wall. Not slouched. Not idle. Leaning, arms crossed, eyes steady. Not watching the scene like an observer. Like a witness. One Rio had chosen to keep close. Rio’s hand slipped from your face, but not your body. That same palm pressed down between your shoulder blades again grounding you with her breath. The shift in her tone, in her posture, was instant.

Not cruel. Not fast. But absolute. Her voice came low, cool, and clear. “Agnes.” A pause. “Not one word.” Agnes didn’t argue. She just dipped her chin once Rio exhaled, then turned her full attention back to you. The heat changed. Not the temperature in the room, but the charge in the air. Rio’s presence expanded like a tide. Her hand stayed where it was. Her hips pressed closer. Her breath found your ear again, but this time, it wasn’t a comfort.

It was a warning. Her hand stayed firm against your back. Not pressing. Not soothing. Just there, a reminder that you weren’t in control. That you hadn’t been from the moment she walked in. The weight of her palm wasn’t violent, but it anchored you like a verdict. No force needed. Just contact. Just ownership. “Tell me why you’re here like this.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a sentence. You swallowed hard. The air in the room felt colder than before, chilled by the steady hum of the A/C overhead, the sweat cooling along your spine. A shiver rolled down your legs.

But her hand didn’t lift. Your mouth parted. Nothing came. Panic prickled at your chest—low, crawling—because the silence behind you wasn’t just tense. It was strategic. She was giving you the rope. “I…” Your voice cracked. “I pushed too far.” No answer. You exhaled slowly, arms trembling as they held you up against the sheets. Her hand hadn’t moved, but her presence was shifting—growing, like pressure before a storm breaks. “I disrespected you,” you whispered. “And Agnes. And the scene.”

Her hand lifted. Just a breath of distance. You nearly sagged with it but stopped yourself. Dared not shift. Not yet. The air cooled where her hand had been, and you could feel it—the loss of heat, the quiet ache where her touch had steadied you. Your body missed it instantly. Behind you, her heels crept forward—slow, deliberate. She didn’t need to rush. The room belonged to her. You belonged to her.

She stopped just at your back. The scent of wet pavement and worn leather clung to her like thunder after lightning. Her slacks brushed your calves. You held your breath. “Did you really think no one noticed?” she murmured at your spine. “The tone. Your words. The way you strutted through the mud and gravel like you had something to prove.”

You flinched. She hadn’t raised her voice. Not even close. But you felt every word land like a steel buckle snapping through the air, sharp and final. She leaned in closer, body a whisper behind yours, not touching now, but present enough to make your chest tighten. Her breath was low and controlled as it dragged just above your shoulder. “Big talk for someone bent over,” she added, quieter still.  “Move your hands.”

Your fingers twitched. “Out. Fully,” Rio clarified, voice ice slick. “All the way in front of you. No half-measures.” You stretched forward—slow, uncertain—your arms unfolding until they reached past your head. The bedsheet wrinkled under your touch, and still you kept reaching, until your body was fully extended over the mattress. Bent at the waist. Obedient. “Now palms flat,” she snapped. “Spread them.” You did. “Face down. Turn your head toward the wall. Toward her.” You hesitated. “Do it.”

Your cheek pressed to the cold sheet. Your breath fanned out against the fabric as you turned your head to the side and saw her. Agnes. Leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, jaw set. Watching. She didn’t speak. Didn’t move. But her eyes locked to yours across the room, sharp as broken glass. She had been warned not to intervene, and that silence was louder than anything Rio could have said.

“Hold tight,” Rio ordered, voice cutting the distance between you like a whipcrack. “And don’t look away.” You didn’t. Couldn’t. Your palms burned where they flattened against the sheets. Your thighs trembled with restraint. The position was humbling—deliberate. Bent. Laid bare.  A long breath dragged through the room. Not yours, hers. You could feel it before you heard it. The way the air shifted, heat moving from one side of the bed to the other.

She was behind but not close enough to touch. Not yet. “Don’t move,” she said, voice calm as a locked door. “Not a fucking inch.” Your fingers tightened on the sheet, your chest pressed flatter to the mattress, spine rigid and exposed.

“I mean it,” she went on, quieter now. “If you flinch, if you shift, if you so much as twitch without permission…” A pause. “You’ll regret it.” You swallowed hard. The room held its breath with you.

The silence after was unbearable. Her presence at your back wasn’t heat—it was gravity. It made your lungs feel too tight; your legs too thin to hold you. “You don’t get to wriggle your way out of this.”

The words cracked through you like thunder. Still, she didn’t touch you. She stepped back instead—heels clicking once, sharp and final. “I should leave you like this,” she said flatly. “Let you stew in it. Let Agnes see what happens when you mouth off like you’re owed something.”

Your hands twitched against the sheets, but you didn’t let go. Not yet. Behind you, Rio exhaled: “But I need to prove a point, don’t I?”

Rio’s hand clamped around your hip—hard enough to bruise, deliberate as a verdict—and yanked. Your body jolted back from the bed as her other hand tore at the waist of your jeans. One tug—sharp, practiced—and the button snapped open. Another, and the zipper hissed down. You gasped as the cold air kissed your skin.

She didn’t ease you out of them. She dragged them down in one harsh motion, denim burning against your thighs before catching at your ankles. Your underwear followed—torn halfway down, trapped at your knees. “You don’t get to undress,” she said, voice cold and surgical. “Not after the stunt you pulled.”

Your breath hitched. Rio’s gaze flicked to Agnes. “Not after mouthing off” She leaned in again, one hand gripping your ass, the other anchoring you at the lower back. Her voice was a venomous whisper. “All because you didn’t know how to ask to be fucked.” Her voice cut like frost. “Next time you want it that bad, try using your words.”

She shoved your hips back into position. Firm. Final. The jolt made your breath catch. The sheets rustled under your chest as your knees locked to keep from collapsing. You could feel the spread of your thighs, the pressure of denim still bunched at your ankles—an intentional humiliation. Stripped, but not undressed. Left where she wanted you.

“You want attention?” Rio growled behind you. “Here’s lesson number one.”

CRACK. The first strike landed like gunfire. A single, blistering slap across your ass that echoed through the room like a shot. Pain bloomed instantly—sharp, scalding, deliberate. Your hips jolted forward against the bed; breath knocked clean out of your chest.

You gasped. Agnes flinched, but only in her throat. A visible swallow. Her eyes never moved. “Count,” Rio barked.

“O-One,” you choked out, voice high and breathless.

The second came faster. Lower. Harder. Punishing the spot still ringing from the first. “Two—fuck—two.” Your fingers clawed at the sheets. You could feel the slick sweat between your palms and the cotton, the burn climbing your spine. Your thighs trembled from the strain of staying upright. The cold air against your skin felt cruel now, especially with your jeans tangled at your ankles, every inch of you exposed and trembling.

“Louder.”

“Three!” you sobbed.

CRACK. The sound snapped through the room like lightning. Pain flared so hot it pulled a cry from your throat. You writhed forward an inch—just an inch—and tried to catch your breath. Your whole body stung.

“Four—please—four.” Your grip faltered. Just for a second. One hand flinched from the bed, fingers curling to shield the burn. Your balance tipped— Rio saw it. “Oh, no,” she hissed, stepping closer. “Start over.”

Your breath hitched. “Please—”

“Start. Over.” Her palm crashed down again—louder this time, lower. Unforgiving. Exact. The sound cracked across your skin like lightning through dry bone. Your body was shaking. Tears spilled silently down your cheeks—hot, uninvited, unclaimed. They trailed across the bridge of your nose and onto the sheets below, vanishing into the cotton like they hadn’t happened at all.

“One.” Each number rasped from your throat, hollow and cracked. “Two.” Your hips jerked with every impact, muscles tightening to absorb the next blow, the next ache. Each strike sent a ripple through your spine—hips jolting, back seizing, thighs trembling to keep from buckling. You clutched the sheets tighter, fingers curling until your knuckles ached, palms flat and damp with sweat and desperation.

“Why are you counting?” Rio asked, her voice sharp as broken glass under a velvet heel.

“I—” You gasped, breath catching on the weight of the question.

Agnes stood at the wall, arms still crossed—but barely. Her whole body seemed to lock, like bracing against the sting herself. Her eyes—those cold, calculating eyes—were wide now. Shocked. Watching the way your body jolted with every strike. Watching how Rio struck you harder than she ever had before.

CRACK.

The sound was wetter this time. Flesh meeting flesh, red blooming over what had already turned pink. You could feel the burn—layered now, building on itself, blistering against the same raw spot every time.

“Answer me.”

“Because I fucked up,” you gasped, the words tumbling out without thought—just instinct and fire.

“That’s right.” Another blow. Same place. Crueler now, because she knew exactly where it would land. The pain wasn’t sharp anymore. It throbbed. Bloomed. Repeated.

Another. “Say it like you mean it or I’ll start back at one.” You clenched the sheets tighter. Your arms were trembling. Your face stayed tilted to the side—eyes still locked to Agnes’s, even as another tear slid down and disappeared into the bed.

“I fucked up,” you whispered. “I deserve this. Fuck, I need this.” Rio’s hand settled against your lower back. Flat. Heavy. Final. Her hips pressed forward just enough to remind you her strap was still on. Still waiting. Still under her control. Tucked away, coiled like a secret, rigid and full against her slacks. Still untouched.

Then came another strike, angled slightly differently. Lower. Cruel. Not just another hit. A bruise being carved. The kind you’d feel for days. Your knees buckled. Not fully. Just a sag in your stance. A falter. Your breath stuttered. Your thighs clenched to keep upright. But your eyes—your eyes didn’t leave hers.

And Agnes— Her mouth parted. Her arms unfolded. Her expression cracked. Your knuckles were bone-white on the sheets, arms shaking with the effort it took to keep them outstretched. The burn across your backside pulsed in time with your heartbeat, every breath an ache you could feel in your throat. Another tear slipped down your cheek—but still, you didn’t cry. You just… trembled.

Then, her hand moved. Not to strike. Not yet. Fingers wrapped around your jaw, firm and sure, dragging your face up with the same ease she’d used to drag you down the hall. Your body stayed bent, folded at the waist like a penitent. But your head—your attention—was no longer your own.

“Look at me.” The order hit like a shock to the spine. You blinked hard, the tears blurring your vision—and slowly, reluctantly, your gaze tore away from Agnes. Her dark brown eyes locked to yours like the barrel of a loaded gun—still, unblinking, devastating in their focus. There was no softness in her expression. No flicker of compromise. Just control. All of it. All her.

“This is what happens when you act like you don’t remember who you belong to,” she murmured. Her thumb slid along your cheek, not soothing, testing. “Now say it.”

You didn’t breathe. “Say it.”

“I…” Your voice cracked. Your chin wavered in her hold.

Rio waited. You swallowed once. Twice. Then forced it out: “I needed to be reminded.”

Her expression didn’t change, but something in her posture settled, like a balance had been struck. She leaned in just slightly, close enough that her breath ghosted over your lips, but she didn’t kiss you. Didn’t reward. Not yet.

“Still with me?”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t trust the sound that might come out. So you nodded twice, slow and sure—and tapped the sheets twice with your fingertips, your silent signal. She felt it. Saw it. Knew it. “Good.”

Her hand released your jaw. Not gently. Not cruelly. Just… gone. Your head dropped forward again, spine bowing under the weight of it all, eyes closed now—not from shame, but from surrender.  “Stay just like that,” she said, low. “We’re not finished.”

You heard her heels come off, the shift of fabric, the slow slide of a zipper—deliberate, controlled. Then, the whisper-soft scrape of leather against skin. She didn’t remove her pants. She didn’t have to. All she needed was enough space—just enough room to draw it out.

And then you felt it. The thick, heated length of the strap brushed against your inner thigh as she stepped forward again. Still warm. Still slick with the shape of her body where it had sat nestled against her.  “I was going to take care of you,” she murmured. Her voice was low, dangerous. Regret laced with fury. “In the locker room. When we got home. After the report.”

Her hand pressed flat to your lower back, grounding you. “But instead,” she said, dragging the head of the strap between your thighs in one long, humiliating sweep, “you had to run your fucking mouth.” You moaned—quiet, involuntary—the sound drawn out of you by the tease, by the way the silicone caught on your slickness. You were soaked. She didn’t even need the lube she’d brought. Agnes had made sure you were ready.

She chuckled once. Cold. “Did Agnes make you this wet?” Her hips rocked just enough to let the tip catch at your entrance.  She lined up slowly, one hand sliding up to anchor at your waist—fingers tight, bruising. The other found your hip and squeezed hard.

“Every man on that crime scene had your name in their mouth,” she hissed. “You think I didn’t hear it? You think I didn’t catch the way they looked at you, my fiancé, like you were a fucking toy?” The strap pressed in harder. Not entering. Not yet. Just claiming. “I shut them up wearing this. Made damn sure your little scene didn’t make you look weak. Or worse, available.”

She thrust. Hard. The sound it made was obscene—your cry punched out of your throat, chest jarring forward on the mattress, fingers clawing at the sheets. Your grip slipped for just a second, but you caught yourself. Just barely.

Behind you, Rio growled—low, satisfied. The strap slammed in again. Not tentative. Not slow. Punishment. Your eyes flew open, locking with Agnes’s. She hadn’t moved from the wall, but her lips slightly parted, her eyes widened at the sound. At the impact. The way your whole body rocked forward from the force. You didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

You just moaned again—long and low and wrecked—your hips trembling with every push, your knees fighting to stay steady. Rio didn’t ease up. The sound of your skin meeting hers echoed off the walls—wet, sharp, final. The strap carved into you with precision, with rhythm, with wrath.

She wasn’t holding back. “Look at you,” she spat from behind, voice thick with scorn and heat. “Bent over, taking this all because you forgot whose name you scream when you break.” Her hips slammed forward again, dragging a wrecked moan from your throat—your mouth wide, head turned, eyes still locked on Agnes like you’d been told. Your tears tracked your cheeks, silent and hot. You didn’t wipe them. Couldn’t.

 “Those fuckers thought you were up for grabs,” she snarled, breath ragged as her hands gripped your hips tighter—one thumb digging in so hard you knew it would bruise. “You showed up in my jeans, mouthing off like a brat, and they saw a challenge.” The strap slammed home again. You cried out—half breath, half sob—but kept your position. “You think I didn’t notice the way they had been talking to you and about you for weeks?” she hissed. “The way they stared at my Fiancé, My girl, Like they had a chance. Like they could touch what’s ours?”

You couldn’t answer. Could barely breathe. Your grip tightened on the sheets. Your body shook from the pace—harsh, merciless. Still, she didn’t soften. Didn’t soothe. She was proving something—to you, to her, to anyone who’d dared look. “Tell me,” she hissed. “Who do you belong to?”

Your grip faltered. Just for a second. The sheets slipped under your palms as the next thrust landed—deep, punishing, sharp enough to punch the breath from your lungs. You choked on the exhale, thighs buckling under the force of her rhythm. It hurt. It was supposed to. That was the point.

“Oh—oh god—” you gasped, your voice shredded, your jaw slack as your eyes squeezed shut. The burn in your thighs gave way to shaking. You barely managed to hold yourself up.  “It’s—fuck—Rio—it's too—”

Her growl cracked through the tension behind you like a whip. “Too much?” she hissed, her hips driving forward without mercy. The hard ridge of her strap struck true, slamming into the rawest part of you with unrelenting, brutal rhythm. “No, baby. Not even close.”

The sound that left you wasn’t a moan—it was a sob twisted into something obscene. Your breath hitched. Your body jolted forward from the impact, only to be dragged back into her again and again and again. Her hands on your hips weren’t holding. They were commanding. Like reins. Like shackles. You were caught in the current, swept under, spine arching, knees slipping.

She was fucking you like a storm, like justice, like she’d waited all day to make you remember what it meant to belong. And you did. God, you did.

Your arms trembled, knuckles white where they clutched the sheets. You weren’t gripping—you were clinging. Your shoulders ached from the tension, the stretch, the force of every brutal thrust. You moaned again—high, cracked, soaked in helplessness—but she didn’t let up. She chased your surrender like a hunter. She devoured it.

“You gonna say it?” she panted, her voice dark, low, breath snagging on the edge of a growl. “Or do I have to fuck it out of you?”

Your knees slid, your mouth opened—nothing came out but a sharp gasp. Another thrust. Harder. Another. Faster. You screamed—wet, wrecked, overwhelmed. “I—” the word collapsed out of you. “I—belong—”

“Louder.” She yanked your hips back and slammed into you. Your cry shattered. Your eyes flew open, wide and wet and unseeing. “Say it.”

“To you!” you sobbed, voice broken, high, desperate. “I—I belong to you—fuck—both of you”

“Damn right you do.” Her grip on your hips tightened until you thought she might leave bruises. She fucked you harder. Rougher. Your body rocked with it, dragged to the edge and held there with no relief. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The only thing you could do was moan—was take—was cry out her name like it was the only thing left in you.

“Rio—oh god—please—” You didn’t even know what you were asking for. You were so close it hurt. Your whole body buzzed with it—legs shaking, core soaked, hips thrusting back into her out of sheer need. Every thrust forced another choked moan from your throat, your body arching despite yourself, caught in the push and pull of something too big, too rough, too much. And still, your eyes stayed on Agnes.

You couldn’t tell if the look on her face was fury or desire, but it was carved deep. Her arms were no longer folded. One hand had drifted up, curled against her mouth like she was afraid it might open. Like if she spoke, something would break beyond repair. But you were already breaking. You sobbed again, not from pain, but from overload. From the weight of Rio behind you, the punishing rhythm of her hips, the sweat between your shoulders, the shame and reverence flooding your chest.

Rio’s pace slowed. Just slightly. Just enough to make you feel the absence of each movement. She leaned over you again, mouth against your ear, voice slick with something lethal. “Should I let you cum now?” she whispered. “You think you’ve earned that?”

Before you could speak, crack. Her hand landed across your ass so hard it echoed. You jerked forward with a strangled gasp, breath knocked clean from your lungs—and the noise you made wasn’t words, just a wrecked moan, low and drawn out, your thighs shaking against the edge of the bed. Another. Harder. She struck again—same spot and you cried out. “Please—” you gasped, the word breaking from you like it had claws. Rio’s hand came down to your hip. Not soothing. Claiming. “You need to cum?” she hissed. “You think you get to ask for anything after the stunt you pulled?”

You nodded. Once. Then twice. Desperate. Surrendered.  Your eyes still locked to Agnes’s—begging. “You’re mine, and I’ll say it again to remind you,” Rio growled, and the force of it split through you, like her words alone could collapse your lungs. “My girl. My fiancé.  And that means I’m the one who decides when you break.”

Your entire body jolted forward, knocked hard into the mattress, the air leaving your chest in a wrecked, breathless moan. It wasn’t human. It wasn’t conscious. It was instinct. Need.

There was no rhythm anymore. Just punishment. Just Rio’s hips snapping into yours with wild, brutal force, her grip bruising on your hips, your thighs jerking forward with every thrust. You couldn’t even lift your head. Couldn’t arch or brace or plead. You were soaked and shaking, pushed flat into the bed like she was pinning you to the world, fucking the fight out of you one thrust at a time.

You gripped the sheets like they were your lifeline. Not out of obedience anymore, but because if you let go, you’d fly apart. Your wrists burned. Your spine curved like a bow. Your knees had gone numb. You could feel the edge of subspace at your back, pulling you deeper.

Agnes eyes had gone wide. Rio’s was relentless. Possessive. Her voice dropped low behind you, the words curling like smoke under your skin. She angled her next thrust even deeper, the strap slamming forward with a brutal, deliberate rhythm that dragged another ragged moan from your throat. “Let her see it,” she spat, low and vicious. “Show Agnes exactly how I’m fucking the attitude out of you. Look at her and see whose cock you could have had.”

The words snapped across your back like a whip along with another pass of Rio’s hand. Your eyes were already on her—had been, per Rio’s command—but now the shame and heat tangled. You couldn’t stop the sob that shook your body. Couldn’t stop the tears that had been falling steadily for minutes now, dripping silently to the sheets below your cheeks.

Agnes could see it. The red flush in your face. The wet strands of hair stuck to your tear-streaked cheek. The way your body shook violently with each new wave that ripped through and left you trembling. And Rio—steady, brutal, goddamn relentless—drove her hips forward once more before stopping. Her cock stayed buried inside you, pulsing with the intensity of your soaked heat wrapped tight around it.

She leaned over you—one hand yanking your hips back harder, the other braced to the mattress beside your ribs. Her voice dropped right into your ear. She leaned in—finally, fully—her chest flush to your back, her breath hot against your ear. “Fuck,” she whispered, voice thick with something almost reverent. “You feel so good like this. Bent over for me. Open. So fucking perfect.”

Her grip on your hips tightened. “Cum for me, baby.” Her hips moved slow but deep, knowing what you needed, until she held your hips and rocked quicker than she had, fast, deep, and shallow—pulling moans out of Rio.  No demand. No barked order. Just permission, soft and final, like a door unlocking from the inside. “Now. Let go. I’ve got you.”

The scream that tore from your throat didn’t sound like it came from your body. It erupted—violent, primal, seismic—like the air had been split in two by the raw force of your need. It didn’t rise; it detonated, a sound so full it cracked through the room like a goddamn thunderclap. It came from somewhere older than language. Older than shame. A fault line in your chest that had finally split wide open. Rio’s hips jolted to a stop, stunned by the sheer magnitude of it. Her mouth parted—silent, eyes wild with something between reverence and awe, like she couldn’t believe what she had just pulled from you. Like she'd summoned a storm and was suddenly terrified of its power.

Agnes flinched. Her breath sucked in sharp and involuntary, shoulders recoiling before she caught herself. Her eyes didn’t leave yours. Couldn’t. Blue and blown wide, locked to your face like it held every answer she didn’t know she needed.

You were still moaning loudly. Not words. Not sounds. Just the truth, torn raw and blazing from your lungs. Your hips jerked back instinctively, crashing into Rio with a soaked, obscene slap. The sound of it cracked through the air like lightning, followed by a strangled moan from Rio’s chest as your body bucked and seized beneath her. She caught your waist hard, grounded you to her, holding you as you convulsed, slowly grinding through the impossible crest of your orgasm.

You were shaking, clenching around the strap in wild, fluttering pulses, and your whole body locked—then writhed, then locked again, each wave of release dragging you under with no mercy. Your thighs twitched. Your shoulders trembled. Your breath shattered into wet, broken gasps that barely reached your lips.

Tears flooded you. Hot streaks sliding down your face, soaking into the sheets, mingling with the sweat slick at your temple. Your mouth was open but barely functional, moaning like your lungs didn’t remember how to hold air. You weren’t just cuming, you were falling apart.

Agnes watched as your body buckled. Watched your release tear you apart from the inside out. Your sweat-damp hair clung to your cheeks, your lips parted in something between a sob and a scream, and still—still—you moaned again, begging through breathless noise without saying a word.

Rio pressed forward once more, just one final grind of her hips, low and deep, her breath hitching at the soaked, trembling mess you’d become. The strap dragged slow across your overstimulated walls, and your moan pitched up—a final, breaking sound that left nothing behind.

Your body collapsed more into the mattress. Shoulders trembling. Legs barely holding up against the mattress. Everything you had was given. Rio leaned over your back like a shield, her lips brushing your sweat-soaked shoulder.

One hand slid beneath your chest. The other braced at your waist. Rio didn’t yank. She didn’t tug. She lifted. Slowly, steadily—like drawing you back into your body. Your arms were shaking, fists still clenched tight into the sheets, and they barely uncurled when she moved. Your breath caught, then hitched again as she eased your torso upright. You didn’t realize how long it had been since you’d truly breathed until the weight of your body settled back against her chest. Your head fell back on instinct, the back of your head brushing her collarbone. And just for a moment, she held you there—her front against your back, her hands anchoring you in place, her lips ghosting over the sweat-drenched skin behind your ear.

Then she shifted again. One arm stayed across your chest, steadying you as her other hand moved just enough to grasp the strap. Her hips rolled, slow and careful, as she slid out of you in one long, wet pull that made your whole body twitch. You gasped at the loss, knees threatening to buckle, and she caught you again, pulling you tighter to her frame as you trembled.

Rio’s foot stepped hard on the tangled mess of your jeans and underwear around your ankles, pinning them to the floor. One firm nudge of her foot, and the fabric dragged free from your legs, leaving you bare. Raw.

Agnes was already moving. Crossing to the bed with silent urgency, her hands clenched at her sides, her mouth parted like she’d been holding her breath the whole time. She climbed onto the mattress just as Rio stepped you closer.

You were still standing. But only because Rio wanted you to. Agnes kneeled on the bed at your front, her blouse rumpled, her lips parted, her whole body humming with tension. Rio glanced up. Nodded once. Then Agnes grabbed you. She pulled you forward with care, her arms folding around your waist with something desperate in the way, her nose pressed against your cheek, catching your sweat, tears, and scent all at once. She kissed your temple with a reverence that made your eyes flood again.

“Sweetheart,” she breathed. “Oh, sweetheart.”

Rio’s voice came from behind, still thick with exertion. “You did so fucking good.”

Your head tipped between them, lost in the cocoon of their touch. “We’re gonna get you comfortable, alright?” Agnes whispered, still petting your hair. “We’re right here.”

Together, they moved you—slowly, reverently. Agnes’s wet shirt clung to your body, sticking to your skin like an aftershock, and she peeled it off inch by inch, her hands pausing over every mark, every tremble. When the fabric was gone, her eyes dragged across you—jaw tightening, mouth soft. They laid you on your back like you were something precious. Something fragile.

Your body trembled with aftershocks, chest still rising in unsteady gasps, thighs twitching as the weight of everything slowly began to settle. You were bare against the sheets, fully exposed, flushed, open, your limbs heavy with exhaustion, but still caught in the lingering tension of what your body had just endured. The air touched every part of you. And you shivered.

Your eyes glassy, dazed. Wrecked. Agnes’s hand brushed, light and cool, to your damp hair from your forehead with fingers gentler than air, reverent in the way she touched you like you might vanish beneath her palm. She leaned close—her breath warm, her lips almost at your ear.

“Breathe for me,” she whispered, voice low and steady. “Right here. With me.” Your eyes found hers. Even through the blur of tears, even through the broken rhythm of your breath, your gaze clung to hers like a lifeline. Agnes held it like a tether, like gravity. “You’re okay,” she murmured. “You’re safe, sweetheart. Just breathe.”

You tried. Your lungs stuttered. Hiccupped. Then gave in. A thin breath, shaky and wet.  “That’s it,” she soothed, her thumb stroking slowly across your cheekbone. “You’re doing so well. Just like that.”

And then—softer, impossibly tender: “You’re beautiful,” she whispered, voice catching with it. The words broke something else in you. Your lip trembled. The tears fell harder. Your face crumpled just slightly, your throat tightening as the emotions crested again, full and raw and too big for your body. Agnes leaned in without hesitation. Her hand cradled your cheek, thumb brushing another tear away as her mouth met yours—softly, reverently. A kiss like balm. Like confession. Like home.

You melted into it without thinking. It was all you could do. Rio moved, quiet and fast. You heard the soft thud of the harness hitting the floor. The gentle sound of soaked clothes being peeled away. The rustle of fabric, the hush of bare feet on wood. Agnes’s lips parted from yours just as Rio climbed onto the bed. Not rushed. Not demanding. She approached from the other side and knelt beside you, eyes locked on yours even as Agnes leaned down and kissed your lips. She didn’t speak.  She didn’t need to because she saw it. Everything.

You, stretched out and trembling. Your chest still fluttering with each breath Agnes coaxed from you. The tears still sliding down your cheeks, the way your mouth trembled from the kiss, the way your eyes stayed locked on Agnes like she was the only thing keeping you on this plane. And Rio’s expression, usually so fierce, so tightly held, broke. Her jaw softened. Her brow drew tight with feeling. And still, she came closer. Reaching. Ready. “Come here, my love,” she murmured—voice hoarse, low, soaked in emotion. Her arms opened, steady and waiting, and the moment Agnes turned you toward her, she caught you.

Your weight met hers, and her arms came around you instantly, wrapping you in warmth, in strength, in something whole. Her hands moved slowly—one splaying across your lower back, the other curling protectively behind your neck as she guided you the rest of the way over her body.

Skin to skin. Chest to chest. Your cheek landed against the place above her heart. And there it was. The sound. That rhythm—steady, solid, anchoring—her heartbeat, thick and slow beneath your ear, filling the space that had been too empty just seconds before. It pressed into you like balm, like gravity, like forgiveness. It told your body what to do: breathe, breathe, breathe.

Your breath hitched every few seconds, shallow and uneven. Not panic, just aftermath. Just your body still trying to remember how to be.

Your lashes were damp. Your face burned. Rio tightened her hold around your waist, anchoring you to her with the kind of gentleness only she could offer after the intensity of the moment, like she knew exactly how to fill every bruise she’d just carved into your skin. She exhaled, chest rising and falling beneath you, arms wrapped fully around your trembling frame. “Hey,” Rio said, voice thick with breath, her lips brushing your temple. “You with me, baby?”

You didn’t lift your head. Couldn’t. It was resting on the bare plane of her chest—your cheek pressed just above her heart where her skin was warm and damp, still heaving beneath you in slow, controlled exhales. Your entire body lay across hers, draped along the length of her torso like something broken and gathered, held with purpose. Your arm stretched across her sternum, limp but anchored there, fingertips twitching every few seconds like the signal was still catching up to the nerves. She didn’t wait long. “Talk to me,” she whispered, a little firmer now, more command than question. “Are you okay, hermosa? Look at me, please.”

You tried. But the words stayed lodged behind the ache in your throat, behind the tremble in your lips. You couldn’t speak, not yet. Instead, your fingers moved. A slow twitch. Then: two taps against her skin where your hand lay. Rio exhaled hard, like a weight had cracked off her chest. “There she is,” she murmured, her voice so full of warmth it nearly melted you. “There’s my brave girl.”

She kissed your temple and then pulled you closer, tighter, her body wrapping around yours like a cocoon. Her arms curved around your back and ribs with fierce tenderness, like she needed every inch of you pressed to her skin to believe this wasn’t a dream. Her thigh shifted beneath yours, her breath against your scalp anchoring every trembling inch of you. “You did so good,” she whispered. “So fucking good.”

Her hand smoothed across your lower back, slow and steady, anchoring you to her chest. You could feel the reverence in her fingertips. The care. The worship. “You took everything I gave you,” Rio murmured, her voice thick now, frayed around the edges like the truth of it overwhelmed her. “Every word. Every thrust. Every fucking inch. And you stayed still for me. You listened. You let me have all of you.”

Your breath stuttered, catching in your throat as her arms curled tighter around your waist. You didn’t try to speak. Couldn’t. But the tremble in your lips said everything. “You didn’t hide from it,” she said, her breath hot against your temple. “You didn’t flinch. You felt it—let it wreck you—and you held on and fuck, baby—you were beautiful.”

She kissed your forehead, slow and aching. “Strongest girl I’ve ever known.”

Your body twitched softly against her, overstimulated nerves still dancing under your skin, but Rio just held you through it. Her hands never strayed. Her touch never turned rough. It was all gentleness now—just the rhythm of her breath, the strength of her arms, the press of her chest steady against your back.

You whimpered—quiet, high, trembling—a raw sound from deep in your chest that wasn’t quite a sob, but close. Your face pressed tighter into the slope of her collarbone as your body melted into hers, all the tension unraveling at once. She curled around you, whispering it again as her hands slid low along your sides, grounding you to the moment. “I’ve got you,” she murmured. “My girl. My brave, brave girl.”

Agnes’s hands were still on your body. The warmth and scent of her skin surrounded you, like sage, salt, and something sacred. One curled around your hip. The other trailed over your spine in a reverent sweep, fingertips gliding along your skin like she was touching something holy. Agnes whispered, her voice low and aching. “You were breathtaking.”

You couldn’t answer. Couldn’t speak. The tears had returned, slow and silent, sliding down your flushed cheeks. But you leaned into her touch like it was all you’d ever needed—like you could survive off her hands and Rio’s voice alone. Agnes leaned in, her forehead pressing gently to your shoulder blade as her fingers stroked down your back. “So beautiful,” she murmured, “so fucking smart, so brave.”

Her lips brushed your skin, your shoulder, your hip, the space just above your waist. “I love you,” she whispered. “I love every inch of you. Every breath. Every brilliant, perfect part of you.” Rio’s hand found yours again, tapping twice against your wrist. And even as your chest shook, even as you sobbed silently into her skin, you tapped back. Twice.

The world had narrowed to touch, to breath, to the slow ebb of Rio’s heartbeat beneath your cheek and the ghost of her voice in your ear. At some point, you’d stopped trembling. Your body had sagged fully into hers, half-sprawled across her torso where she held you like something sacred, unmoving. You were weightless. You were wrecked. You were safe.

The soft sound of the door eased open. Agnes’s steps were quiet, reverent, like she knew the exact hush the moment needed. She crossed the room with a water bottle in one hand and a folded cloth in the other. She had changed out of her wet clothes. Her eyes flicked to Rio, and something passed between them. A check-in. A confirmation. Then her gaze softened on you.

“Here,” she said, kneeling beside the bed. Her voice was low, warm, and coaxing. “Let’s get some water in you.”

You didn’t argue. Your lips were dry, trembling, but when she held the bottle to your mouth and tilted it gently, you drank. Each swallow felt like it had to relearn the rhythm of movement, your throat catching on the weight of it—but you kept going, kept sipping until Agnes gave a soft nod and pulled it away.

She stood. Walked to the en-suite bathroom. You heard it before you saw it—the hush of water, the unmistakable echo of the massive tub filling. Oils. Something floral, maybe—lavender or jasmine—drifted faintly through the door as candlelight flickered. You didn’t have to see it to know she was setting the space like a spell.

Another bottle of water clinked softly onto the tiled edge. Agnes returned, her gaze sweeping over you like devotion made flesh. “Come here, sweetheart” she murmured, opening her arms. Rio shifted beneath you. Gently. Carefully. Agnes stepped forward, strong and sure. She gathered you into her arms like a bride, like something precious, and lifted.

You didn’t protest. You couldn’t. You let her carry you into the bathroom—her breath even, her heart steady, her arms wrapped around the back of your thighs and your shoulder blades as if she’d been made for this.

The air in the bathroom was thick with warmth—steam curling against the tile, lavender and vetiver clinging to the mist like a lullaby. Candles flickered along the edges of the enormous tub, casting gold and shadow across Agnes’s face as she knelt. Her hand dipped into the water with that same measured grace she used for research—every movement deliberate, precise, devoted.

She nodded. “Okay,” she said softly. “Get in.”

But your fingers curled around hers. “Come in with me,” you whispered. Her breath caught—just once. Then a small, wrecked smile pulled at her lips, one that softened her whole face, like the ache of love had just caught up with her all at once.

“Of course,” she murmured, already moving. She threw off the shirt and stepped in first, the water rippling around her thighs, her hips, her ribs—then higher still as she sank into the curve of the porcelain. The scent of oil deepened—cedar and rose and something older. Holy. She leaned back, arms open, body bare, eyes only on you.

You moved slowly. Not from fear, but from reverence. Your muscles ached with the weight of everything they had given you. Your knees bent. Your thighs trembled. You slid into the bath one inch at a time until Agnes’s arms caught you. You melted like wax into flame, like storm into silence. Your back pressed to her chest, head lolling against her collarbone as the heat of the water wrapped around you like balm. She adjusted, tucking one knee up to cradle your legs as her arms gathered you in close. Her palms smoothed over your ribs, your stomach, your hips—slow and firm and worshipful.

The water cradled you like a second skin but it was Agnes who anchored you. Her breath, her voice, her hands moving in slow, sacred patterns across your skin. She never rushed. Never let the moment dissolve into silence too long. Her lips lingered at your temple. Her chest rose and fell behind you like a steady tide.

You hadn’t spoken in minutes. But she had. Soft, reverent words falling like petals against your shoulder. “You’re everything,” she whispered, barely audible over the flicker of candlelight and the hush of water lapping against porcelain. “To me. To Rio. There is no world, no universe, no version of us, that doesn’t include you.”

Her arms tightened around you, palms flat against your stomach, your ribcage, as if to remind you: you were here. You were alive. You were still hers. Your chest hitched. Just once. But she felt it. She pressed a kiss to your neck, then slowly—carefully—shifted behind you, guiding your body forward with a hand at your waist. The motion was so tender, so patient, that you barely noticed her movement until her lips met the center of your spine. Right over the new ink that wrapped from your spine down across one of your shoulders and right arm. Her mouth softened as it touched your skin, reverent and still. She didn’t speak. Not at first. Then, low, like a vow: “I see you,” she murmured. “Every part. Every version. And I will always worship every single part of you.” Her lips stayed there. Still. Like a seal. A blessing.

You let your head hang forward, body slack, trusting her completely as her hands returned—one smoothing up your side, the other trailing soft, circular paths over your thighs. She drew you back into her again, until your back met her chest once more, until the curve of her knee slipped between yours beneath the water and held you open in nothing but comfort. “You are so much more than strong,” she said. “You are good. You are precious. You are ours.”

And for the first time since breaking—since Agnes being over you, Rio’s hand against your hip, since the scream that had torn from your throat like an invocation—you found breath. Not just breath, but sound. Your voice came out in a whisper. “I love you.”  Agnes’s arms trembled just slightly around you. And then, into the warm curve of your neck, she whispered back: “I know. And I will never stop proving that you’re worth loving like this.” Her kiss found your cheek and the next breath you took felt whole.

Agnes didn’t rush you. She held you until the water cooled, until your skin went from flushed to softly pruned, until your breath returned without shuddering. Her thigh stayed between yours, her arms wrapped firm but gentle, anchoring you against her chest. When the moment came—when your fingers found hers beneath the surface and squeezed—she shifted. One slow breath. Then another. And then she moved, carefully standing with you, her body rising behind yours as water lapped over your shoulders.

“Let me help you,” she murmured. You nodded, and together you moved—carefully, reverently. Water streamed down your skin as she stood with you, her body shielding yours from the cool air. Agnes stepped out first, one hand steady at your waist, the other bracing your arm as she helped you step out. The moment your foot met the bath mat, the chill kissed your skin—but it was gone a heartbeat later.

Because Rio was there. A thick towel—warm, sun-soft, and waiting—draped over your shoulders before the shiver could settle. Her hands followed, rubbing slow up your arms, over your back. Then she leaned in, kissed Agnes—deep, grateful, full of something that made your stomach flutter.

Rio pulled back, just slightly. Her smile curved crooked, knowing. “I didn’t forget what I promised.”

Your heart stuttered. And before you could stop it, your lips curved too—cheek warm against the edge of the towel. “I want to watch,” you whispered.

Both women stilled. Then Rio’s gaze flicked to yours—dark, gleaming. Agnes’s breath hitched behind you, and her hand curled slightly around your hip, grounding.

“Then you will,” Rio said softly. Her voice was a vow. And the air between the three of you shifted—no longer just safe. But charged. Ready. Holy.

The towel stayed wrapped tight as Rio guided you to the bedroom, her palm a steady presence at the small of your back. Every step felt slower now. Not because you were unsteady, but because they were giving you that space. That care. That reverence.

The lights in the bedroom were low—only the soft golden glow of the bedside lamp lit the space. The sheets had been changed. The scent of clean linen lingered in the air, subtle and soothing, and the comforter was folded neatly down like an invitation. Like home.

Rio’s hand slid the towel from your shoulders. “Arms up, baby,” she said, warm and soft, already holding one of Agnes’s old, oversized shirts. The fabric was worn and sun-bleached, smelling faintly of cedar and clean skin. You lifted your arms, and Rio tugged it gently over your head, careful not to jostle too much.

Then came the boxers—navy cotton with a faint bleach mark along the waistband. You stepped into them with her help, Rio crouching low in front of you, her palms guiding the fabric up your legs like she was dressing something sacred. Her fingers brushed your thighs, slow and reverent, her thumbs smoothing along the backs of your knees before settling the waistband at your hips with practiced ease.

She didn’t rise right away. Her hands stayed at your legs, sliding slowly upward, grazing the edges of the shirt she’d just eased over your head. Then she stood—fluid, controlled—her body unfolding in front of yours until you felt the heat of her breath again, this time at your throat.

“Let me see, please” she said, voice lower now. Not a command. Not a question. Something softer. Something meant only for you. The fabric of the boxers whispered as you moved.  Slowly and carefully, she peeled them back down, just far enough to bare the full curve of your ass. Her breath caught—not sharply, but like a held note. Her gaze dragged over every mark she’d put there. Reddened skin, raised edges, the unmistakable print of her palm. She looked. And looked. Then she bent in. Her lips brushed your shoulder. A kiss, not an apology. Not regret. Just Rio. “Was it too much?” she asked, her voice so close to your skin it vibrated through your bones.

You shook your head before she could even finish the question. “No. It wasn’t too much.” She stilled behind you. Her touch paused, her fingers resting just above one of the deepest welts. “I liked it,” you whispered, throat thick. “I like knowing you’re still on me. Tomorrow. The day after.”

Rio’s exhale warmed your spine, slow and deliberate, like it came from somewhere deep. Her fingers returned, trailing one of the marks she’d left with the barest touch. Not tracing damage. Tracing possession. She reached for the small glass jar on the nightstand—Agnes’s salve, the one they always kept nearby for nights like this. Coconut, mint, a hint of something floral. She unscrewed the lid, dipped two fingers into the thick cream, rubbed it between her palms until it softened, warmed.

The first contact was cool and gentle, the balm soothing over heat and ache. Rio didn’t flinch. Didn’t rush. She pressed it into each bruise she’d given you, working it in with slow, deliberate circles, her thumbs gliding over raised edges, her palms pressing flat over the worst of it. Her breath stayed even. Her eyes never strayed.

“I need you to know,” she said, barely audible, “I never stop watching. Even when I take you apart like that… I never stop protecting you.” She massaged a little longer, fingers lingering, as if reluctant to let go. Once every mark had been touched, seen, soothed, she gently eased the boxers back into place. She smoothed the fabric with her hands, as if sealing something sacred.

She pulled you back into her chest, the warmth of her body folding around yours, steady and sure. Her cheek rested against your shoulder blade. Her breath anchored you.

“I love you,” she said softly. “Color?”

You nodded; your answer was immediate. “Green.” And then, quieter still, with something like awe: “I love you too.”

She smiled, then guided you toward the bed, the mattress dipping slightly as she eased you down. Every inch of the new sheets whispered comfort; the cotton cool but welcoming beneath your skin. Then Agnes knelt beside the bed. Her towel still wrapped around her, water trailing down her collarbone, her eyes searching yours.

“We don’t have to stay here, if you need a few minutes on your own,” she said quietly. “We could move to the shower. Or wait. Or stop. You tell us what you need. What you want. We want to make sure you’re okay.”

You shook your head, fingers brushing the hem of the shirt where it curled at your thighs. “No. I want this. I want to see you—” your voice caught. “I want to see you finally get what you’ve been holding back. What you need.”

Agnes didn’t speak right away. Her throat worked. Her eyes burned. And then she leaned forward, her forehead brushing yours, breath shivering against your cheek. “All right,” she whispered. “Then watch, baby girl.”

She didn’t rise right away. Just knelt there, towel clinging to her hips, the wet weight of her curls plastered to her cheeks and collarbone. Her breath came shallow. Steady. But her jaw was tight. Her throat worked around a breath she hadn’t released. Her knuckles curled into the mattress—braced near Rio’s thigh, close but still not touching.

“Agnes,” Rio said gently. Agnes’s eyes snapped up like she’d been underwater. Rio didn’t speak again. Just held out her hand. That was all it took.

Agnes moved like the restraint cracked something down her spine. She crawled up onto the bed on careful knees, towel loosening with each shift. One hand caught the edge of it—modesty, habit—but the other reached toward Rio’s leg. She didn’t touch skin. Not yet. Just pressed her palm lightly against the sheet where Rio’s hip met the bed.

A claim. A tremble. Rio leaned back slightly on her elbows, watching her. “Breathe.”

Agnes did. Barely. You stayed where you were—wrapped in the oversized shirt, Agnes’s boxers soft on your hips, your back against the pillows, legs loosely folded beneath you. You watched them like something sacred was unfolding in front of you. And it was.

She just knelt in front of Rio—naked, shaking, cock flushed and heavy between her thighs. Rio reached for her. Hands slow, reverent. One sliding up her arm, the other finding her hip. She pulled Agnes closer, legs spreading slightly, body arching forward in silent invitation.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. Because when Rio kissed her, it wasn’t about heat. Not first. It was home. Agnes melted into her. A ragged breath caught between them—too rough to be a sob, too desperate to be controlled. Agnes pressed her face to Rio’s neck, jaw clenched tight, muscles drawn so taut it looked like her body might snap from holding back.

Rio held her there, one hand steady at the nape of her neck, the other low at her waist—barely moving, just letting her feel it. Agnes didn’t beg. Not out loud. But her whole body did. Every twitch of restraint, every shallow tremble of her hips as her cock hovered at Rio’s entrance—aching and slick and denied—it all spoke what her mouth couldn’t. Rio’s palm slid up her spine, not coaxing, not commanding—just there. Then lower again, grounding her. Her voice, when it came, was quieter than before. Less sharp. Still strong. “I told you I’d take care of you.”

Agnes exhaled hard against her neck. Like the words hit something deeper than she was ready for—and finally moved. Not fast. Not rough. But with the kind of slowness that betrayed just how close she already was.

The stretch dragged between them, thick and molten. Inch by inch, she sank into Rio’s body, her jaw locked. Rio’s eyes fluttered shut. Her thighs flexed around Agnes’s hips, breath catching like the slide was too much, too full. But she didn’t stop it. She took it.

And when Agnes bottomed out—hips flush, hands gripping the sheets like they were the only things keeping her upright—Rio opened her eyes again. Not to speak. Just to see her. Agnes trembled above her, still silent. Still holding.

Rio’s voice came soft but sure. “I’m not in control right now.”

And that—that—was what cracked her.

Agnes rocked forward, just once, and buried her face deeper into Rio’s neck. Her body bucked without rhythm, the first thrust more of a grind than a stroke, and she let out a sound that wasn’t a cry or a moan—but need stripped bare.

Her breath broke against Rio—short, stuttered, not quite sobbing, but not far from it either. The restraint she’d held for so long was fraying now, unraveling in layers you could see from across you. Her hips stilled. Then rolled again, dragging herself against Rio with maddening slowness, buried to the hilt but afraid to move.

You watched, every breath in your chest knotted and trembling. The sheets clean beneath your skin. Agnes’s boxers loose on your hips. And still, the sight of them—this, unfolding—held you in a spell you didn’t dare break.

Rio’s hands moved again—one to the small of Agnes’s back, the other sliding up into her hair. She didn’t guide. Didn’t pull.

She just held her. And when Agnes pressed deeper, like she could climb inside her skin, Rio let out a sound that split the air—sharp, wrecked, something between a moan and a gasp.

Agnes thrust again—slower this time, but harder. The kind of movement that says I can’t wait, even when you’re trying to. Her body trembled with it. Not from power. From desperation. From finality.

From what she'd denied herself all night. Rio took it. God, she took it. Hips rising to meet her, head tilting back, mouth open like she was tasting every inch of it. “Agnes,” Rio whispered.

That was it. Just her name. She buried herself fully again, the sound that escaped her low and strangled. Her eyes clenched shut. Her hands flattened against the mattress on either side of Rio’s shoulders, trying to hold steady—but they weren’t steady. Not anymore. You knew that sound. The helpless one she made next. You’d heard it before—soft and thick when she was close, when her body stopped listening to her commands. “Fuck—” Agnes bit out. “I’m—”

Rio’s hand tightened in her hair. “I know,” she breathed. Then, softer, nearer to a prayer than a confession: “Been thinking about you all day.” Her jaw opened on a silent gasp, her hips still grinding, messier now, surrendering to that ache she could no longer contain. “Wanted you,” Rio whispered, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Wanted this.” Agnes trembled through it. “All day, baby,” Rio murmured, voice breaking on the vowels.

You couldn’t look away. Not from the way Agnes moved, stuttering and sure. Not from the way Rio held her, letting herself be opened all over again. You pressed a hand between your thighs—not to ease the ache, but to ground yourself in it. To feel just how much of this you were taking in. Agnes whimpered again. Sharp. Fragile. Her thighs quaked with every motion, as though each thrust was breaking something loose. And Rio—she moaned for her.

Not loud. Not theatrical. Just wrecked. A sound that escaped without permission, like it had lived behind her teeth all day. Her hands slid—one to Agnes’s waist, the other curling into the sheets above her head like she needed something to anchor her down.

Their skin clung where sweat met salt. The rhythm stuttered, not from hesitation, but from need catching up with both of them at once. The headboard hit the wall as Rio arched into her. Just slightly. Just enough to chase it. Her teeth caught her bottom lip, but it didn’t help—another moan tore free, soft and hungry. Agnes looked down at her like she might fall apart. And Rio… she nodded. As if to say: It’s okay. I’m right here. You can lose it. We both can.

Your breath caught. You weren’t just watching two people have sex. You were watching them unmake each other. Slowly. Intimately. Like they’d been waiting for this exact breaking point—holding themselves too tightly for too long, until this room, this bed, this moment cracked open under them both. Agnes whispered something you couldn’t hear. Rio responded by threading her fingers through the back of Agnes’s hair and pulling her down for a kiss that never landed. Their mouths collided—messy, breathless, uncoordinated—and Agnes groaned, not from control but from the sheer loss of it. Her rhythm faltered. Slipped. Hips stuttering forward as if pulled by something primal, ancient, hungry.

Rio gasped against her lips, breaking the kiss just enough to breathe. Agnes’s thrusts turned frantic—sharp, uneven, almost painful with how much she needed it. Her body was soaked with sweat, her lips swollen from kissing, from biting back every noise she couldn’t afford to let out earlier.

But not now. Now there was nothing stopping her. And Rio— God, Rio was devastating. Her hands were in Agnes’s hair, her lips parted, moaning shamelessly with every movement. Her body met Agnes’s like it knew the rhythm—like it needed her there, buried deep and losing control. “You look so fucking good under me,” Agnes choked out, forehead dropping to Rio’s.

Rio’s thighs clamped tighter, slick and trembling, drawing Agnes impossibly deeper with every grind of her hips. The sweat along her stomach glistened in the low light—her chest heaving, head tossed back as if surrendering meant survival. Agnes braced a hand beside Rio’s head, the other gripping her hip like she could carve the moment into memory by touch alone.

Agnes looked over at you. Chest heaving. Soaked curls clinging to her jaw. Her eyes found yours like a secret—wild and locked, her whole body braced mid-thrust as if your gaze alone had yanked her closer to the edge.  A moan slipped from your lips. Soft. Uncontrolled. Felt. It spilled out like heat from your lungs, cracked with need and aching worship. Agnes groaned aloud the instant she heard it, hips stuttering forward with a sharp, instinctive jerk—deep, claiming, hers.

Rio choked on a gasp beneath her. Her hands flew to Agnes’s back, nails dragging in raw lines as she arched up with a sob. “Fuck—Agnes—” she moaned, voice splintering,

Agnes pressed her face to Rio’s throat with a strangled groan. Her rhythm kicked faster—not brutal, not cruel, but desperate. Every thrust trembling at the edge of collapse. Her muscles twitched as if straining against the need to fall apart, her hips grinding like she could fuse them together through sheer will.

Rio’s heels pressed into the bed, lifting her hips to meet each stroke. Her moans climbed in pitch, high and helpless, her chest rising with each one. “Don’t stop,” she breathed, fierce and cracking. “Don’t you fucking stop—”

Agnes didn’t answer with words. She reached down, grasping Rio’s thigh hard—fingers imprinting—holding her open, keeping her there. Her eyes flicked back to you.

You couldn’t look away. Her rhythm faltered once. Regained. Then broke again—this time faster. Messier. The line of her abdomen flexed sharp with effort. You saw her trying to hold it, biting it back through gritted teeth. Every motion tore the restraint thinner.

The sound of them—of wet skin, frantic breath, the headboard knocking in uneven rhythm—filled the room in waves. Your breath caught. A moan spilled from you before you could stop it. Not planned. Not loud. But full of reverence. Of ruin. Agnes’s head snapped toward you. Her eyes—dilated, wild, burning—locked to your face like she needed to see you come apart just to survive her own breaking. Her next thrust drove deep, her entire body jerking with it.

Rio arched, mouth falling open, a broken sob shoving its way from her chest. Her legs wrapped high around Agnes’s waist as if she couldn’t bear a millimeter of distance. Her whole body snapped taut—back bowed, arms trembling, chest flushed and shining with sweat.

And then she shattered. A sob punched from her throat—guttural, cracked, real—as her orgasm overtook her in waves. You saw it hit: the stutter of her hips, the flutter of her muscles, the squeeze so strong it knocked the air from Agnes’s lungs. Her release pulsed around her lover, drawn out by every thrust, every drag, every inch of skin slick with need.

Agnes’s mouth dropped open with a sound caught between a gasp and a sob. “Fuck—oh god—Rio—” she gasped into her neck, voice cracking like glass. Her hips locked. Her cock jerked deep inside, each pulse wrung from her in helpless surrender. And then it broke her.

Her thighs shook against Rio’s as the orgasm tore through her, fierce and guttural. She didn’t pull away. Couldn’t. She pressed in—desperate, shaking, buried to the hilt—as if she wanted to leave all of herself there. Her hands clenched in the sheets and Rio’s skin. Her voice caught again as another wave crashed through her, a cracked whimper tearing from her throat

Agnes moaned against her neck, her body locked in the rhythm of the last tremors. You could see the way she was still pulsing inside Rio—slow, hot surges that drew broken gasps from them both. Then she bit. Not cruel. Not sharp. Just grounding. Her mouth found Rio’s neck and sank in, the way someone might press a palm to the earth to keep from floating away. As if that connection was the only thing keeping her from flying apart entirely.

Their bodies collapsed into each other—soaked, trembling, stomach to chest. Agnes shook with aftershocks, still buried deep. Rio held her, lips at her temple, whispering soft nonsense, hands stroking her sides like lullabies. You couldn’t breathe. Not from need—but from awe. Their mouths hovered near each other, lips part ed, panting into the same space. Agnes didn’t move, not yet. Couldn’t. She was still deep inside her—still hard, kissed by Rio’s aftershocks.

Agnes turned first—her head lifting from the cradle of Rio’s throat, eyes glazed, blown wide. And then Rio turned too, her lips parting in a smile that hadn’t quite steadied yet. Her hand found Agnes’s hip, grounding her, but her gaze found you. You didn’t flinch from it. Didn’t hide. Your eyes were glassy, lips parted, breathing too careful. Agnes saw it first—how wrecked you looked, how your thighs shifted unconsciously like you could feel her without her even touching you yet.

You were still in Agnes’s boxers, soft between your thighs, and one of Rio’s oversized shirts hanging loose around your frame. The fabric clung slightly at the collar, still damp from your hair, but your skin had dried. Mostly. Except where heat had returned. Except where watching them had ruined you again. Rio’s voice came low, velvet-thick and breathless. “You’re soaked,” she murmured, gaze dropping to your hand still tucked beneath the waistband of Agnes’s boxers. Her lips curved faintly. “You’ve had your fingers on yourself this whole time?”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, but you didn’t move your hand. Didn’t lie either. You looked at Agnes instead—her body hovering just above Rio’s, trembling, caught between need and restraint. Your chest ached just looking at her. “I won’t last long,” you admitted, voice hoarse. “But I want you. I want you so fucking badly.”

That was all it took. Agnes’s restraint shattered in silence. She leaned in and kissed Rio once—deep and fast, like she needed it to stay grounded—then slipped out of her with a thick, reluctant sound. Rio exhaled hard, head tilting back with a moan at the loss, but she didn’t reach. She just watched. Waiting. Letting Agnes go.

Agnes crossed to you like she’d been waiting a lifetime. Her movements were slow, almost clumsy in their hesitation, as though her body hadn’t quite caught up with the permission her mind had finally accepted. Her thighs trembled as she moved, a faint sheen still catching the low light—slick and messy, a visible trace of Rio across the inside of her. Her breath hitched. She didn't try to hide it.

And neither did you. You watched the way her legs moved as she approached—the curve of muscle taut from holding back, her skin flushed down the length of her chest, and between her thighs... she was still dripping. Still marked.

From Rio. For you. And it hit you—deep, low, a twist of need that pulsed between your legs. The mattress shifted as her knees settled—one on each side of your thighs. She didn’t touch you. Didn’t reach for the boxers or your waist or even your hand.

She just knelt there. Bare. Breathing hard. Glowing like she was lit from the inside. Her eyes met yours—tender, blown wide, almost pleading. She didn’t lean forward. She didn’t press. She just… waited. Let you see all of her. Let you feel the shape of what this meant. And you did. Every shiver, every breath, every trace of Rio still glistening between her thighs. Your voice came out lower than you expected. Rough from want. “Agnes…” She blinked. Not at the sound of her name—but the way you said it. Like a yes. And still, she didn’t move. “Can I…” Her voice caught. She swallowed hard, chest rising. “May I take your boxers off?”

The way she said it—asking, not assuming—sent another pulse through your center. Your breath stuttered. She could’ve demanded it. Could’ve ripped them off. But she didn’t. She waited, kneeling there, slick and open and barely breathing, like she needed you to want it too. You nodded. But it wasn’t enough. You needed her to feel it. “Yes,” you said. “Please. I want you to.”

A shudder passed through her. One hand lifted—slow, steady—and came to rest against the band of the boxers you were wearing. She didn’t tug. Just paused there, fingertips light against the cotton. And then, from the other side of you, Rio moved. Her hand slid beneath the hem of the oversized shirt you wore—hers, soft from wear, still smelling like skin and sleep. She looked up at you once. “May I?”

Your lips parted. You nodded again. Rio’s hand slid higher. Not groping. Not rushed. Just peeling it back so she could see you—see Agnes kneeling between your legs, her fingers now curling into the waistband, her breath shaking as she finally began to pull.

The fabric slipped down, slow and reverent. You lifted your hips to help. And Agnes let out a sound—raw, quiet, almost broken—as her eyes landed on what she hadn’t let herself touch. You were soaked. And when the boxers cleared your thighs, she stayed there—frozen, trembling—until Rio leaned in and kissed your shoulder, warm and grounding. “You’re okay,” she whispered. “Let her see you.”

Her eyes swept over your body like a prayer she didn’t know how to say aloud. Her throat worked around nothing. One hand came to rest against the mattress—near your hip but not on it. Anchoring. Shaking. Then Rio’s lips brushed higher—your shoulder, then the column of your neck. She kissed you like she needed you to feel it, her nose tucked into your skin, her breath warm and steady, not to tease but to hold. To ground. To show you that even here—naked, aching, exposed—you were worshipped.

Agnes inhaled sharply and finally moved—one knee pressing forward, then the other, her thighs shaking as she crawled onto the bed. She didn’t reach for you. Not yet. Her hands splayed into the comforter beside your hips as she braced herself just above you. You could see everything now—how flushed she was, how soaked. The way Rio’s release still glistened along her. Her cock rested heavy and desperate between you, twitching slightly with each breath. But it was her eyes that pinned you. The way they searched your face, asking over and over if this was still okay, if you were ready, if she could have you now.

You cupped her cheek. “Agnes.” She leaned into it. Her lashes fluttered. You could feel the war inside her—desire warring with restraint, reverence fighting with need. “You can touch me,” you said softly. “I want you to.”

Agnes bent lower, lips trembling as they hovered just above your own. “I love you,” she whispered. “So much it hurts.”

Then slowly, like she was afraid to startle herself—she kissed you. It was messy, wet, desperate. Nothing like the kisses she gave in public or even at home when things were quiet. This one had teeth. This one shook. This one was years of wanting and weeks of denial poured into the space between your mouths like thunder.

Rio’s hand slipped around to the front of your body, cradling your breast as her teeth found your neck again. Her voice was low and molten.  “fuck,” you whispered, voice breaking into breath as Rio’s mouth found your breast. Your back arched immediately—helpless, offering—when Rio’s mouth closed over your breast. She moved with practiced tenderness, the soft slide of her tongue lapping over your skin before her lips sealed around you, sucking you in slow, deep pulls meant only to worship. Every flick sent a bolt of sensation down your spine, low and sharp, until your thighs tensed beneath Agnes’s knees.

Then came the graze of Rio’s teeth—delicate but firm—just enough to sting. It pulled a sound from your throat you didn’t mean to make, a breathless moan that seemed to crack something open in the quiet between all three of you.

Agnes felt it. Her groan wasn’t loud, but it came from somewhere deep—buried beneath weeks of restraint and need. You felt her hips twitch forward, instinctive and desperate, the thick pressure of her cock nudging against your soaked entrance as if your body had called to her without words.

Rio’s mouth lingered at your breast for a heartbeat longer, her tongue flicking over your nipple with a kind of reverent farewell before she pressed a final kiss there—soft and open-mouthed. Her hand traced your side, your ribs, then slowly withdrew. You felt the air shift around you, the mattress dip as she moved back, giving space. Her breath was still warm along your skin, and she whispered just low enough for you to hear: “I’ll be right here. But she needs you now.”

And then Agnes was there. The space she moved into felt instantly heavier, charged with trembling restraint. She was still coated in Rio, gleaming. Your breath caught as you looked up at her: wild eyes, flushed cheeks, hair damp and curling at her temples. You’d never seen her like this. You reached for her gently, your hand coming to rest against her stomach—just to ground her, to tell her you were ready.

“You’re still so hard,” you whispered, breath hitching as you looked down between your bodies. The awe in your voice made her tremble. She was flushed and full, slick from Rio and from need, and your hand moved instinctively—fingers curling around her, thumb teasing the head. Agnes twitched at the contact, her hips stuttering forward before she caught herself, groaning low in her throat. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she said, voice rough, almost strangled.

“You won’t,” you breathed. Your hand slid to her waist, grounding her. “I trust you. I just… I want to feel you. I’ve wanted you for weeks.”

She looked wrecked by that—jaw clenched; eyes glassy. Her hands framed your thighs, then slid gently beneath them, lifting and guiding them open until you were fully exposed beneath her, body. Her thumbs pressed into the softness of your inner thighs, parting you just a little more. Her voice broke on the edge of a whisper. “You’re sure?”

Your gaze found hers—unwavering, fierce in your need. “I’m sure. Please.” She exhaled like it hurt, her body leaning in over yours as she shifted forward, cock brushing against you—soaked and aching—and then… She started to push in. Slow. Careful. The heat of her length parting you inch by inch, slick easing the way, but the stretch still made your mouth fall open. One of her hands left your thigh to cradle your cheek, as if she needed to feel every part of you as she entered.

You moaned—low and broken—as she sank deeper, the sound rising from somewhere too tender to name. Your hips tipped up, helpless and wanting, but you didn’t need to move. She gave you everything, inch by aching inch, until the stretch became fullness, until the trembling pressure settled into heat.

“Fuck,” you whispered, the word a release of its own. Your body clung to her—wet, swollen, pulsing around the thick length of her, still adjusting. Still fluttering. Agnes’s breath faltered above you. She didn’t move. Didn’t thrust. She just stayed there, buried in you, cradling your thighs wide, letting your body take her. Her chest pressed to yours, her cock fully seated and twitching, and god—god—you could feel how hard she was, how desperately she’d held herself back.

Your head tipped back against the pillows, lashes fluttering as your lips parted on another moan. Not sharp. Not wild. Just full. Full of her, and of everything you’d needed and been denied. Agnes mouth brushed along your neck. Her breath was ragged, hotter than the air, and when her lips found the base of your throat, she kissed you like she was still trying not to lose it. Like restraint was barely hanging on. Then—your chin lifted instinctively—and her mouth found yours.

It wasn’t a kiss so much as a slow collapse. Her tongue moved with reverence, her lips shaky against yours, tasting every sound you gave her as her hips stayed still, buried deep and twitching with need. Your thighs trembled in her hands. Her grip was reverent, but strong, holding you open, anchoring you to the mattress like she never wanted to let you close again. Her breath came hot against your cheek, lips brushing yours like she needed the connection just to stay grounded.

“Baby,” you moaned, your voice catching as your back arched under her. “I’m not gonna last—” Agnes groaned—low, guttural—and her hips finally started to move. A slow grind at first, drawing halfway out before sinking back in, her cock dragging against the spot that made you cry out into her mouth. She kissed you through it, kissed you like she was trying to breathe you in—like she couldn’t bear the thought of being anywhere but inside you. Your hips arched into her before she could say another word, a cry catching in your throat as her cock dragged deep through you again.

“I’ve missed this,” you whispered, arching again, your thighs wrapping tighter around her hips. “Missed you—" Agnes didn’t speak. She just nodded once, jaw tight, and gave you more. Her hips moved faster now, still with that deliberate care—but no longer holding back. Every stroke was deep, hot, and aching with want. She kissed you between thrusts, reverent and ragged, her hands flexing against your thighs like she couldn’t believe this was real.

Agnes moaned your name against your mouth. Her thrusts grew deeper, smoother, settling into that rhythm your body had memorized long before it ever felt her this way. Your thighs opened wider beneath her, the wet drag of her cock inside you slick, soaked, and devastatingly full. Every motion made you feel held. Stretched and adored. Her hips pressing flush to yours, then rolling forward, deliberate and hard enough to make your breath catch. Again. And again.

“Oh—fuck, right there—” Your voice broke on it, and Agnes kissed the sound from your lips—deep, consuming, like she needed it to hold herself together. One of her hands remained firm where it had opened you wider, gripping under your thigh, her fingers pressed just beneath your knee. The other curled up your side and found your cheek, cupping it with trembling reverence.

When she pulled back just far enough to look at you, her eyes searched your face like she’d never get enough. “You’re perfect like this,” she whispered, voice wrecked.

Your voice hitched on a moan—high, unsteady, torn from your chest before you could think. Your fingers clenched where they gripped her back, nails digging in slightly as your hips rolled up to meet her, desperate for more, for everything. “Babe—” Your breath caught.

Agnes groaned, the sound breaking in her throat like a sob. She didn’t speed up—not yet. She just pushed, deep and slow and aching, her cock grinding inside you with the kind of pressure that felt like she was trying to remember every inch of you from the inside out. Her hand was still locked around your thigh, holding you open for her. Her other trembled where it cupped your cheek, slipping slightly as your head tipped back. She caught you with her mouth—lips parting over your throat, your jaw, your lips again. The kiss that followed wasn’t neat. It was messy, trembling, breath shared like a promise.

You cried out. Loud. Unguarded. Your whole body arched beneath her as your legs trembled, your hands flying to her shoulders, holding on. She kissed you, and it wasn’t sweet—it was desperate, her mouth open over yours, swallowing your gasps like they fed her. Her hips rolled again, and this time—this time—you felt it. That exact spot she hadn’t meant to hit so perfectly, that place inside you that lit you up from the inside out.

Your body jolted with every stroke, breath stuttering in your throat as she bottomed out again—and again—and the sound you made wasn’t just a moan anymore.

It was worship. It was collapse. “I’m—” Your voice broke again, cracked wide like the moan that spilled from your lips—loud, breathless, needy. Agnes didn’t stop. She didn’t change a thing. Her hips rocked with that same slow, perfect pressure, her cock hitting exactly where you needed her, again and again, until your fingers trembled against her back.

“Oh—fuck—oh god—Agnes—” You couldn’t hold them back anymore, the moans pouring out between each thrust, sharp and desperate. Your thighs twitched, and your stomach clenched.  Agnes’s breath stuttered hard in your ear, her moan guttural and sharp. She held you firm, her hand still braced between your thighs, keeping you wide, keeping you hers.  Your head tipped back against the pillow as another loud, broken moan escaped you—higher this time, raw, almost a cry. Your stomach coiled, your thighs trembling, soaked and open and shaking beneath her.

Agnes moaned above you, wrecked and open—each breath catching in her throat as she stayed buried deep, her thrusts slow and careful even now. Your hands gripped her back, nails biting, and you arched to meet her, panting, desperate.

“Baby—” your voice cracked. “Please... make me—” You couldn’t even finish it. You gasped again, tugged her down, forehead to yours, thighs twitching around her hips. “Please make me cum,” you begged, trembling. “Please, I need—” Agnes choked out a sound—part moan, part broken groan—and her rhythm changed. Faster. Deeper. The slick slap of her body into yours filled the room, hot and wet and undeniable. Her hips met you harder now, just enough force to echo, enough to split you open.

You shattered. Your cry was helpless, back bowed, mouth open on a sobbing moan as everything came crashing down. The pressure tore through your core, a wave that stole your breath and left you gasping, jerking beneath her.

Agnes groaned loud, her hips still moving, your name breaking off her tongue as she stayed buried deep, trembling with how tight you clenched around her. You could barely hear anything through the rush of your pulse—but you felt her, every twitch and tremor of her body, the way she didn’t let go of a single inch of you.

Her next thrust dragged a choked groan from her chest, hips driving forward, and you felt it—Agnes throbbing hard inside you, her balls clapping against the backs of your thighs with each uneven roll of her hips. The words came rough, pulled straight from her throat. “Shit—I’m… I’m gonna cum—”

Agnes’s face hovered just above yours—flushed, trembling, her mouth half-open and her eyes locked on yours like she was unraveling thread by thread and you were the only thing holding her together. You felt it—her cock twitching deep, the stutter of her hips, the tight grasp of her fingers on your thigh like she didn’t trust herself not to fall apart. Your breath hitched. Your hands came up, pulling her down, needing her closer, heavier, all of her weight over you. You kissed her hard, messy, panting into each other’s mouths—and the moment her chest pressed fully to yours, the heat surged back through you.

You broke the kiss with a gasp—raw and trembling. Your back arched helplessly, hips stuttering up into her, thighs shaking as you clenched around Agnes’s still-throbbing length. You could feel her everywhere—heat, pressure, fullness—and it was too much. The tension snapped, pleasure crashing through your body so violently it knocked the breath from your lungs. Another orgasm tore through you, blinding and involuntary.

Your vision spotted.  You couldn’t speak—only moan, wrecked and open beneath her, your fingers clawing into the trembling planes of her back as her body rocked into yours. The grind was wet, deep—her length still slick from Rio, dragging that heat back inside you with every desperate thrust. You gasped, trembling, arching just enough to meet her rhythm as your hands locked around her.

Your head tipped back, then forward again, lips parted—chest heaving with every pant. You found her eyes. Saw her. Agnes, straining above you, fighting to hold on, jaw slack with need. You didn’t have to say a word. She saw it in your face—in the way you looked at her like she was the only thing keeping you whole.

Your body said everything: the way your thighs clenched around her waist, the way your hips bucked helplessly up into hers, the way you whispered her name like prayer between gasps. “Ah—A-Agnes—” You moaned again, the sound cracked and pleading, your arms pulling her closer, keeping her deep. You needed her to finish. Needed to feel it. Agnes’s breath stuttered against your cheek—then caught entirely as your body pulsed around her, dragging her down. Her hips rocked once, deep and slow. Then again. One final push, so deep it made you gasp.

She choked on a moan. Then another. Her whole body locked above you. You felt the first pulse inside you—hot, hard—Agnes crying out low in your ear as she came. A broken, needy groan tore from her chest, raw and helpless, her arms shaking where they held you. Her hips pressed in as far as she could go, grounding you both together, and you swore you felt it in every inch, every throb, every wave, spilling into you like it was everything she had left to give.

She couldn’t stop. Couldn’t hold still. Her moans tumbled out like the rhythm of her release—staggered, breathless, wrecked. You clung to her, mouth brushing her jaw, her temple, her lips. She didn’t move to pull out. She didn’t want to.

Your body was trembling under her, overstimulated and open, and all you could do was hold her through it—arms wrapped around her back, thighs twitching with every new pulse that spilled inside you. Agnes groaned your name again, voice high and desperate as her rhythm finally broke. Her face pressed into your neck, her body still jerking through each final thrust, and you swore she was trying to give you everything. Fill you with all of her. Let it linger. “Fuck,” she sobbed, a half-whimper against your skin. “God, I—fuck—”

Your nails scratched down her back, another wave threatening to crest just from the sensation of her spilling into you. Of being held like this. Loved like this. The sound of her moaning, the heat she left inside, the way she whispered your name like it was holy—it was almost too much to bear.

Agnes stayed buried deep, her breath hitching as the last waves shuddered through her. You kissed her shoulder blindly, then her temple, your hands smoothing over the sweat-slick curve of her spine. She trembled, her mouth brushing yours, and you felt her lips shape the quietest, most reverent sound: “Mine.”

Then a new touch. Soft fingertips brushing your temple, smoothing a damp strand of hair away from your cheek. Rio. Her breath caught at the sight of you both. Her palm cupped your face—steady, grounding—eyes flicking between yours and Agnes’s, like she was making sure every part of you was still here. She didn’t speak right away. Just stroked her thumb along your jaw, watching your lashes flutter, your lips part. “You’re so beautiful like this.”

Your breath hitched. Agnes lifted her head enough to look down at you, her eyes raw, her mouth open like she wanted to speak but couldn’t. You didn’t need her to. You lifted your hand and touched her face, fingertips brushing the flushed line of her jaw. “Don’t pull out yet,” you breathed. “Stay.”

Agnes closed her eyes like the words undid her, a shaky breath trembling against your cheek. Her body hadn’t moved—still nestled deep inside you, still heavy with the weight of everything she’d poured into you. You felt her try to speak, but all that came was a soft, broken moan, like language had no place here anymore. Then, just barely, you felt it. A slow trickle of warmth slipping lower inside you. Gravity shifting. The wet slide of her beginning to settle out of place.

You tilted your hips up on instinct, a soft, squelching sound catching between your bodies as you tried to keep her there. To keep every part of her. Agnes gasped. Her hands gripped your sides. “I missed this,” you whispered, voice barely audible. “It’s been too long since you filled me like that.” Agnes pressed her forehead to yours, breath shaky. Her body still buried inside you, pulsing faintly—like your need alone was coaxing her to stay hard just a little longer. “I want to feel you for hours,” you murmured.

Agnes let out a sound like a prayer and kissed your cheek, your jaw, your temple—anything she could reach. You let your head fall back against the mattress, body boneless and full in a way that went beyond the physical. The air felt soft around you, like even the silence had a heartbeat. Warmth pressed in on every side—Agnes above you, still trembling, and Rio’s palm against your thigh, grounding you in her quiet way.

Then, gently, Rio shifted. “I’ll be right back,” she whispered, kissing your shoulder before standing. You caught a glimpse of her—bare, flushed, hair tousled—padding across the room with her long strides, reaching for the water bottles she’d left on the dresser. You heard one crack open, the sound grounding you.

“Baby,” Agnes finally whispered, her voice hoarse. “Are you okay?”

You nodded, barely able to speak. “Better than okay.”

You reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I feel floaty. In the best way.”

That earned the softest smile. “Good.” She pressed a kiss to your cheek, then your lips—gentle, reverent.

By the time Rio returned, you’d slipped into that space between bliss and sleep, your body too spent to move, but your heart so open it ached. She climbed back onto the bed with practiced ease, one bottle of water in her hand, the other set beside you. “Hey, drink something,” she said, brushing her knuckles along your jaw. “Just a little.”

You took a few sips, your hands shaking slightly. She held the bottle steady for you, her other hand stroking your shoulder. “I got a cloth warming in the sink,” she added, voice low. “Not rushing anything. Just want to help clean you up a little when you’re both ready. You okay with that?”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. Thank you.”

Rio smiled and kissed your forehead. “Rest a second. I’ll be back.”

Agnes finally—reluctantly—began to shift, just enough to cradle more of your weight in her arms, not quite pulling out yet. Her breath caught when she moved, the intimacy still thick between you. You could still feel her inside you—full, pulsing faintly—and then, slowly, you felt it: Her cock, once so demanding, now slackening in the quiet aftermath, retreating with each slow heartbeat. Not gone—just changed. A surrender. A tenderness that made your throat close.

You curled closer, the two of you tangled together, sticky and glowing, your body still clenching faintly around her like it didn’t want to let go. “I love you,” you murmured, eyes half-lidded, voice soft with awe.

Agnes kissed your temple, her voice catching in her throat. “I love you too.”

Her arms tightened for a moment—one last hold, one last claim—and then she breathed against your cheek, lips barely moving. “I’m gonna pull out, okay?” she whispered, lifting her eyes to yours.

You nodded, everything inside you still warm and open. “Okay,” you breathed. “I’m ready.”

She exhaled slowly, like her whole soul was reluctant. One last kiss—slow, soft, her lips trembling against your own—and then her body began to shift. You gasped as she eased back, the movement tender but unavoidably intimate. She moved with reverence, hands bracing beside your hips, her jaw tight with emotion. The stretch returned in reverse, a delicate pull that made your legs twitch and your breath catch. Her cock slid free with a slow, wet drag that left you aching and open, the loss of her filling you immediate and vulnerable.

Agnes groaned softly, eyes fluttering shut as she sat back on her heels, just watching you for a moment—messy, flushed, shining with the evidence of her, of Rio, of all three of you. You shivered, empty and still trembling. Rio was already at your side, moving as if she felt the shift in your body before you did. She set the water bottle down and kissed your knee. “Okay, mi amor,” she said gently. “I’ve got you.”

Agnes leaned forward and helped ease your legs open with a touch so gentle it felt sacred—her palms sliding beneath your knees, guiding you apart like she was unwrapping something holy. The mattress shifted as Rio moved beside you, unfolding the cloth with slow precision. You caught a glimpse of her expression—focused, tender, lips parted just slightly as if she were preparing to touch a prayer.

The cloth found your skin, and you flinched—not from pain, but from the shocking perfection of it. Not too hot. Not too cold. Just warm, damp, and impossibly soft. It swept low between your thighs, catching on the slickness pooled there, skimming over skin still sensitive and parted, still pulsing faintly from the last tremor of orgasm. She moved with deliberate grace, stroking along your folds, over your clit with barely-there pressure, and then lower—between trembling muscles still fluttering with the effort of holding Agnes inside you, still desperate to stay full.

You whimpered, breath catching in your throat. The noise barely left your mouth—but both of them heard it. Then—lower still—you felt it. That slow, inevitable give. Warmth easing from you in a thick, languid spill. The soft parting of your body as Agnes’s release, long held, began to slip out. It wasn’t just sensation—it was surrender. A sacred letting go. Your hips jerked slightly, instinctively lifting toward Rio’s hand like you could coax it back inside, like your body was begging to be sealed around it again. You moaned, sharp and broken, the sound cracking from your chest as your thighs twitched against the mattress.

Rio froze mid-motion. You felt the way her breath caught. “Fuck, baby…” She dropped the cloth without a sound and brought her hand under you instead, cupping you not to wipe away the mess, but to let you and her feel it. To witness it with her palm braced against you. Her fingers curved to cradle your sex like it was something precious, her touch gentle but firm—catching every warm drop as it leaked from your swollen cunt.

Agnes saw it too. Her gaze dropped—and she groaned. Not loud. Not crude. It was low, guttural, like the sound had been ripped from somewhere deep in her chest. Her eyes went wide, pupils blown, her hand tightening around your thigh with a tremble she didn’t try to hide. She leaned closer, mouth parted as if she could taste it just from watching—the thick, glistening evidence of herself still easing from between your folds, soaking Rio’s hand, pooling messily where your body had no choice but to let it go.

“Jesus,” she whispered.  She wasn’t wrong. Your cunt clenched again, a faint rhythmic tightening around nothing—grasping at empty space like it couldn’t bear the loss, like it wanted to pull her back in, to seal around her cock and never let her go. The sensation made your breath stutter, and you tilted your hips again, involuntarily, seeking more friction, more closeness—more of her.

Rio exhaled, her hand still curved against you. “She’s trying to keep it, Aggie. She’s still trying to hold every drop.”

Agnes groaned again, almost helpless this time—then leaned in, her fingers stroking up your thigh with something close to awe. “I’ll fill you anytime you want,” she whispered. “Anytime. You just ask.”

You whimpered again, thighs trembling around Rio’s hand, your breath coming in shallow waves. The warmth still dripped from you in slow, aching pulses—slick and thick, the last remnants of Agnes’s release surrendering to gravity. Your hips shifted weakly, as if your body still hadn’t accepted the loss. “I already miss it,” you whispered, eyes fluttering shut. “Miss being full.”

Agnes made a quiet, wounded sound. She leaned down to kiss your shoulder, then your temple, her voice breaking into the skin there. “You’re perfect,” she murmured.

Rio’s hand hadn’t left your body. She cradled you like she could hold it all in with sheer will—like her palm alone could stop time, or seal you up and keep you full forever. Her thumb grazed along your inner thigh, and she pressed a kiss just beside your knee before speaking. “Agnes will be dripping out of you for days now,” she whispered, voice full of something rough and sweet. “I don’t think your body even wants to let her go.”

You smiled faintly, too spent to do anything but breathe and feel and ache in the best way. Your hand slid blindly toward her, searching, and lacing your fingers together while cupping you. “How do you feel, mi amor?”

You blinked slowly, your voice no more than a breath: “Full. Floaty. Loved.”

Rio’s smile was warm and deep, full of something unshakable. “Floaty’s the goal,” she said—then paused, her eyes softening even more as she looked at you. “But loved…” Her voice caught just slightly. “That’s the most important.”

She leaned in to kiss your hip, then your knee, then your hand where it rested against the sheets. “You are loved, baby. So much.”

Agnes shifted beside you with a sigh, brushing her lips once more over your shoulder before she stood, careful not to jostle the mattress too much. You watched her silhouette move through the dim room—still bare, still glowing faintly with sweat and something quieter, more sacred. She bent to the dresser and pulled out one of Rio’s oversized t-shirts, then two more of her own, soft and broken in. One of each of your boxers followed—folded together, clearly chosen with intention.

She moved like she knew what your body would need before you did—grabbing the heavier cotton ones, the ones that wouldn’t cling. When she turned back, her arms were full, and something gentler had settled into her expression. She dropped a kiss to Rio’s hair on her way by and set the clothes at the foot of the bed. “I figured we’d all want something warm,” she murmured, voice still thick from earlier, but edged with care. “Didn’t want to leave you cold.”

Rio looked up from where she’d set the folded washcloth against your thigh waiting till your body let go of the last of Agnes. “God, I love you,” she muttered to Agnes, reaching out to squeeze her leg.

She moved again with gentle, reverent care, tending to you like it was a privilege, not a task. She worked with patient grace, pausing when you twitched, resuming only when you nodded again—until everything felt warm and clean again. Then she tossed the cloth aside, climbed up to your other side, and tucked herself in against you. Agnes leaned over you again, brushing your hair back from your damp forehead. “Ready to get dressed?” she asked, tone low, intimate. “Or do you want one more minute like this?”

Your body still pulsed faintly with aftershocks, but your smile was easy. Content. You let your fingers close around Agnes’s wrist, pulling her back down just enough to kiss her cheek. “Just a minute more,” you whispered. “Then I want my shirt. And both of you.”

Agnes smiled. “Good. Because we’re not going anywhere.”

Agnes stayed beside you as Rio shifted, tugging the shirts and boxers from the foot of the bed with a quiet, contented hum. You let her guide your legs gently into the boxers first, her hands warm and practiced, careful not to pull too tight against skin still tender from how full you’d been.

She helped ease the soft cotton up your thighs, brushing kisses along your knee, then up your hip. When your hands trembled slightly trying to tug the shirt over your head, Agnes took it from you without a word. She helped you into it with quiet reverence, smoothing it over your shoulders, her hands lingering a little longer at your sides. Not to steady you. Just to stay close.

“You always look best in my shirt,” she murmured, kissing the crown of your head.

You sighed—content, loved, still warm from the inside out. “Then stop stealing Rio’s.”

That earned a soft laugh from both of them, breath against your skin. Rio disappeared for a moment and came back with three bottles of water, the coolness of one pressing briefly into your palm. She uncapped a second one and held it to Agnes’s lips with casual intimacy, watching her drink.

“Thank you,” Agnes murmured afterward, cheeks flushed again—not from exertion this time, but from being cared for. She reached to tangle her fingers with Rio’s.

“You did all the work,” Rio said, voice low. “I just got to watch her fall apart around you.”

Your breath hitched, but not from arousal now—just the echo of it, warm and thick in your chest like honey. You reached for Rio, your hand landing against her ribs. She climbed back in beside you, her shirt soft and smelling faintly of cedar and soap, and pulled you into her lap without hesitation.

Agnes followed, tucking herself behind you like a second shelter. Her arms wrapped around your waist, chin resting lightly on your shoulder. Rio's fingers ran gently up and down your thigh, then over your belly, grounding you between their bodies.

You must’ve fallen asleep.

Your body still pulsed with the slow aftershocks of being undone—sore in all the right places, the ache threaded deep in your hips, your thighs, your chest. Your limbs were heavy, boneless. The air was thick with heat and the scent of sweat and skin, the sheets damp beneath you, clinging faintly to your legs. But none of it mattered. Because you were held. Because you were still full.

Agnes was on your left, her body curved into yours like something elemental, like gravity had pulled her there and would never let her go. One long thigh draped loosely over yours, her skin warm, anchoring. Her palm rested low across your abdomen, fingers splayed protectively, her thumb tracing lazy, unconscious circles just below your navel where she’d filled you—claimed you—again and again until your body trembled with it. As if her body remembered what her mind had already claimed. As if she were guarding every part you had given them and they had given you.

Eyes closed. Breathing slow. But her touch didn’t stop. It moved with the kind of knowing that didn’t require awareness. Reverent. Grounded. As if her hand had memorized the shape of you—had been there so long it no longer knew how not to be.

To your right, Rio curled into your side, her body a wall of warmth and quiet devotion. One arm stretched across your ribs, her palm spread just beneath your breast—each breath synced to yours like she was trying to keep your heart beating with hers. Her face was pressed to your neck, lips brushing your jaw with every soft exhale. Gentle. Rhythmic. Unconscious.

But she wasn’t asleep. You could feel it in the quiet tension of her stillness. In the way her fingers shifted minutely with your breath, a subtle pulse of presence. She was there. Watching you without needing to look. Holding you without needing to move.

You were pinned between them—Agnes’s steady grounding, Rio’s fierce, quiet shelter. You shifted slightly—not to leave, just to feel them more. Your hand moved first, slow and unsteady with sleep, sliding over Agnes’s where it rested warm and steady on your belly… then across your own ribs, until your fingers found Rio’s, curled just beneath your breast.

You laid your hand gently over both of theirs. Rio’s lips brushed your jaw again, her voice low and warm. “you okay, cariño?”

You nodded faintly, your voice soft, thick with sleep and sweetness. “Yeah. Just… warm. In the best way.” A breath. Then, quieter—“And loved.”

Agnes hummed without opening her eyes, her fingers moving gently to sweep your hair from your cheek. Her touch was slow, tender, like she couldn’t stop reaching for you even in rest. “You are,” she whispered. “So loved.”

Rio kissed your cheek, slow and certain. “Always.”

You smiled, eyes closed. Safe. Drowsy. Floating somewhere between the seams of your own body and theirs. The quiet wrapped around you again, thick as honey. You could’ve stayed there forever—bare and unhurried, the world held at bay, the ache between your legs softening into comfort. Until Rio’s phone buzzed against the nightstand. She didn’t move. Just sighed against your skin. “Ignore it.”

But it buzzed again. And again. Three.

Agnes shifted, reluctant. Her fingers slid across your hip as she leaned forward to check the screen. She moved like something breaking—like every inch away from you cost her breath. She froze. You blinked, the edges of the world sharpening around the corners of her stillness. “What is it?” you murmured, voice still hoarse with sleep.

She turned the screen toward Rio. “Text from Caldwell.”

Your stomach clenched—not fear. Just the slow creep of reality pressing back in.

Rio pressed a kiss to your shoulder before sitting up slightly, protective. “Don’t move yet,” she whispered, then glanced at Agnes. “What’s it say?”

Agnes’s voice was low. Flat. “Another body. Same setup. Shot center-mass. Dead before they hit the ground. No signs of struggle.”

Rio swore softly under her breath and shifted in closer, her arm sweeping firmly across your chest like she could shield you with just the press of her body. You reached up, slow and tender, brushing your fingers against both of their wrists—tethering them to you, or maybe you to them.

She kissed your temple, then whispered against your skin. “Rest. Stay warm.” A pause. A breath. “We’ll head in first. Come when you’re ready.”

You blinked up at her. “Not a chance.” You caught her hand. “I’ll go with you.” She didn’t argue—just looked at you long, searching. Not resistance. Just concern. And something deeper—something like pride.

“Only if you eat something first,” she said gently, cupping your cheek. “We’ll stop on the way.”

“I will.”

“Water too.” She reached for the bottle on the nightstand, uncapped it with one hand. “Not just coffee. Let us keep taking care of you.”

Agnes leaned in from behind, her lips brushing your forehead. Her nose skimmed the curve of your cheek like a quiet echo of a kiss. “I’ll grab my warmest hoodie for you,” she murmured, her voice warm against your temple. “And your kit.”

She slipped out of bed, bare feet whispering across the floorboards as she padded down the hall. You grumbled playfully as you sat up further, propping yourself on both arms now. “Wait—Aggie, we just went over what happens when I wear your clothes at work—!”

Her laugh drifted back from the hallway—teasing, low, achingly fond. “Your body’s still full of me, doll. My hoodie’s non-negotiable.”

Rio grinned, rising with you. She grabbed a soft pair of jeans and helped guide you upright. The sheets peeled back, and cool air hit your skin—but it wasn’t the chill that made you shiver. It was the sore, heated sting along your ass. The deep ache she’d left behind.

Rio leaned in and kissed you again—soft, then firmer. Then held the water bottle to your lips like a ritual. “Still floaty?” she asked. You nodded. “Floaty. Loved. All the things.” “Not hurt? Anything you need?” You smiled. “Sore in the best way. The only thing I need is you two. Maybe… coffee?” Rio grinned. “You always have us. I’ll make sure you have coffee and food.”

Agnes returned then, her green flannel over one arm, a soft shirt for Rio in the other, and her academy hoodie already draped over her shoulder. She held it out for you.

You took it instinctively. “I don’t think anyone will forget who I belong to when they see me in this.”

Rio’s eyes sparkled. “That ring on your finger helps too. But if they forget…” She leaned in. Her voice dropped to something darker, quieter. “Remind them before I do.”

You rose carefully, breath catching as your muscles stretched beneath skin still humming. Each step reminded you where you’d been—who you belonged to.

Agnes’s gaze swept over you, slow, reverent, unblinking. Not hungry. Not even possessive. Something deeper. Something holy. She didn’t speak. But her eyes caught on every detail—the curve of your collarbone, pink with heat; the long line of your neck where Rio had left her mouth open too long; the patch of skin at your hip blooming violet, where they had held you still with shaking hands. Her jaw flexed, but she said nothing. Only breathed. Only looked.

And then Rio was there—close enough that you didn’t feel the air shift so much as disappear. She cupped your jaw and kissed you with a low hum, catching the moan that rose instinctively from your throat. Her lips moved against yours with quiet hunger—not rushed, but claiming. Not a question. An answer.

When she pulled back, her voice was rough, barely held together. “We can be late.” You exhaled slowly, still bare from the waist up, your body flushed and aching in ways that made you move carefully. The soreness between your legs lingered like an echo—sweet, tender, unmistakably theirs. The air was cooler now, but you hadn’t fully noticed until your skin prickled with it.

Rio reached for the hoodie you had beside you. You slipped your arms into the sleeves, the fabric warm from her touch. You pulled it over your head slowly, movements tender, the cotton catching slightly across your chest before settling low along your thighs. The weight of it grounded you—familiar, worn, hers.

It smelled like her. Smoke. Skin. Sleep. Like being safe without having to ask for it. The sleeves pooled past your wrists. You didn’t bother to fix them. You hadn’t even reached for the hem before Rio was already kneeling, jeans in hand. “Let me,” she said gently. Her fingers were sure but careful as she helped guide the denim up your legs. One leg, then the other. She smoothed the waistband over your hips, her knuckles brushing your skin with reverent tenderness as she fastened the button.

Her gaze lifted briefly—just enough to meet yours. “There.” Like she’d finished dressing something holy. When you rose again to full height, the hoodie fell just past your hips, oversized and soft, swallowing the edge of the jeans. The sleeves pooled at your wrists. You didn’t adjust them.

Agnes stepped in behind you then, silent as breath. Her arms slid around your waist, pulling you back into her chest, anchoring you. You felt her nose in your hair, the way she inhaled like she’d missed you despite never leaving. Her breath stirred against your cheek. Her hand slid beneath the hoodie, low and unhurried feeling the softness of your skin.

She held you close—no words, no rush. Just the quiet strength of her body around yours, as if to say: we’re not done loving you yet. “I’ll grab your boots,” she whispered, lips brushing your temple. Rio’s palm skimmed down your arm before letting go. You were dressed now—but you still felt bare in the ways that mattered. Loved down to the bone.

But the dark wasn’t waiting. It had already called. Your body had finally settled—hoodie warm against your skin, jeans snug on your hips, their touches still echoing soft across your chest and thighs—but your mind had started to clear. Not all at once. Just enough to feel the shift. Enough to feel the weight return, not heavy, but familiar.

You glanced toward the phone still facedown on the nightstand. The weight of Caldwell’s message still hung in the air—another body, same precision. Another thread pulled tight. Shot center-mass. Dead before they hit the ground. Too precise. Too consistent. No signs of struggle. Not rage. Not panic. Control. A message You exhaled, slow and steady, and let the pieces line up in your head like evidence on a tray. “This isn’t a spree,” you murmured, more to yourself than to them. “It’s a sequence.”

Rio was already turning toward you, her expression sharpening—not cold, but focused. Her softness didn’t fade. It just shifted. From sanctuary to shield. From wife to weapon.

Agnes paused in the doorway, your boots in hand, her eyes were already on you. Not startled. Not surprised. Prepared. She nodded once, jaw tight. No one needed to say what came next. The warmth could wait.

The case was awake again.

And so were you.