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“I’m afraid that, for a last-minute booking such as your own, we are unable to expand your options.”
“You mean to tell me,” says Freja, “that in this entire hotel, you don’t have a single other kind of room to spare?”
“Ma’am,” says the receptionist, trying to placate her with a smile. If it even can, that is, considering most Omnics don’t have moving facial plates. “I understand your frustration, but the most we can offer is a refund.”
“Rend mig i røven,” Freja grumbles, followed by a sharp exhale. Emre shoots her a look, attempting to decipher whatever it was that she just said. “Fine,” she sighs. “We’ll take the room.”
“We truly value your understanding,” says the Omnic, its honeyed tone a blatant mismatch with its stoic expression. “As a sign of our appreciation, please feel free to enjoy the in-room beverages free of charge.”
“Yeah, sure,” she sighs, swiping the keycard from the counter. “Thanks, bot,” she says, mumbling something unsavory under her breath.
Once they’ve made their way across the lobby, no longer standing next to the reception desk, Emre finally raises a brow. “I’m going to guess there’s no bathtub?”
“Emre,” she frowns, her voice hushed with exasperation. “This place has all the damn rooms in the world, and yet the only thing they’ve got is—“
“It could be worse,” he interjects. “Like not having a room at all.”
“You know what? That might’ve been better,” spits Freja. But as soon as the words leave her lips, guilt tugs at her chest, not wanting Emre to take it the wrong way. “Look, I’m just annoyed.”
“What’s so bad about it?” he smirks. “I mean, it’s just for one night.”
“One night? Sure,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “But I hope you know I’m not going to be the one sleeping on the floor.”
Before Emre can get a word in, Freja makes her way over to the elevator, prodding the button. Chuckling to himself, Emre follows suit, clearly finding some entertainment in her frustration. After all, he doesn’t quite know why she’s so annoyed about this.
“I suppose you’re more of a solo traveller nowadays, Frej,” says Emre, stepping into the elevator behind her. With a pleasant chime, the doors slide shut. “Must be hard getting used to sharing your space.”
“Ah, hoping to get a rise out of me?” asks Freja, shooting him a glare.
He shrugs, tilting his head. “Just trying to see what the big deal is.”
“Considering we’re both here at Max’s behest, you’d think that the bot would at least have the decency to handle our accommodation,” says Freja, rolling her eyes.
“Ever heard that saying about assuming?”
“Ever heard that you’re a smartass?”
With another chime, the elevator doors slide open, revealing a carpeted hallway. Just like before, Freja doesn’t hesitate to take the lead, with Emre following a few steps behind.
“Well, I don’t know about you,” says Emre, “but at least Monaco is a chance to see something new.”
“Perhaps I’d agree, if only it wasn’t so expensive,” she replies. “Just wait until you see Max’s casino—there’s enough tack in there to make your head spin.”
Emre laughs. “I’m sure that’s quite the sight.”
“Certainly not one for sore eyes,” Freja scoffs, stopping in front of a door halfway down the hall. She swipes the keycard near the handle, and the lock clicks open. “For all that money, he still can’t buy any damn taste.”
When the door swings open, the room that lays within is a stereotype pulled straight from any travel review website. A small, carpeted ordeal, perhaps slightly worse for wear, featuring a single bed standing proud in the center of the room, fitted with firm white sheets. There’s the other typical suspects—a shiny wooden desk with one of those wiry metal lamps, a coffee maker, and a minibar filled with overpriced drinks.
“So there really is only one bed, huh?”
Freja flicks a look over her shoulder, staring at Emre. “I sure hope you don’t expect to be the one using it.”
“Hey,” frowns Emre. “I was thinking it was more of a coin-flip type of situation.”
Not keen on responding, Freja marches over to the wooden coffee table, dumping her large beige duffel bag on the surface. Whether the hotel staff knew there were literal weapons inside, she can’t be sure, but with the amount she paid for a crappy little room like this, she’d damn well expect something like that to slide under the radar.
“I don’t know about you,” says Emre, making his way over to the minibar, “but I could go for a drink.”
Freja hums, rustling through her bag. After a quick quality check on her crossbow, she zips it shut. “Yeah? Well, the bot did say they were free.”
“After all that travelling today, I’d wager we’ve earned one.” He pulls open the door, examining the contents within. “The selection’s actually pretty good.”
Whilst Emre lingers in the kitchenette, Freja flops down onto the couch next to the coffee table. It’s dingy, fitted in that typical olive green fabric that screams hotel, but anything’s better than being trapped in an airplane seat like earlier. “Help yourself,” she says, reaching for the television remote. “Whatever you’re having, I’ll take a glass.”
“Still a fan of whiskey, Frej?”
Flicking through the channels on the television, she shrugs. “That’ll do.”
After a moment, Emre joins her in the lounge area, sitting in a stiff orange armchair across from the couch. Before he sits down, he slides a glass towards Freja, glimmering with caramel-coloured liquor. When he settles into the armchair, he takes a sip of his own drink, humming in satisfaction. “Not terrible.”
“With the prices on that menu, I’d sure hope so,” Freja quips. She keeps her eyes on the television screen, staring at a broadcast of the Circuit Royal cup currently being held in the city. “Well, that’d explain the lack of rooms.”
Emre continues sipping on his whiskey, his eyes glued to Freja. Even after a long day of travelling, her pretty red hair stays fixed in place, and he wonders when it was that she started braiding it like that. If she catches him staring, she doesn’t say anything. Instead, Freja takes a swig of her own drink, pursing her lips.
“I suppose we’d best figure out what to do with ourselves,” says Emre, breaking the silence. Freja looks over at him, raising a brow.
“Fidgety, are we?”
“If you’re keen on watching racecars for the rest of the evening, feel free. But I’m sure there’s better things we could be doing.”
When the words leave his lips, Emre realises there’s more than one way of interpreting them, and he hopes to God that she doesn’t choose the wrong one. Luckily for him, Freja doesn’t seem to pay it too much mind, more interested in shooting him a smirk.
“Knowing someone as straight-laced as you, Emre, I bet your idea of hotel fun includes sampling all the complimentary teas and ranking the flavours.”
His cheeks grow a little redder than he wishes they would. “Hey, don’t bring my çay into this.”
She shrugs her shoulders, nursing another sip of whiskey. “Still carry a pack of cards with you, like back in Overwatch?”
Ever since their reunion, it’s the first time she’s mentioned the organisation by name, and Emre wonders if he should think anything of it. It’s probably nothing, but part of him wants to believe it’s a sign of her letting her guard down around him, perhaps not so afraid of reflecting on the past.
“When you’re travelling the world trying to maintain order, a little bit of poker here and there doesn’t hurt.”
“Sure,” says Freja, smirking. “Until you’re on Vivian’s hitlist, having outplayed Reinhardt so hard that his yelling’s got the whole camp awake.”
“God, Frej,” he laughs. “I haven’t thought about those names in years, and here you are, talking about them like it was yesterday.”
“I am, huh? I suppose you’re right.” She puts her eyes back on the television, and for a moment, he catches something of a frown on her face. “For all that time, I’d thought I’d left it all behind me, and yet here you are, bringing those memories back with you.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“No worse than wondering if you’re dead,” says Freja matter-of-factly.
Emre frowns. “I’d say the same to you, but I’m not interested in being petty.”
“Who said I’m being petty?” Her green eyes flicker back to his own, pinning him down from across the coffee table. “I always cared about you, Emre. I never stopped. But sometimes, forcing yourself to forget is part of survival.”
“I didn’t realise you were a philosopher,” he laughs dryly, taking a sip of his whiskey. “Water under the bridge, Frej. There’s no use mulling it over.”
For a moment, the room falls silent, and Emre can’t help but wonder if he rubbed her the wrong way. So he puts his eyes on the television, listening to some dry commentary about racetracks, until Freja breaks the silence.
“You never answered my question.”
“About what?”
“Card games,” she hums, finishing off her glass. “You weren’t wrong—there are better ways to spend an evening.”
“Ah, good,” he chuckles. “I was starting to think you might actually be a fan of watching these cars drive in circles around a track.”
“Well, it’s probably not the weirdest thing us Danes do.” She shuffles in her seat, turning to face him. “Ever played gin?”
“Why not poker? Considering you remembered it.”
She tilts her chin to the side, as if to complain, but she doesn’t object. “So long as you aren’t just looking to win, I’m game.”
“Accusing me of playing dirty, are we?” Emre laughs, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll have you know I rely on skill to win.”
“Ah, is that so? Then I suppose I’ll be the judge of that.”
Whilst Emre locates the deck of cards amidst his belongings, Freja visits the kitchenette, topping up each glass with another pour of whiskey. She’s long since become used to drinking alone, but to her surprise, there’s something nice about the company.
When Freja returns with the drinks, Emre sits reclining in the armchair, shuffling his cards. “I trust I don’t need to go over the rules.”
“No,” says Freja, placing one drink on the coffee table next to Emre, and bringing the other to her seat. “But if it’s poker,” she quirks a brow, “what exactly are we betting?”
“Surely Max has some spare chips laying around,” Emre jokes. Unfortunately, it isn’t enough to dissuade the concern on Freja’s face. “I mean, we can always get creative.”
“Creative, you say?” Freja stares at him for a moment, her gaze perhaps lingering for a little longer than it normally would. “I hope you aren’t implying what I think you are.”
“And that would be?”
Looking away, Freja exhales, sitting back down in her seat. “I’m glad to see you’re still oblivious.”
The puzzle pieces of Freja’s words don’t quite slot together, at least in Emre’s mind, because it’s enough of a distraction that he finds himself tearing his eyes away from the cards he’s shuffling and fixing them on her instead.
“Emre,” says Freja, her drink in one hand, the other rubbing her temple. “Don’t tell me—“
Then the realisation clicks in his mind.
“Oh,” he blurts.
There’s a beat of silence, where Freja quietly sips on her drink, meanwhile Emre feels the blood rushing to his face. For a man of his age and status, sometimes, he feels like an idiot.
“For helvede,” sighs Freja, placing her glass on the table. “Ten years, and we’re still doing this?”
“Frej,” says Emre, looking her directly in the eye. “If you think I’m asking you to strip, then I don’t believe poker is necessary.”
This time, it’s Freja’s turn to be dumbfounded, at least based on the way her face goes white. “I beg your pardon?”
Emre reaches for his drink, taking a sip. “If that’s not what you meant, then I don’t know what else you did.”
“No,” she says, rising from her seat, looming over the coffee table like a statue. “Actually, that’s exactly what I meant.”
“Took us long enough, then,” says Emre, putting down his whiskey.
For a moment, an ember of uncertainty flickers. Ten years of silence, of longing, of wondering—and now this. Freja finds herself at a crossroads, caught between taking him up on his offer, and suppressing her feelings just like she did back when they were colleagues. After all, despite every hint, she’d never really been sure he felt the same way.
Now, however, that ambiguity is gone.
“Then let’s get to it,” says Freja, closing the gap between them.
It starts off with Freja straddling his lap, her palms planted on the top of the armchair behind him. The voice in the back of her mind won’t stop screaming how strange this feels, finally in his arms after years upon years of pining. But there’s more important things to think about, like the firmness with which he grabs her waist, and the way he doesn’t hesitate to bring his lips near her neck, his breath brushing against the skin.
“I never thought this day would come,” he chuckles, his thumbs tracing circles over the curves of her waist. His grip is strong, but gentle, as though wary she might slip through his fingers like grains of sand.
“You’re telling me,” Freja murmurs, awfully aware of the heat rising in her cheeks. She’s not used to being so close to him—no, so close to anyone, after so many years spent working alone. But she can’t deny how much she enjoys it, feeling the heat of his body against her own. It’s a cautious pleasure, like tiptoeing the line of fear and desire, the back of her mind stuck anticipating the moment in the dream where she wakes up.
Her hands drift away from the armchair and onto his shoulders, feeling the firm muscle beneath his clothing. But then she pulls away, his face no longer buried in the crook of her neck, instead watching the way his carmine eyes follow her own.
“Emre, are you sure—”
“Sure of what?” he breathes, a brow furrowed.
“Of this,” she says, her gaze flickering downwards, away from his own. She bites her lip. “I mean, just the other day, I didn’t even know if you were alive, and yet—”
“Does it matter, Frej?”
She falls quiet, swallowing the dryness in her mouth. There’s a billion thoughts swirling in her mind, of love and loss and of reunion, but the one uniting thread amidst the chaos is Emre. Of how she dreams of Emre, how she misses Emre, how she needs Emre.
“No,” says Freja finally, wetting her lips. “I don’t think it does.”
Just like before, it’s Freja who makes the first move, ending the distance between their lips. Given it’s just the two of them, Freja feels like she can let the impulsive side of herself run free, no longer caged up in the calm and collected reputation that precedes her. Like clockwork, Emre deepens the kiss, pulling her even closer against his body.
“Someone was waiting for this,” chuckles Emre, parting just long enough to tease her.
Freja frowns. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“Then don’t,” he hums, pressing his lips back against her own.
At first, Freja is cautious of being too bold. The fact that she’s really, genuinely, locking lips with someone she spent so many years dreaming of at a distance… It’s almost too good to be true. And because of it, part of her fears going too far, too quickly. Not because she doesn’t want it—want this—but because she’s afraid of the possibility that she might scare Emre away.
Perhaps those fears aren’t grounded in reality, however, considering it’s Emre who first presses his tongue against her own. It’s an advance that she gladly accepts, revelling in the way he seems just as desperate about this as she does. As his tongue entwines with her own, the taste of whiskey dances on her lips, warm and deep, and all Freja can think about is how intoxicated he makes her feel.
“Emre,” she breathes, the syllables of his name entangled amongst kisses. Somewhere along the way, her eyelids had fluttered shut, and when they finally reopen, she doesn’t fail to notice the flush of pink across his cheeks. “How long have you been wanting this?”
He swallows, and she watches the way his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “I don’t know if that’s something you want to know, Frej.”
“Really now?” she smirks. “You ought to know that saying something like that just makes me even more curious.”
“Well then,” he murmurs, “maybe it’s on purpose.”
Before Freja can get another word in, he’s kissing her again, quickly becoming the more dominant one between the two of them. His tongue melting into her own, Emre snakes one hand down from her waist, moving past her hip and cupping her ass. It’s a gesture that catches her off-guard, a small moan parting her lips. It’s a soft, vulnerable sound, nearly inaudible, but it doesn’t go unnoticed.
Wordlessly, Emre catches on, gripping the soft flesh of her ass through her shorts. He grips the skin firmly, clearly enjoying how she trembles against his touch. The act elicits another breathy gasp from Freja, whose own hands begin to wander down his body in tandem.
After what feels like an eternity, he finally pulls his lips from hers, a thin trail of saliva breaking between them. “I’d say we’re sporting a few too many layers,” he chuckles, all too conscious of the heat spreading through his body.
“Huh, I was more concerned about the chair,” says Freja, catching her breath. “Can’t say it’s big enough for the two of us.”
“Is that so?” Emre raises a brow. “And here you were, making all that fuss over one bed.”
Already sensing where he’s going with this, Freja isn’t keen to hear a word of it. “Enough,” she grumbles, burying her face in his neck. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d accuse you of rigging it that way on purpose.”
“And who was it that booked the room? Last minute, might I add.”
“I swear to God, Emre,” says Freja, the embarrassment audible in her voice. “How about you stop talking, and—”
“And what?” he teases, slapping his palm against her ass. “You’re welcome to use your words.”
“—and fuck me like the man that you are?”
There it is.
Like flipping a switch, there’s something in Freja’s voice that ignites a fire inside of him. He’s not sure what affects him more, whether it’s feeling her curves through her clothes, or the frustration with which she snaps at him to make a move. Whatever it is, it’s powerful. In fact, if he didn’t know better, then perhaps he’d be concerned that the Override Protocol was rearing its ugly head.
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” he growls, hoisting her up from the armchair as easily as if she were a pillow.
Before Freja can realise what’s happening, she finds herself thrown onto the bed, the shadow of Emre’s body looming over her. She’s hardly a short woman, but with his figure hanging over hers like this, she can’t help but realise how imposing he is.
“Well, that worked,” she smirks, breathing heavily. But she doesn’t have much time for snarky comments, not when Emre is practically ripping off her cape, discarding the fur-trimmed garment somewhere on the ground behind them.
“You asked me how long I’ve been wanting this,” he whispers, leaning closer and closer until he’s barely an inch away from her ear. “How about I show you?”
Without giving Freja a moment to respond, he tears off her shirt, tossing the light blue-and-white fabric across the room. The sudden gesture catches Freja off-guard, based on the way her eyes widen, but she doesn’t protest.
Instead, she follows his lead, bringing her hands to his hips and pulling up his shirt to reveal his abdomen. She teases the fabric upwards, prompting Emre to bring it over his head, removing the tight thermal fabric so that his muscular torso is fully exposed before her. At a time like this, she’s glad he’s not wearing his typical combat gear, considering it’d be a lot harder to get undressed with all those cybernetics involved.
“Showing off, are we?” teases Freja, but the way her eyes stick to his muscles is more than enough for him to know that she’s enjoying the sight.
“If you’re happy with this,” he murmurs, his voice even deeper than usual, “then I’m sure you’ll enjoy what’s to come.”
Not leaving a moment to spare, he continues working on removing Freja’s garments, this time moving to her necklace. But unlike the aggression with which he’d torn off her outer layers, when it comes to her jewellery, he’s significantly more gentle. Reaching behind her neck, his fingers work deftly to undo the thread, careful not to damage something he figures is important to her.
“What a gentleman,” hums Freja, smirking at the look of focus on his face.
Emre’s gaze flickers away from her collarbone and towards her eyes. “Can’t have us damaging the goods, can we?”
In lieu of a response, Freja simply laughs, running her tongue over her lips. Whether it’s on purpose, he doesn’t know, but there’s something about the gesture that feels painfully erotic, forcing his heartbeat to pound even more quickly in his chest.
“You don’t know how beautiful you are, Frej.”
“Really? I’d wager I had an idea, based on the way you’re looking at me.”
“Oh?” he chuckles, finally taking off her necklace. Unlike the clothes that he tossed aside without a care, he takes a moment to place the necklace gently on the nightstand by the bed, before returning to his position on top of her. “You’re lucky I like that sharp tongue of yours.”
“Or what?” she teases, egging him on. “And what about if you didn’t?”
“Then it’s a good thing I know you’ll behave when I put you in order.”
As though the gentleness of before was just a fleeting moment, he slaps his palm against the inside of her thigh, watching the breath leave her lips. He grasps the flesh roughly, before letting his other hand settle on her breast, squeezing it through her charcoal-coloured bodysuit.
“Emre,” she gasps, eyelids fluttering. Back in Overwatch, she never made a habit of wearing makeup, but he can’t help but think that the smokey kohl around her eyes makes her look even more beautiful.
Letting his hands drift back upwards, he runs his palms over her chest, teasing her through the fabric. “I can’t say I know how this one works,” he says sheepishly, glancing between her eyes and her bodysuit.
Raising a brow, Freja lifts her arms behind her head, revealing a long zipper running from the top of her neck to her waist. Emre nods, taking it as an instruction to undo the fabric, exposing a long stretch of soft, pale skin beneath.
“Go ahead,” she murmurs, glancing away. Part of him wants to tease her, revelling in the uncharacteristic look of embarrassment on her face. But he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t more interested in the sight of her body, barely half-dressed at this point.
Starting with her neck, Emre slides the garment down her body, slipping it down towards her hips. With one hand, he grasps her waist, steadying her body, whilst the other slips the remainder of the bodysuit off from her thighs and down to her ankles. As he does, he doesn’t fail to notice the red colour spreading across her cheeks.
“I know what you’re thinking,” blushes Freja. “And to answer your question—yes, I’m as embarrassed as I look.”
Emre chuckles to himself, amused at how defensive she can be sometimes. “What, can a man not enjoy the view?”
“Only if you continue letting me know you’re fond of it.”
It’s a rare moment of vulnerability from her, considering the Freja he knows has never been a fan of letting her weak side show. It’s always been that way, ever since her time back in Search and Rescue. But there’s no point in getting caught up in his thoughts, not when she’s laying there in nothing more than thigh-highs and underwear beneath him.
Freja’s body is almost exactly as he envisioned it, the only difference being the multitude of scars lacing her freckled skin. He figures they’re the fruits of her bounty hunting, considering she never used to be on the front lines much back in Overwatch. He grabs the fabric pooled at her ankles, tossing it behind him like the rest of her clothes.
“Surely you don’t plan on keeping that on,” she remarks, glancing at his lower half.
He smirks, his focus returning to her eyes. “That’d hardly be fair, would it?”
Without breaking eye contact, Emre rakes a hand through his hair, watching Freja reach for the waistband of his thermals from beneath him. As she does, he observes the rapid rising and falling of her chest, concealed by nothing more than a simple grey sports bra.
“I’d be lying if I said I’d done this recently,” says Freja, untying his drawstring. Beneath her typical cool tone lies a hint of anxiety, as though afraid of disappointing him.
“And here I was thinking bounty hunters were known for their escapades,” he smirks. Freja shoots him a glare, tugging the fabric against his hips.
“I’m sure you’re quite the womaniser yourself,” she remarks. It’s not entirely false, however—she sure as hell thinks he has the looks for it.
“Yeah, well, can’t get much done when you’re busy being torn apart from within.”
In any other scenario, perhaps his words would strike a dour tone. But Freja pays it little mind, instead focusing on pulling the tight fabric down his thighs. The tugging of fabric against his skin does little to alleviate the tension below, the pressure building up beneath his underwear.
Just as he did for her, Freja helps guide his trousers off his legs, the smooth grey fabric sliding to his ankles. By the time Emre tosses them aside, they’re met with a reality they can’t ignore: the only thing that lies between their bodies is one small layer of fabric.
Enraptured by the sight before him, Emre has only one word to say. “Mesmerising,” he breathes, studying her like a painting.
“Always such a smooth talker,” chides Freja. But as much as she tries to tease him, it’s easy to see how flustered his words make her.
“I’ll have you know I’m not just great with words, Frej.”
Before she can sneak in another playful remark, the feeling of Emre’s firm hands smoothing over her hips has her breath catching in her throat. His palms travel towards her stomach, tracing over the ridges of her abdomen, as though claiming the smooth, freckled skin as his own.
Whilst one hand teases her abdomen, the other drifts back upwards towards her breasts, toying with the sensitive flesh through the thin layer of her sports bra. The sensation is enough for Freja to bite her lip, her eyes half-lidded with desire.
“You sure like to take your time,” she breathes, her stomach rising and falling beneath his touch. “By the time you make a move on me, the sun might just be up.”
Emre chuckles, continuing to trace his palms over her body. Perhaps on purpose, he begins to move his hands even more slowly, travelling in a slow, deliberate rhythm over the curves of her muscles. Sensing her growing frustration, however, he lifts the one from her breast and places it just behind her head, steadying himself as he leans over her body.
“Then it’s a good thing we have plenty to spare, isn’t it?”
Moving closer, slimming the gap between their bodies, Emre brings his lips to her neck, his facial hair grazing gently against her skin. He plants a kiss, followed by another, then another, gently mouthing the sensitive area with all the deliberation in the world.
“Emre,” she sighs, the sound of his name dripping with frustration.
He knows Freja can be impatient, and at a time like this, it’s more his fault than hers. Growing increasingly needy, Freja begins to trace her hands over his body, mirroring the way Emre’s palms move across her own. As her fingertips graze his navel, Emre lets out an involuntary breath, as though the act of teasing the woman beneath him might have come back around to bite him.
Whilst Emre’s lips paint a palette of kisses against her neck, Freja’s hands move lower and lower down his abdomen, skimming over his trail of three-day-stubble and dipping below the waistband of his boxers. Although she can’t see his face, the soft groan that reverberates into her skin is enough to know her efforts are successful, her fingertips dancing beneath the fabric of his underwear.
“Someone’s eager,” murmurs Emre, his warm breath tickling against her jugular. As much as he wants to continue teasing her, Emre feels himself growing painfully stiffer, something Freja is clearly aware of.
“I could say the same for you,” she teases. Her movements hidden beneath the fabric of his boxers, she traces a finger along his tip, slick beads of precum gathering at the touch.
“Fuck, Frej,” he breathes, feeling the sweat beginning to bud at his temple. The friction between her hands and his skin is achingly sensitive, and all he wants to do is bury himself inside of her immediately.
As Freja continues goading him beneath his pants, it’s increasingly harder to keep himself together, barely resisting the urge to give in. And by the time he pulls away from her neck, meeting her eye-to-eye, he’s not sure he can manage to hold himself back any longer.
“What are you afraid of, Emre?” asks Freja, her sharp green eyes clouded with desire.
It’s a simple question, but the amount of adrenaline coursing through his veins is nearly enough to make it impossible to answer. Perhaps part of him is afraid—afraid of what happens afterwards, should he dare cross this line. Maybe he’s afraid she might regret this, that everything right here, right now, is all part of one, big mistake, the violation of a boundary that can never be restored.
Does it matter, Frej?
His own words circle back into his mind, and at that moment, he finally throws caution to the wind.
Taken by a haze of lust, just like when he first threw her onto the bed, Emre finds himself tearing off the remainder of Freja’s clothes faster than she can realise what’s happening. He starts with her sports bra, then her stockings, and finally, he moves to her underwear, a no-frills pair of cotton briefs that are as practical as she is.
By the time Freja puts two and two together, she’s quick to settle the score, freeing him from his underwear with swift precision. Just like her own garments, she quickly throws his boxers to the side, leaving nothing left between herself and the man on top of her.
“Looks like you found your stride, then,” she smirks, almost approvingly. But it’s clear to see that she’s nowhere near as calm and collected as she’d like to seem, beads of sweat gathering atop her flushed skin.
Planting one hand on each side of her shoulders, Emre leans over her, enjoying the power his position lends him. Freja is by no means fragile—in fact, she could probably kick the asses of most people he knows. But there’s something about the way she looks laying beneath him like this, so vulnerable to his touch, that ignites his lust even further.
“What was it that you said earlier, Frej?” he whispers, bringing his mouth so close to hers that she can feel the breath from each syllable on her own lips. “Something along the lines of—“
Breathing heavily, Freja cuts him off, wrapping her arms around the back of his neck. “Finally going to demonstrate?”
“With pleasure,” he smiles, pressing his lips against hers even more hungrily than before.
This time, he doesn’t hold himself back. As his tongue dances against hers, two mouths becoming as one, he rubs his body against hers, relishing in the way it makes Freja gasp. Grinding himself against her, feeling the way she shivers into his touch—in that moment, nothing else matters, Talon and Overwatch and losing-his-mind be damned. All he cares about is the woman beneath him, those ten years of longing galvanised into passion.
“Please,” gasps Freja, a soft, fragile plea escaping between breaths.
He already knows what she’s going to say, based on the bucking of her hips, and the way her waist trembles against the friction of his movement. In fact, she almost never sounds this desperate, at least not with the calm, clinical façade she’s become so adept at performing, in line with her profession.
But he cares about her, cares about making sure she’s truly comfortable, especially after so much time spent wondering and waiting until this moment. Even though she’s right there beneath him, practically begging for him to do the damn thing.
“Frej,” he groans, the heat in his stomach growing almost unbearable. “May I?”
She shoots him a glare, breathing heavily. “Make me tell you one more time, Emre,” she snaps, “and I’ll—“
Looking her in the eyes, he finds himself with all the confirmation he needs.
“Güzelim,” he murmurs, positioning himself against her. Amidst frantic breaths and the desperate grinding of two bodies, it’s a moment of gentleness, one that catches her off-guard before he finally takes her.
When he presses himself inside of her, flesh hugging flesh, the first thing he notices is not the searing heat that envelops him, but rather, the sound she makes. Perhaps he wasn’t sure what to expect, especially from someone so often prickly and aloof.
The way her voice hitches in pleasure, however, might just be the hottest thing he’s ever heard.
“Emre,” she moans, a shamefully lewd impression of his name. It’s high-pitched and breathy, nothing like her typical speaking tone. He watches as her lips part again, as though trying to say something else, but the only thing that escapes them is another moan.
Holy shit.
From beneath fluttering lashes, Freja keeps her eyes on Emre, watching the bead of sweat that trickles down his temple. The expression on his face says everything she needs to know—he’d wanted this just as badly as she did, and now he’d gotten it.
As he begins to move in and out of her body, stumbling into a rhythm, it becomes clear to both of them just how much that bottled-up tension is starting to pay off. What starts off as a slow, cautious movement quickly devolves into the frantic sound of skin on skin, flesh against flesh, the greedy waltz of two bodies each longing for the other.
Between thrusts, Freja raises a brow, ever keen to tease him. “You should’ve done this sooner,” she exhales, just about managing to prevent another moan from slipping through.
“And both risk losing our jobs, I’m sure,” he chuckles, too focused on the feeling of her body to offer it much thought. But his mind wanders just long enough for memories to begin to peek through, like time capsules from a life lived long ago.
“Things could’ve been different, Emre—“
Before Freja can finish her sentence, he quickens the pace, catching her off-guard. Another breathy moan leaves her throat, the freckles on her cheeks flushing even redder than before.
“There’s no use reflecting on the past, Frej,” he murmurs, his breath quickening. “Not when I’m fucking you, anyway.”
For someone as typically well-spoken as Emre, hearing him talk so vulgarly is enough to make Freja’s heart throb even faster, tangled up in the degeneracy of her present situation. “Then hurry up and make up for lost time,” she whimpers, as though a deliberate attempt to rile him up.
Provided that’s her goal, it certainly works, considering the way Emre suddenly begins to move more roughly. Gripping the sheets with ferocity, he lets his urges take over, less focused on the novelty of having sex with one Freja Skov, and more focused on the need to leave her an utter mess afterwards.
“Make up for lost time?” he grunts, thrusting into her so strongly that it surprises her. The sudden change in pace is enough to leave her breathless, but something in his mind tells him it’s not yet enough. “Don’t bite off more than you can chew, Frej, not when I’ve just started.”
Maybe she wants to talk back, in typical Freja fashion, but the way Emre’s driving himself into her body is so much to handle that she finds her usual comebacks all dried-up. Instead, the only thing she manages to produce is a desperate sound of approval.
Satisfied, it doesn’t take long for Emre to up the ante, keen to harness even more control over their position. “Bend over,” he commands, so suddenly that Freja doesn’t think to question it.
Giving her time to move, he slips himself out of her, lasting just long enough for her to flip her body around onto her other side atop the sheets. As she does, Emre shifts in his own position, steadying one hand on her ass, the other still planted firmly on the bed.
As Freja readjusts, his eyes trace over the contours of her body, drifting along her physique. “So pretty,” he murmurs, just loud enough for her to hear it.
Having caught her breath, Freja glances over her shoulder, her face half-planted in the sheets. “Oh?” she teases, looking him in the eye. “I guess you aren’t half bad yourself.”
Part of him wants to play along, but the throbbing of his erection is enough to end the distraction. Sensing Freja is comfortable, he doesn’t hesitate to get back to business, plunging his full length inside her body in one, swift motion.
“God,” she gasps, her body trembling against his own. Based on the way she arches her back, sighing out his name, he figures it’s a good thing.
Finding himself in the rhythm, Emre quickly picks up the pace, intoxicated by the wet sound of his body driving itself deeper and deeper inside her. With each thrust, Freja leans further into the sheets, gripping the crisp white fabric like a lifeline.
“Take it,” he commands, slapping the soft, freckled skin of her ass as he thrusts. The red shape of his palm lingers in its wake. “I should’ve done this sooner, you said?” His words melt into a deep groan, relishing the feeling of her walls around him. “Then you’ll forget I ever didn’t.”
Pressing her body deeper and deeper into the bedsheets, Emre rapidly forgets any ideas about gentleness that he’d had in mind. In fact, it doesn’t take long before he’s practically railing the lights out of her, all those years of repressed desire bubbling into nothing but pure inhibition.
“Emre,” Freja gasps, clinging onto the sheets like her life depends on it. “You’re—“
Whatever she wants to say quickly fizzles away, replaced with another breathy moan, and a high-pitched whimper of his name. All the while, Emre continues plunging in and out of her, melting away in the dizzying crucible of heat and desire.
Working at this pace, it’s no surprise that it doesn’t take long for Emre to approach his limit. Neither does Freja, so overwhelmed by the delicious stretching of her insides that she might just swear it were her first time all over again. It doesn’t matter how many years have gone by since then—not when Emre’s fucking her so hard it’s as though he’s trying to leave both of them aching.
“I’m close, canım,” he grunts, tightening his grip on her body. He’s not sure how much more of this he can bear, not when the sensation of her insides around him feels good enough to be a sin.
“Better see it through, then,” breathes Freja, her voice muffled by the sheets. But for all her talk, she’s just as much unable to deny the hot pleasure rising in her abdomen, inching closer towards eruption.
“Frej,” he groans, “I can’t—“
His pace quickening towards a crescendo, he lifts his other hand from the sheets, tugging at the ribbons trailing down from the back of her hair. The sudden pull from behind is enough to send Freja’s head spinning, bringing her face up from the sheets, arching her back even closer towards Emre’s body.
“Playing rough, are we?” she gasps, too lost in the moment to begin to care about how shameless she sounds.
But neither of them have the time to care about exchanging blows, not when they’re both edging closer towards the end, the grand finale of the degenerate dance they find themselves lost in.
“Frej,” Emre begs, his words barely comprehensible amidst the sound of skin. “I’m going to—“
“Inside,” commands Freja, the desperation in her tone telling him everything he needs to know.
When Emre reaches his peak, he slams into her body so roughly that it almost knocks the breath out of her. Pulling even harder on her hair ribbons, Freja just about crumbles beneath him, riding the wave of her own orgasm. Lost in the moment, neither of them have time to care about how loud they’re being, nor about the way his seed spills out of her and onto the clean, white sheets.
“Worth the wait?” Emre breathes, his chest rising and falling so quickly that you’d swear he’d just run a mile.
Still coming down from seeing stars, Freja lets out a long breath, peering at him from over her shoulder. She’s still laying against the sheets, so Emre moves a little closer to her, cradling her body from behind.
“Yeah, pretty good,” she hums, so matter-of-factly that Emre can’t help but laugh.
“All that, just for a ‘pretty good’?” he teases.
Freja gives him a smirk, the same old glint of dry humor in her eyes. “Might just need another go at it, before I can make up my mind.”
“Well, Frej,” says Emre, pulling her shoulders to his chest. “I’d certainly be happy to oblige.”
For the first time in a long time, nothing else matters. Not money, not Max, not bounties; not the rogue AI trying to take control of Emre’s mind; not Talon threatening to take control of the world. In fact, the rest of the world is just a suggestion—blocked out by the sound of Freja’s breathing against his chest, and the sound of Emre’s heartbeat against her back.
With a sigh, Freja smiles, leaning into his touch. “I guess having only one bed isn’t so bad after all.”