#LIKE I HAVE STRAIGHT UP NOT BEEN HAVING A GOOD TIME

[mochinomnoms]

Shut UUPPP now I need a little scenario with PTM jade and the reader where they're actually in a very risky place while they're doing the Ole tango lol.... In the very back of the library or in the damn janitor closet even, courtesy of yuu's knowledge during their short occupation as a janitor ehehehe

so like i just got super tempted and gave in cause i love the idea of ptm jade and yuu exploiting the fuck out of their telepathy to get 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 cause i was gonna save this as a fuller bit in the future cause im weak

Being a telepath has its benefits, especially in these little escapades of yours. You'd have never thought Jade of all people would be so insatiable (a trait more suited for Floyd as most would agree), but you also never thought he'd be so enamored by you, so he was just full of surprises.

“Uuugah~”

Though perhaps you should take just a teeny, tiny, itty-bitty bit of responsibility. Just this once, you decided to be impulsive and bring Jade with you to a corner of the library to fulfill one of his many fantasies he'd dreamt up before you two got together.

“Mmh~”

And, well, you wanted to fluster Jade like he did to you much too often. Though that definitely wasn't the feeling running through either of your veins at the moment.

“Aah, pearl—”

Besides, Jade made the loveliest of gasps, sounds in general really, when you got him like this.

“Seven help me—oooh~ Just like that, so good, my sweet pearl~”

As soft as those sounds were, if someone were to listen closely, they could make out very soft, quiet breaths and slurping sounds.

Now where are the rest of those students? I want to close up and go home!

Which was not ideal, especially regarding the librarian with an especially acute sense of hearing.

An icy cold shock ran through your body, making you bolt straight up, though you hand a very obvious 'mess' on your lips.

“Oh shit! What time is it?” You tried scrambling up, only to be met with Jade's hand grabbing the back of your neck to pull you into a hot, wet lip lock, sharp teeth just scraping your tongue.

Just for a moment, you melted into the kiss in bliss, a loud, wanton moan leaving you.

Hmmp? Did I hear something?

“W-wait, Jade!” In an urgent, but panicked tone, you whispered. “Professor Murine! He's coming!”

You think you felt Jade huff against your lips, but he calmed your growing anxiety as he cleaned up his appearance, watching as you did the same.

Neither of you really undressed as much as you did just expose bare skin for the other's access, so it was rather quick. Shuffling from your spots on the floor and back up to your seats, your knees feeling particularly sore, the two of you did your best to make it look like you'd been studying all this time.

You did anyway, Jade seemed that he still needed to get out a bit more energy. As the footsteps grew louder, let out a surprise squeak at Jade, grabbing your chin to pull you in for a kiss.

The sound of the door opening was nothing to Jade licking the corner of your lips before deepening the kiss. The salty taste from the white beads made you hot as you both heard the door open.

“Why I—” Murine cringed and sputtered. “You—you—you two! Don't you have better places to do this? We're closing, get out!”

Jade let out an 'embarrassed' chuckle as he helped clean up the mess of notebooks and pens.

“Of course, my apologies. We will be out shortly.”

Murine scoffed as he turned around to finish patrolling the library for any further stragglers, leaving you two alone once again.

Quickly heading for the exit, you felt Jade move a hand to curl on your hip and pull you in close, letting him lean down to whisper in your ear.

“We should indeed head to somewhere much more suited for our needs. Perhaps in the privacy of my room?”

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Afterlife, But It's A Bar

[discontinued, feel free to add on]

It was weird. Not wrong, alarming or dangerous type of weird. Not good or comforting either.

Just plain weird.

It all started a few days ago, on Wednesday, to be exact. On a rare occasion, Jason was patrolling outside of his territory ("cover for me, I have a date" my ass, Replacement), and he spotted something out of place. A neon green, almost toxic colored sign that read "Afterlife".

Honestly, who names a place like that? But judging by the placement and design, it was a bar, and Jason could almost appreciate the irony. Maybe it had a slogan along the lines of "our drinks will send you beyond the lines of life and death" or something. But at the same time, it could be interpreted as "alcohol can and will be the death of you," which, technically, is not the best PR campaign for a bar.

Jason decided to visit the place anyway. He was curious about the implied death joke, sue him.

Of course, he didn't visit immediately. He was still on patrol, and he just heard the sound of gunshots to the west. Not to say that the place was quiet.

(Oddly quiet for a bar in Gotham, now that he thinks about it)

Anyway, the next day, he went there not as Red Hood but as Jason Todd, an ordinary civilian who decided to grab a beer in the evening. Only to not find the place.

He couldn't have just miss it - he remembered the street, he knew the building, he was absolutely fucking sure where the "Afterlife" should have been. He searched the whole block nonetheless, and then proceeded to check the whole area, but to no avail.

Damn, it seems like he can't get to the afterlife both literally and- the other literally. Yeah, he might be having too much fun with the oddly chosen name for the nonexistent bar.

It didn't exist on the maps and internet either. At this point, Jason was contemplating the idea of it being a hallucination or a dream. He even checked the recording on his helmet from Wednesday night, but the whole time he was in the area, the video was filled with interference and static.

Weird. Slightly suspicious, but Red Robin, who's been patrolling the same area for weeks before him, never reported any interferences, so it probably had something to do with his helmet and not the area in general.

On Thursday night, he purposefully went there right after patrol. And the nonexistent bar suddenly existed again! The same neon green sign, the same quiet street around it.

Seriously, what is this mysterious fuckery?

Now, if he was a Bat, he would have reported this to others and investigated, lurked around in shadows, and approached with caution. If he was a Robin, he would have still reported and then straight up marched in there and saw how it goes.

Alas, he was Red Hood, so he decided to watch for the bar guests and see just who the hell goes in and out of the place.

And there was the next weird thing.

No one was going in or out. Jason sat there for a whole hour, and not even one person entered or left the building. Despite the muffled sounds of music, voices and laughter coming from the place.

The final kicker was the fact that after some careful questioning and dropping hints, Jason found out that no one except him ever saw the "Afterlife"'s sign. No one's even heard of it, both the Batclan and the Gothamites.

The fuck?

So he did the next logical thing. He brought the smartest member of the Bats with him. Tim owed him anyway. Might as well use it now instead of later.

Friday night proved two things: one, Tim was still his favorite to work with out of all the bats and birds, not questioning anything as to why Jason is asking him to check out a bar, and two, Jason just might be going insane.

Tim couldn't see the "Afterlife" even when Jason pointed at the sign from not further than ten feet. The irony of the stipid name was not even amusing anymore.

Tim didn't ask any questions after this experiment, and Jason didn't want to admit that he is losing the grip of reality, so they ended up simply parting their ways after. Can the Pits cause brain damage? More damage than there was in the first place, that is.

Now that he thinks about it, the color of the sign is really similar to the Lazarus waters. He should have noticed it sooner, but in his defense, who would look at the bubbling pool of toxic waters and think, "Oh, that would make a dope neon sign"? Apparently, the owner of the "Afterlife".

The color might be just a coincidence.

...no, in the world he lives in, coincidences like this just don't happen. Besides, Jason doesn't believe in shit like fate or destiny.

So, here he is, on Saturday night, standing in front of the door to the Afterlife. It would have been funny if it wasn't so weird. What's even more weird is that the closer he gets to the door, the less nervous he feels, like the place is radiating some calming aura. Wait, no, scratch that, Jason is so not calling it a calming aura for God's sake. That sounds just like those homemade witches with their crystals, tarot readings, and whatnot.

He's going to call it... tranquilizer vibes. Yeah, that's better.

He takes a deep breath, getting ready to see whatever it is on the other side, pushes the door open, and walks into the bar.

...

Whatever he's been expecting to see, it's not this.

[enhascloud]

SLEEPYHEAD ˒˒ ﹙ enhypen ! ﹚

╰┈⪼ in which you sleep with your boyfriend for the very first time.

pairing ‎⸝⸝⸝ enha members! x reader! 𓄷 iηcℓudᥱs 𓈓 none!

genre﹙💬﹚⸝⸝⸝ scenerios/headcannons, soft, established relationship

warnings ‎⸝⸝⸝ cute members reactions, caring!heeseung, soft scenarios, reassuring!jungwon, cuddling, hair playing, using of pet names (sweetheart, princess, pretty girl, love, mi amor..) neck kisses, clingy!sunoo

we ‎⸝⸝⸝ 3618 words

rain’s note ‎⸝⸝⸝ this is the first time I write something like this so I hope it’s good ! enjoy and spend a good time (Niki’s scenario actually is my favorite 🤭)

all feedback and reblogs are welcome! ♡

𓏲 𖧷ˊ HEESEUNG

autumn days have always been favorites for both of you since you use it as an excuse to spend the day together, cuddle up together and watch lots of movies. a blankets covering your bodies while a bowl of popcorn was on Heeseung's lap, and two hot chocolates were placed on the living room table.

but for once, Heeseung had this desire to organize all of this in the evening, which amounted to saying that you were going to sleep at his place. and that for the first time, which made you quite nervous but you didn't refuse the idea on the contrary, you accepted straight away.

that's why you were currently in Heeseung's bed, the blanket covering your body while your head was against his chest.

you were watching one of his films that he had offered you when you arrived. and only a few minutes later Heeseung had let his arm slide down your waist only to pull you lightly against him.

"are you comfortable enough sweetheart?" Heeseung asked you, wanting to make sure everything was perfect and that you weren't uncomfortable, noticing a shake of his head a smile appeared on his lips. "If you need anything, tell me, I prefer to know that you are really comfortable with the idea of ​​sleeping with me"

"everything is perfect Heeseung. I have cuddles, a great movie and I'm warm against you so I don't need anything else" you ended up responding while your head was still resting against his chest. "mh or maybe a cup of hot chocolate.." you ended up saying.

the moment was really cute, everything he had done for you just before, bringing you countless stuffed animals, making sure you felt comfortable enough in his bed and he even insisted on giving you the most space in the bed, even if it means sleeping in the corner of the bed.

"I'll go right away" he replied upon hearing your request, leaving the bed to go to the kitchen and prepare everything you wanted or what might make you want during the evening. When he came back, he knocked on the door and waited for your response before coming in, noticing at the same time that you had finally worn out your pajamas, which made him smile.

the rest of the evening was absolutely magical, everything was perfect and Heeseung continued to make sure you were comfortable. when you finally fell asleep the movie wasn't even finished, it was when he sat up slightly that he noticed your eyes closed while your head was still against his chest. and, respecting your sleep, he turned off the television and the light next to his bed before trying to fall asleep himself, holding you tenderly against him.

𓏲 𖧷ˊ JAY

when you asked Jay to spend the night at your place, he looked at you without reacting for a few seconds and an embarrassed laugh left your lips. it was the first time you were going to sleep together and, unfortunately, it wasn't him who proposed but you.

"are you sure princess?" he ended up asking you, to which you nodded, certain of what you had just suggested to him. "We've been together for three months Jay, we have to sleep together one day so why not tonight?"

Jay had absolutely nothing against the idea, quite the contrary, but at the moment he was quite nervous. He had never slept with anyone before so he just hoped he wouldn't make a fool of himself in front of you tonight, that was probably the last thing he wanted.

as he entered your room a smile appeared on his lips. "your room looks a lot like you, it's really cute and colorful. I love all the photos hanging on the wall, it's really cute" he said before moving closer and noticing that most of the photos were you two, on every date you had had since the start of your relationship.

When it was time to sleep, he didn't necessarily know how to go about it. should he take you in his arms? sit next to you and wait for permission to do anything? he wasn't unfamiliar with the idea of ​​being with someone, only he had always been nervous about sleeping with his girlfriend and this time you were the first one he was going to sleep with.

noticing how uncomfortable he seemed to be, you ended up taking his hands in yours and sliding them around your waist, showing him that there was nothing wrong. "normally it's up to the girl to be in this state, not you Jay.." you said before laughing but you were quickly stopped because Jay's lips were pressed against yours.

"I'm not uncomfortable.." he replied, finally separating himself from your lips, "I just hope the night goes well, it's the first time we've slept together so I don't want to ruin the moment."

and he wasn't wrong about that. Jay had always been the type to do everything perfectly, so he obviously wished that the first night with you would be as perfect as he had imagined.

"well.. you're with me and I'm in your arms so this is probably the best night I'll ever have" a smile appeared on your lips as you said that while you looked at Jay in the most adorable way possible.

the night continued and strangely, after hearing your words Jay was much more at ease and, in fact, he hadn't stopped kissing you. so much so that you couldn't even remember when you fell asleep, but indeed, it was the best night you could have had.

𓏲 𖧷ˊ JAKE

to say that Jake hadn't thought about this moment would possibly be a lie. as soon as you accepted his proposal, he began to imagine how this could happen.

And inevitably when the day came he had spent most of the day thinking about it. How could he not think about it when you will be against him, in his arms for the whole night?

"Jake are you even listening to me?" Did you end up saying, which made him leave his reverie, "I really don't want to fail my exams but I have the impression that I won't be able to do it.."

"Ah no, we're not talking about exams this evening and you know that," he replied, taking out his keys and opening the door. "Tonight is a romantic evening so no talking about exams"

"But Jake it's not funny! I'm really afraid of missing them! Imagine I..." quickly one of Jake's hands was on your lips and, once again you asked why he was so keen that you weren't talking about exams. But when you raised your head you quickly understood.

"Not another word about exams or you end up sleeping on the couch instead of with me" he used as a way to make you stop talking while removing his hand from his lips.

"It's called blackmail Jake!" You finally said but he didn't want to listen to you anymore. Instead he just laughed as he picked you up from the ground and headed towards his room. "And what's more, it's a hostage-taking!" Did you scream.

"For this to be a hostage situation, you would have to disagree, except that you agreed to sleep with me"

Soon you were both under the covers, and after a little bit of arguing because of his lame jokes, you both ended up in each other's arms.

You had nothing against sleeping with Jake, it was one of the things you looked forward to but strangely once in his arms, you felt a knot in your stomach because of shyness and you found the slightest way to hide from him.

And strangely he didn't make fun of you, he found you adorable, quite the contrary. And knowing that you were quite reactive, he allowed himself to come and tickle you, which quickly made you react. "Jake stop, that's painful!" you said suddenly which directly made him laugh.

"I'll stop if you're not so shy, sweetie," he allowed himself to respond while continuing his tickling, which quickly stopped since you were moving a little too much and he was afraid of getting hit.

And fortunately he ended up stopping because you quickly returned to his arms, and it was when he raised your head that he realized how lucky he was to have you. And quickly he kissed you.

He even allowed himself to come and kiss your neck, to tease you a little before you ended up sleeping and, seeing how red you had become, he laughed and kissed the tip of your nose. "Strangely, Madam doesn't say anything anymore."

"Madam says you need to sleep, just like me.." you responded by separating from him, afraid that he would do it again, but you quickly regretted your decision and returned to his arm.

And it was after a long moment of cuddling that you both fell asleep. And Jake was right, the moment was surely as pleasant and perfect as he had imagined during the day. It was even much better than he had imagined.

𓏲 𖧷ˊ SUNGHOON

maybe Sunghoon used the fact that it was raining heavily to make you stay at his place for the night. he had always been the type to be romantic for any occasion, and, the idea of ​​you having to walk home while it was raining like this was almost impossible for him.

except that, since nothing was prepared in advance you had no business of your own for the night and to tell the truth you felt quite stressed since, although Sunghoon had used the rain as an excuse, you had never slept with him before and didn't know how everything was going to happen.

except that, because you were so lost in your thoughts, you didn't realize that Sunghoon was going back and forth throughout his apartment to find you things for the night. and it was when he came back to you that you noticed that he had a girl's pajamas in his hands.

"How come you have pajamas already ready for me Sunghoon?" you asked when you were quite confused about where these pajamas came from although you ended up taking them in your hands.

"I bought one a few weeks ago thinking that you would end up sleeping at my house... I just didn't think that it would be because of a rain" he replied, laughing softly, perhaps realizing- It's odd that he keeps some pajamas for you, just in case.

"oh.. that's really nice Sunghoon thank you very much" you replied with a smile, getting up to place a kiss on his lips before heading to his bathroom so you can change. and you had barely put it on when you noticed that Sunghoon had chosen the right size, so he remembered your clothing size.

As you came out of the bathroom, you noticed Sunghoon sitting on the couch, almost as if he had been waiting for you, and actually he had been waiting for you. seeing you come out of the bathroom he almost rushed towards you to take you in his arms and quickly leave for the bedroom. and his actions directly made you laugh since Sunghoon usually didn't act like that. he never acted like that actually.

then quickly you were both under the covers, one of his arms slipping around your waist as he made sure you were comfortable and almost every time wondering how you felt when he moved to your side or that he moved his arms around your waist, not wanting to make you uncomfortable.

"good night mi amor.." Sunghoon had whispered in your ear, noticing that you were slowly falling asleep while he placed a kiss on your cheek.

"good night Sunghoon.." you replied as you were already falling asleep in Sunghoon's arms, loving the way he held you in his arms.

and after several minutes, Sunghoon himself had finally fallen asleep too, holding you close to him, while his head rested against your shoulder. and even in sleep you were both adorable.

𓏲 𖧷ˊ SUNOO

Sunno had always been quite clingy as a boyfriend, not that you didn't mind, on the contrary. you loved it when Sunoo spent most of his time wanting to cuddle you, hold your hands in his, or any other way to have physical contact with you. he was really cute.

the problem is that, when you offered to spend the night at his place, you hadn't thought about this detail. since even though during the day sunoo was really adorable with all his actions and the way he wanted to have any physical contact with you, at night it was something else entirely.

as soon as you were seated with him, a series on the television, he almost immediately moved closer to you and came to give you countless kisses on the cheeks or even hugs. something which at first was really adorable, then with the angel face he gave you every time, it was almost impossible to say no to him or refuse his cuddles.

except that the more time passed, the more you felt that sleeping next to him for the first time was going to be complicated if he was this clingy with you. "Sunoo, I really love your hugs but if I want to sleep it's quite complicated given how you hold me against you.. can you hold me a little less tightly please?" you asked him just before seeing him stand up, looking at you quite confused.

"Does that make you uncomfortable? Sorry, that wasn't what I wanted.." he replied, realizing that he had potentially made you uncomfortable with his too many hugs or kisses. . "no..! no not at all Sunoo I love your hugs I told you.. it's just that you hold me too tightly and it's not very comfortable to breathe.. so we can continue cuddling doesn't really bother me, but please hold me a little less hard."

and with your words you took his arms in your hands, loosening his grip around your waist to show him how you wanted him to hold you against him. "like that it’s perfect Sunoo.. you sometimes hold me a little too hard against you so it hurts a little.. but if we both sleep next time don't hold me as hard.."

you ended up turning around, noticing that he was sad to hear you say that, and inevitably you placed a kiss on his lips trying to reassure him. "Hey we can continue to cuddle sunoo.. if I hadn't loved you I would have moved away from you and yet I'm still in your arms okay?"

"okay.. sorry I didn't realize that I could maybe hurt you by holding you against me.. I promise I will be careful from now on but if we sleep together I refuse to let you go to the other end of the bed. I need to have you against me love.." he replied to you as he placed kisses on your cheeks again before finishing with your lips.

"I know that sunoo and it's really adorable.." you replied in turn.

and after twenty minutes of talking you both ended up falling asleep against each other, your head resting against his chest as he held you close. and strangely, even in his sleep he hadn't held you so tightly since you told him of your discomfort.

𓏲 𖧷ˊ JUNGWON

as soon as jungwon had opened the door to his room you felt this knot in your stomach appear while you were more and more stressed at the idea of ​​sleeping next to your boyfriend.

Jungwon had always taken the time to reassure you when he offered to sleep with you, because he knew how nervous you could be no matter the situation when you were both in the same room. Not only are these quite disturbing things happening between you, quite the contrary! but because you had reactions due to your former relationship.

so obviously, as soon as you had settled into bed he placed himself directly beside you, his arm placed around your waist and placed a kiss on your cheek before noticing that, despite your comfort, you still had doubts about what could happen.

"eh.. sweetheart I'm not doing anything serious you know that I've explained it to you at least five times today.." he whispered next to your ears trying to reassure you. "do you want us to watch a movie? a series? read a little book to reassure yourself and calm down before we sleep? are you comfortable enough in my bed?"

"Jungwonie.. I'm fine I promise.." you replied almost immediately, a smile gently appearing on your lips as you raised your head to look at him. "a movie can be perfect and yes I'm comfortable Jungwon don't worry.. I'll eventually get comfortable as it goes along it's just strange sleeping with you for the first time.."

"kitten.. I'm going to tell you how many times that you're here just to reassure you and make sure that you're okay during the night so you have no problem, and if things don't go well during the night you just need to wake me up and I'll be here for you okay?"

noticing that you weren't responding, jungwon quickly took the remote and turned on the tv then left the remote for you to choose a movie for you to watch.

you quickly took the remote and after ten minutes of trying to find a movie, you ended up finding a movie that you loved so obviously you started it directly, hoping that Jungwon wasn't going to say anything against it, but he remained silent and placed a kiss on your cheek to reassure you.

then, as time passed and the more you were in the film, you were more and more comfortable with the idea of ​​sleeping with your boyfriend that night and your head ended up resting against his shoulder and his hand came to play with your hair. "you're adorable sweetheart.." he whispered, smiling.

but you didn't necessarily react since you started to fall asleep against him, and noticing your state he let you fall asleep tenderly, loving to see you finally being at ease with him and, he continued to play with your hair until he fell asleep himself, holding you close to him.

𓏲 𖧷ˊ NIKI

when you told Niki that you wanted to sleep with him, he didn't know what to answer while he was trying to find out if you were serious or not. with you Niki could go through all the emotions so obviously, at first he just thought it was just one of your jokes.

"no Niki I'm really serious this time! I really want us to sleep together for just one night please!" you begged as you took his hands in yours and looked at him with the most adorable gaze.

"so it's really not a joke you're playing on me? you really want to sleep with me?" he asked you, almost forgetting that he was your boyfriend.

"but yes!! go this evening, please! plus you're already home, and my mother would be so happy to see you stay!" you used as an argument, hoping he would take you seriously.

and that's how you ended up in your room, the two of you while the television was on but you weren't really watching.

It had been four hours since you discussed this, and Niki still couldn't understand how serious you were about this. he was still lost in thought wondering why.

then quickly the blow of a pillow hitting his face brought him out of his thoughts. How could he not have thought of that? a laugh left his lips when he saw you gripping your pillow while looking at him with a smile, and he quickly understood that you were challenging him.

so quickly he grabbed one of the pillows in turn, and quickly the calm of the room had disappeared while you were both having a pillow fight and giggling like children. after all, acting like children was the best thing you two knew how to do when you were together, so these kinds of activities weren't surprising between the two of you.

It must have lasted too long, or it was simply because you were making too much noise, laughing and screaming like children, but your mother ended up appearing in your room, seeing you both armed with your cousins. standing on your bed. and when you noticed it you quickly froze, hoping she wasn't upset.

and she wasn't. Your mother had simply said that it was late and that you had better go to sleep. to which you answered yes, and while she was still looking at you you finally calmed down and hid under the covers. then she ended up going back to her room.

"I was the one who won anyway.." Niki ended up whispering about the pillow fight you had just come to do. "No, it's me who won.." you replied, whispering too.

except that, being two children, you and Niki had almost started hitting each other with your pillows again, but noticing your movement, Niki had stopped you, taking your hands in hers and quickly her lips were against yours.

"I don't think we can really start again so we'll stop there pretty girl.." he whispered against your lips, and strangely his kiss calmed you down. you ended up kissing him too.

then, after little kisses you ended up falling asleep in each other's arms. Forget your actions as children, even if the next day everything was going to start again for the whole day..

thanks you for reading all of this it’s really sweet ! hope that you liked each of the members scenarios and that you enjoyed reading !

comment to be added to my permanent taglist (for all my post except the series !)

anyways loves you, see you soon !! 💗

[roosterforme]

Okay, but how about the first time Jake and Darling have a fight? How would that go?

I really like your stories bc while it is fiction, I feel like you show every aspect of a relationship, not only the good parts.

🩷

OMG, nonny. I'm swooning. I try to make my stories realistic (as much as they can be for fanfic). Nobody is happy and confident all the time. Everyone is stressed about something. Relationships are hard work, and dealing with someone else is sometimes weird and annoying. So thank you, I appreciate that so much.

Jake and Darlin' argue all the time about all the small things in life. They have different opinions on a lot of things, but it's never usually anything they remember by the next day. I think their first big fight would happen shortly after she moves in with him, just after she graduates from school and starts her new job. (angsty below).

"I had the longest day at work," you muttered, shoveling the last bite of the dinner Jake made into your mouth. You set your fork down and stretched as you stood. This whole week was dragging. You realized you were probably complaining more than usual, but you were just over it. "Let's go take a bath and just go to bed. I'll clean up tomorrow morning."

Jake looked at you, his lips pressed into a firm line. "Go ahead. I'll clean it up."

You reached for his hand, but he was already stacking the plates. "You cooked. I don't want you to clean up. I'll do it later," you reiterated.

"Just go get in the bath," he snapped, carrying everything back to the kitchen.

"I don't want to take a bath without you!"

Jake dumped everything into the sink and spun around. "You're not the only one who's working full-time, but you're certainly acting like it."

With narrowed eyes, you asked, "What's that supposed to mean?"

Jake took a deep, practiced breath and let it out slowly. "I know you're tired, but it would be nice for you to acknowledge that I work longer hours than you do. So just go relax in the bath by yourself while I clean up."

"Well, now I don't want to!" You were suddenly so angry, you couldn't see straight, and you also wanted to cry. "You're treating me like a child!"

"You're acting like one."

His words hurt you more than a slap across your cheek would have, and your jaw dropped open. But then his next sentence made it even worse.

"In my house no less."

"Wow," you gasped, turning and running toward the bedroom as you started crying. It wasn't like you weren't paying to be here. You knew it wasn't much, but you had been insistant about giving Jake five hundred dollars per month. And for what? So he could act like you were an unwanted guest?

You ran into the bathroom and slammed the door behind you before you curled up on the tub mat on the floor and sobbed. Work wasn't like school. Trying to figure out how you fit in with your coworkers was exhausting, and you were still learning all the ropes. You drove back here every day mentally drained, and up until tonight, Jake was always the one who seemed willing to listen. You should have just cleaned up the kitchen, because now you felt like you didn't belong anywhere.

"Darlin'." Jake's voice was as sharp as his knock on the door. You tried to dry your tears, but it wasn't working, and maybe you really were a child compared to your boyfriend. "Darlin'!"

"It's not even locked!" you shouted, but it came out as weak as you felt. Jake opened the door, and in an instant, he was curled up on the floor with you, pulling you into his arms.

"Fuck. I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry I acted like an asshole." You tried to wriggle away from him, but he wouldn't let you. "I think I'm more exhausted this week than I'd like to admit, and I shouldn't have taken it out on you."

In spite of the fact that you were on the floor crying, you mustered up the courage to whisper, "I'm not a child."

"You're an adult," he said firmly. "An adult who just started a very impressive job. You're holding it together better than I did when I was in flight school." He kissed your forehead. "And you're absolutely right. We should have just climbed in our bathtub and then gone right to our bed. The fucking dishes do not matter right now. They can sit in our kitchen sink until whenever the fuck we feel like cleaning up."

Jake rubbed slow, soothing circles against your lower back until you were all cried out. If you thought you were tired before, it was nothing compared to how wrung out you felt now. You wanted to put forth a peace offering and just get up and clean the kitchen, but his lips were on your damp cheek and his voice was in your ear. "I love you, Darlin'. It has been a long week for both of us. I would like nothing more than to climb in a hot bath with you, relax until the water gets cold, and then get in our bed and go to sleep."

You nodded and started the water while he got two towels ready, and then both of you undressed. Jake kissed your bare shoulder and held you while the tub filled. "You belong here," he whispered. "I don't want you anywhere other than our house."

[commandershepardvasfuckit]

Second part to this (direct continuation)

NSFW, minors do not interact

Fem!reader x zandalari troll, fingering, squirting, size kink

“So tired just from that?” Daz’ai’s words were teasing but playful as he watched you wobble and lean on the door for support.

Between having your knees locked the whole time and the thorough job he had done eating you out you were wobbling as if the ship was in a storm instead of docked. You were also in no condition to protest as Daz’ai lifted you up and carried you to the bed where he then carefully laid you down among the pillows.

You watched as he undid his belt, unable to tear your eyes from him actually. It was mesmerizing watching his tattoos catch the sunlight, watching muscles move under taut skin. He moved slowly and with purpose, giving you a sly smile and watching your reaction when he finally stepped out of his pants.

Surprise was not quite the right word, you already had a good idea of what you would be dealing with, but still there must have been a look of shock on your face, which only seemed to make Daz’ai smile more.

“Don’t you worry, I have nothing but time to get you ready. It’s one of my favorite parts” his eyes never leaving your face.

He settled down onto the bed and pulled you close, your back flush against his chest, dwarfed by his size. His knee nudged your thighs apart and you felt him nestle his cock between your legs, rubbing against your still wet folds.

Automatically you angled your hips back, trying to give him a better angle to line up with you, which only made him laugh.

“While I appreciate your enthusiasm, trust me when I say that’s not going to work” the rumbles of his laugh and voice traveled pleasantly down your spine and straight between your legs. “Let me enjoy you like this while you find your legs again”.

Slowly he thrusted between your thighs, the remaining wetness of your cunt let him slide easily. His hand pressed down on to the top of your leg, nudging you squeeze him between them firmly and you happily complied.

Clearly he was in no hurry, lazily thrusting while the hand that was on your leg drifted up and under your shirt. Rough, calloused fingertips gently pinched and rolled one of your nipples and you let out a soft sigh in response.

“Not many humans making their way to Dazar’alor, even with the war over, so what brings you here?” he asked nonchalantly as if he was not currently grinding between your thighs.

Between soft sighs you managed to answer him, “Just needed a change. I went my whole life living in one city, figured it was time to get out in the world”.

Once more his low, rumbling laugh sent pleasant tingles down your spine and left a warmth between your legs, “Now that, that’s something I truly understand” he said.

Tentatively you reached down and ran your fingers along his tip as it poked out from between your plump thighs, feeling the beads of pre cum forming. You pressed his shaft up against your folds and clit more firmly, enjoying the friction as he continued to grind against you.

“And not shy, I like that” he said as he gave your nipple a particularly firm pinch that made you let out a loud moan, “I like people who know what they want”.

You closed your eyes, exhausted from both the long voyage to Dazar’alor and from Daz’ai, though more than happy to let Daz’ai continue with you how he pleased. With how tall he was, your head was only up to the middle of his chest laying like this, making you feel completely enveloped by him as he curled around you. He reached down with his free hand to tilt your face up to look at him, at this angle his tusks got in the way trying to kiss the top of your head, so he settled for just pressing his forehead to the top of your head instead.

It would be a lie to say that you were not at least a little confused by him, he was awfully gentle and affectionate for a hook up.

“So,” you began, “have you been with humans before?”

Another laugh from him pleasantly traveled down your spine from where you were pressed against him, “Many times, I’m actually quite fond of humans, the soft little things you are” he gave the fat of your hip a squeeze with the hand that had been resting on your thigh.

The smirks and giggles from his crew made more since now, an apparent pattern of behavior for him, not that it mattered to you. You had just been curious to see the warship up close, the fact that the captain was handsome and had a things for humans was just a bonus.

“So is this how you usually get someone in bed with you? Invite them to your ship and bring them back to your quarters?” you teased.

“I usually just head to the tavern, find someone interesting, then hope they have a partner who also wants to come along too” he smiled back.

You blushed at his words, figuring it was probably not a joke. He was confident, knew what he liked, and clearly was very experienced, and it was wildly attractive.

Carefully he rolled onto his back and pulled you on top of him, setting you to straddle his hips, and seeing him under you was quite a sight.

Regal would be a good word to describe him. From the little bit you knew of Zandalari culture you knew he was not just handsome to you as a human, but definitely drew attention everywhere he went. He was tall, well muscled with a broad chest and back, and very impressive tusks. You remembered hearing people on the voyage to Dazar’alor giggle over tusk sizes and possible correlations, and well, maybe there was some merit.

A few stands of long white hair had slipped free from where he kept his hair tied up. His tattoos were mesmerizing, the ink shined like gold in the light and you traced your fingers along the lines on his chest. As you touched him he watched you, though you could not meet his gaze, there was something about the glow of his solid colored eyes was just too intense.

“So,” you began, “you have a thing for humans?”

“I do. Is that a problem?” he asked back, his hands on your hips encouraging you to grind against him.

“No, I’m just surprised, I always heard that the Zandalari were pretty insular”.

He snorted, and though it was hard to tell for sure, you were fairly certain he rolled his eyes, “Not insular” he corrected firmly, “We are explorers and keepers of knowledge, we just have our way of life and very few are willing to leave and give it up”.

“Oh” you said softly. His tone was firm, but not annoyed or angry, though it left you feeling like you were a kid back in school being scolded by a teacher for asking a dumb question.

“One of the most important things to us is collecting and preserving knowledge. You cannot build the libraries we have if you refuse to travel and learn about others, and I quite like learning about others, especially hands on”. He moved a large hand up to your breast to gently give you a squeeze and seemingly to make his point.

“And what have you learned about humans?” you asked.

He let out a low hum before speaking, “Humans are cocky, you see a Zandalari and want to start a fight. I’m no fighter, but I’ve sent many cocky humans home with wounded pride.

“And humans come in so many shapes and sizes, unlike Zandalari. My people value strength almost above all else, does not leave a lot of room for different looks, it’s boring. But a human like you? Soft and round, how much better it feels to have soft thighs around my cock, how good those wide hips look bent over, being able to grab on and get a good handful of someone?” his other hand grabbed onto the fat of your hip, “So beautifully different than what I was used to”.

Your face was red hot from the way he spoke, from the way he looked at you with such desire.

“So, my pretty little human, think you’re steady enough now for me to really tire you out?” he asked.

You took a deep breath to steady yourself, still worn out from earlier and now overstimulated from his shaft rubbing your clit the whole time, “All yours” you smiled still.

It was surprising how quickly he could move. Before you knew it he had flipped you onto your back on the bed and was seated between your legs. His hands started at your knees and he took his time gently squeezing and playing with your thighs as he worked his way up, occasionally stopping to kiss the tops of your legs. You marveled at his hands, only two thick fingers and a thumb per hand like all trolls, and you were eager to experience what he could do with them.

Daz’ai slowly dragged one of those thick fingers between your folds and tentatively pressed against your entrance. “You’ll tell me if anything is too much, ok?” it was not a question as much as it was a command.

“Ok” you answered back, already panting in anticipation.

The stretch from his finger was incredible and you squirmed under his careful touch as he began to enter you. He paused periodically, anticipating when it was getting to be too much even before you needed to say anything. Occasionally stopping to rub his finger along your wet heat while he patiently waited for you to adjust.

“By the light you really know what you’re doing” you gasped as he slid his finger in a bit farther.

“I’ve had plenty of practice” he gave you a sly smile.

Expertly and thoroughly he worked you over, sliding his finger almost entirely out before gently working in back in and softly rubbing against your cervix once you were able to handle it. Many time he paused just a few inches in to stroke your most sensitive spots, making you see stars. None of his movements were fast nor particularly intense, instead he was precise, listening to your moans and constantly adjusting what he was doing.

As he settled into a steady pattern and rhythm with you, his free hand moved to your clit. His pressure was light as he started, tentatively varying it until he found what really made you moan. Never once did he falter in his rhythm, nor did he look away from your face.

“Just relax, pretty little thing. You’re still so tense, and haven’t I been so gentle with you?” he cooed.

You closed you eyes, just focusing on how incredible everything felt.

It was hard to tell how old Daz’ai was exactly, all you knew was he was older than you, wildly more experienced than you, and that you were more than happy to let him lead.

You could feel how hard you were clenching around his finger as you got closer. The tension in your core building endlessly from his steady pace, enough to leave you panting but not enough to tip you over the edge.

“Please” you begged him for the second time that day.

“Hmmmm? ‘Please’ what?” he asked back, a teasing tone in his voice.

“More. Please”.

“I was going to drag this out as long as I could, but if you’re going to ask so nicely” he trailed off, pressing another kiss to the top of your leg before making sure you felt every bit of him, his steady pace increasing and making your toes curl.

All you could manage was incoherent babbling, strings of “yes” or “oh fuck” as you felt like every nerve in your body was on fire in the most incredible way. The first waves of your release hit hard, your brain locking up and not being able to make a sound for the first few moments, then came a new feeling. A spray of fluids from you that coated Da’zai chest and the sheets under you.

“I’m so sorry! That’s never happened before” you exclaimed in your embarrassment. “I don’t know what- I didn’t mean to”

Swiftly he cut you off, looking highly amused as you babbled on in a panic, “I have that effect on people. And whatever you think just happened? No”.

“No?”

“No” he repeated, a cocky smile now on his face, “Though, now I know I’m the best you’ve ever had”.

Even without seeing yourself, you knew your face was beet red. He was right. He was the best you have ever had and by a wide margin. You had had plenty of good sex in your life, even great sex at times, but Daz’ai’s idea of foreplay was an entirely different thing.

He dragged himself over to lay on his side next to you, pausing only for a moment to use the corner of the sheet to wipe himself off, “Don’t look so embarrassed, it felt good, right?” he asked.

“Yeah” was all you could manage, your heart threatening to beat out of your chest from your orgasm and your embarrassment.

“It’s normal, not something everyone can do, but my ego does like that I must be the first to get you to squirt” slowly he ran his fingers along your hips and leg, “And that was just a finger, imagine how good it’ll feel riding my cock while I play with your clit and nipples”.

You squirmed as you felt your cunt flutter in response to his words, already feeling more wetness forming at the thought.

“I’m going to have so much fun playing with this pretty, soft body” he cooed at you as he tossed an arm over you and happily kneaded his hand into the fat of your hips.

The way he looked at you made you blush more than his words, the intense desire mixed with a gentleness.

“You look so good like this, feeling so good, so pliable and ready for me. Rest for moment, close your eyes and doze if you need, and then when you’re ready I’m going to make sure you come looking for my ship any time you’re in the city”.

[olivianott]

BRAIN CHEMISTRY

Tell me I’m not the only one happily not recovered from the deatheatertok (yes that’s why I’ve been MIA😬) and the Lorenzo Zurzolo gifs from the other day? 😭 I could not help myself with this one.

READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION, OCTOBER CAME EARLY TO ME.

ꕤ 1.6k words 

ꕤ deatheater!Theo Nott x fem!reader

ꕤ warnings: toxic ex, deatheater Theodore, pure smut, unprotected sex, explicit content, not for minors, 18+

ꕤ all characters are adults

You knew you were in trouble. That you fucked up. You somehow found yourself at a party in an unknown manor. You and your friend got talking with some people at a pub and now you are surrounded by glimmering Death Eater masks. Everyone is acting as if they are just having fun at a party. But you see their eyes following the two of you everywhere. 

You already know what is going on at these parties. You heard stories, awful stories, from him. You wonder if he is in attendance. No. Stop thinking about him, he didn’t want you anymore. He is one of them after all. 

You try to think of a way out for you and your friend. Get drinks, but don’t drink them, discreetly inch towards the entrance while smiling and acting like you’re having the time of your life, getting through the door and the few steps over the anti-apparition wards and poof, you’re both safe. 

That was the plan. Everything went smoothly, until just before getting through the door, your path is crossed by a tall Death Eater with an overly decorated mask. “Hello, beautiful.” He says while you watch your friend successfully execute the plan and disappear with a crack. 

You turn around and try to escape the lewd gaze of the big Death Eater, but there is another one in your path and you realize you are surrounded. Fuck. This is not good. No, don’t panic, don’t panic.

You panic.

Your vision starts to blur and you can’t seem to think straight. Heart in your throat, the ground becomes unsteady. Another mask enters your field of vision, too close to your face. This mask looks elegant, not overly decorated, but with artistic lines strategically curved around the planes of the artificial face. He grabs you by the upper hand and starts to drag you away from the crowd that formed around you, barking something to the other Death Eaters. You try to fight him off but it’s not working, his grip tightens and when you don’t stop, he loses patience with you and puts his wand under your chin. It doesn’t hurt but the threat makes you tremble in fear.

The man leans down next to your ear and hisses: “STOP IT.” The voice is so hard and threatening but at the same time familiar. 

You momentarily freeze and that gives him time to drag you through the hall and into a bedroom. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

He closes the door after you and you finally have time to compose yourself, because he goes to the other side of the room, leaving you alone. While he locks the room with his wand, your mind clears slowly. You suddenly realize why the voice is so familiar. 

Theodore Nott. 

You’ve never seen him in his Death Eater robes and a mask before, but now you can’t stop looking at him. 

Theodore turns around, throws his mask on the bed, and stalks to you so fast, you actually step back in fear until your back is against the door. “Why the fuck are you here?!” He spits in your face, his eyes are feral and full of anger but also fear. 

“It was an accident, my friend thought it would be a good idea to-“ 

“To what? To enter a devil’s lair full of fucking Death Eaters that enjoy killing too much and don’t ask for permission to do anything? Don’t you fucking know what’s going on at these gatherings? Fucking hell!” He is talking quietly but with so much anger, you can actually feel his magic vibrating between you. 

“What’s it to you? You’re one of them now, you look like you’re right at home at this vile party, huh?” 

“Do you really think I like it? That I wanted this? Do you even know where you are?”

“In some nasty pureblood’s manor?”

“Yes. Welcome to the Nott manor.” His sarcastic smile falls off his face as he looks down and backs off of you, finally letting you breathe air. 

Oh. Nott manor. It’s his home. 

“Are you actually hosting this party?”

“Well, as I said, those people don’t ask permission for anything, so here we are. But now you are here and you made this night even more difficult for me. They have set their eyes on you now and they are hungry, in more ways than one. The Death Eaters need their food, and they like to play with it before eating.” 

He says this so matter of factly it takes a while for your mind to catch the whole truth of what you’ve casually walked into tonight. 

“You’re a Death Eater too now.”

“Exactly.” He smirks. 

You’ve missed him so much. His scent brings back memories, and you feel your body heat up despite his arrogant behavior and attempts to scare you off.

“What- what are you going to do to me?” You say breathlessly. Without your permission, your mind shows you pictures of you and him from the past, the little bit of fear just heightening your excitement. 

“Oh please, you know I’m not like-“ he stops himself mid-sentence and focuses his glare on your throat, pulsing with blood rushing through you, your red cheeks, your trembling hands, the rise and fall of your chest. 

“Now I remember.” His mouth curves in this arrogant smirk and his eyes look mischievous at the same time as dangerous. 

“You like danger… you like being scared, amore? Does it turn you on? Tonight you bit more than you could chew though, princessa. And now…. You are trapped in here. With me.” 

You can’t respond to him, but your body does. Your breathing gets more labored and you can’t help your gaze falling to his lips. 

His hand starts roaming down your body while again hovering over you, leaning against the door, the height difference between you more obvious than ever. 

“I- uhh…-“ you are unable to say more. But you close the distance between you and crash your lips against his. 

Theodore groans loudly, takes both your hands in his, and slams them against the door above your head. 

“Oh princessa, you don’t know what you just started, do you?” His hard kisses resume and your mind is filled up with sensations. 

The feel of his body against yours, the hardness of the door digging into your back, his teeth biting your lips, dragging against your throat, his lips sucking on your pulse point. 

Your eyes are closed, but you feel your feet leave the ground as Theodore picks you up and sends you flying on the bed. While crawling over you on the bed, he picks up his mask and puts it on his face. 

Fuuuuck. 

You can barely see his eyes staring down at you from behind the mask, in between the short strands of hair falling down around it. 

The world is a blur now, clothes start flying off of you, his hands tracing your curves. Suddenly he loses patience and flips you over, on your hands and knees on the bed. With his hand under your chin, he makes you look up. A mirror. Your moan is embarrassingly loud. The vision of him in his mask behind you, admiring you through the mirror, hand grabbing your throat… you’ve never seen anything hotter. With his other hand he traces your wetness and groans into your ear: “So ready for me princessa, you really do get turned on with fear and danger. How nasty of you. Was this your plan all along? To get fucked by a Death Eater?”

You can only manage to shake your head no, since he is already opening his Death Eater robes and taking out his beautiful cock. 

“I bet you were hoping to find me here, right? Wanted to make me take you back? Make sweet love and be together forever?“ He chuckles condescendingly at that thought. „Look at you now, writhing under me, dying for me to fuck you like this, with my mask on. Scream for me, princessa.” You can’t see the expression on his face since he is wearing his mask but his words are so degrading and harsh. And still, your eyes roll back into your head. 

And you do scream for him, you can’t help it, you are overwhelmed with sensation, his hands, his cock, his scent. After a while, your arms give out and he pushes your chest down into the bed, holding your hands crossed behind your back, you can’t even move. You are completely at his mercy and the feelings in your head are so confusing. You feel pathetic, under him like this, your body getting rocked by his trusts, but still, the way his cock feels inside you, the way he seems so powerful and in control of you and your pleasure with the way he manipulates your body and mind creates a fog inside your brain. Surrounded by his grunts, you realize he is using you for his satisfaction, seemingly oblivious and uncaring about your comfort or pleasure. You being completely naked, with your face in the mattress while he is still fully clothed behind you is just another layer of the humiliation. But your fucked up brain makes you love it so much that with his whimpery moans in your ear you finally lose control as you feel him lose the rhythm and push all the way inside you, so incredibly deep,  as he spills himself inside you. 

There is no cuddling after. He unceremoniously pulls out and sits in his bed propped up against the headboard, a trembling hand bringing a cigarette to his mouth, while you try to find your clothes and dignity on the floor. 

“Nice show. You were loud enough, so now they know you’re mine and hopefully leave you alone. Doesn’t change anything between us though. You can use the floo to get out of here and I hope to never see you at these things again, you understand me?” He says all of this so coldly and without even looking at you at all, so you quickly throw on your clothes and leave through the floo, throwing a “you’re still the same asshole” at him over your shoulder. 

Sitting on your sofa two days later, you are replaying everything that happened that day in your head. Your brain keeps getting stuck on the fear in his eyes when he dragged you to the room, a shaking cigarette in his hand after the sex, a slight tremble in his voice while he kicked you out of the manor after fucking you into oblivion. 

Maybe everything is not as he wants you to believe. He saved you from them after all. 

As always, thank you for reading, hope you liked it. I’m not done with deatheater!Theo though 🤭.

moodboard

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ‧₊˚ Your principessa ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ‧₊˚

If you want more: 🖤here🖤

[ckret2]

@space-bowl Hi you didn't ask for an essay on this! But I happen to have a detailed headcanon, canon citations, and a piece of art I'm currently eager to procrastinate on so I wrote one anyway!

I base the headcanon that Bill isn't a very good artist on the canonical self-portraits he makes in Journal 3 while possessing Ford:

That looks like the Euclidean equivalent of stick figures to me. I'm not impressed by his artistic prowess.

We know he didn't smuggle out the book he's working on in Theraprism. The Theraprism staff says "you have been contacted through this book against our rules" and includes a photo of Bill working on the journal—if the book was in their hands when they spied him working on it and confiscated it to write a letter in it, then they wouldn't have let it leave the Theraprism. So TBOB is already outside Theraprism when the staff finds Bill making contact with the readers. Plus Ford already knows TBOB exists at the beginning of the book—meaning it was already out in the world before Bill's death.

And so: the book Bill's working on in Theraprism is a different book, through which he (and then the staff) is making psychic contact with TBOB and manipulating TBOB's contents. TBOB never came into Theraprism, and the book Bill was working on in arts & crafts never left Theraprism.

And he SAYS at the start of the book he's manipulating TBOB's contents remotely. When he describes what the book contains, right beside the table of contents, one of the items is:

"Paper" made from pressed, pureed human brain matter. I can invade anything with neurons, so I can project anything I want in here!

In the photo of him working on his end of this TBOB tin-can-telephone, he's beaming his thoughts straight from his mind onto the page (and, presumably, through that page to our page):

On top of that, note what his supplies are: paper, scissors, tape, and glue. We see a clipped-out picture and bits of paper pasted into the journal. He only has one black marker, no other drawing/coloring materials. The journal Bill's making in Theraprism isn't a sketchbook: it's a scrapbook.

And the one time we see Bill deliberately focus on the graphic design aspect of the book, the end result is...

Graphic Design Is My Passion-looking ass.

So here's what I believe: the contents of The Book Of Bill are made up half of a collage of cut-up papers and pictures Bill pasted into his end of the book (magazine pages, textbook pages, newspaper clippings, chapter 2 of The Great Gatsby, etc) and then psychically altered the text of to suit his needs; and half of images that Bill projected straight from his mind onto the pages without needing to actually do any art (such as every time Bill himself pops onto the page to talk directly to the reader).

Still requires a little graphic design work on his end; but if he's largely just slapping down pages of somebody else's completed graphic design work, that takes a lot of the required skill out of it. Definitely doesn't require him to know how to draw.

[tpwk-formula1]

haii could i please order a pizza with sicillian crust with red sauce, and jalapenos, chicken, and tomatoes and my drinks are mtn dew(dom), beer and diet coke. Served by Max Verstappen please!!

Lee-Lee's Pizzeria Menu

sicillian crust dating red sauce rough sex jalapenos "always such a fucking brat" chicken "awe you thought I'd let you cum that easy?" tomatoes "do you enjoy pissing me off?" mt dew dom (reader) beer edging diet cock recording kink served by Max Verstappen

Max Verstappen x Dom reader

AN: I am so pleased with how busy the Pizzeria has been! I work at night today so I'm gonna get a couple fics more pizzas done before I have to go in.

TW - edging, sub max, dom reader, begging, unprotected sex, filming, taunting

WC 2100+

Y/N POV

I've been watching Max from the other side of the bar for the past 15 minutes while he talks to Checo about something having forgotten about the drink he was supposed to be getting me.

Another 5 minutes pass before Max is finally waving the bartender down to orders drinks and another 3 minutes before I watch Max approaching with his puppy smile trying to sweeten me up once he saw the cold stare I was giving him.

"Max it's been almost half an hour since you told me 'I'll be right back just gonna get your drink' right back my ass" I saw while rolling my eyes and talking the drink he was offering me.

"M'sorry, Checo was talking about the car," Max tells me sheepishly. I could tell he was sorry so I decided to brush it off and pull him to my side before placing a soft kiss on his cheek.

"It's fine, just stay on task next time," I tell him softly whispering into his ear.

I don't know how or when it happened but there had been a shift in max and I's relationship. At one point in time, Max was a young curious boy doing any and everything he could to dominate me and 'keep me in check' but as the years progressed there was a switch and he was no longer the one wearing the pants in the relationship. Most people just assumed Max was whipped but the very few who actually knew about the dynamic just understood it. To them it all made sense, on track, Max was a dominant force that instilled fear in his fellow drivers but off the track, he just needed an outlet to be taken care of.

"I promise," Max whispers before placing a kiss on my lips.

"Love you," he says when he pulls back. "Love you too"

As the night progressed Max had done really well about doing what he's asked but then Lando showed up and I knew instantly I was gonna lose him in the crowd.

I trust Max and I have no issues with him going off but being left at a table by myself surrounded by people I had never met was making me grow more anxious than I would like to admit.

It was about an hour later when I finally saw Max approaching the table with a dopey smile across his face letting me know he had definitely had another drink or two.

"Hi baby," Max says while plopping down right next to me not picking up on the annoyance radiating off of me.

"Do you enjoy pissing me off?" I ask back watching as the smile on Max's face instantly falls.

"Wha- huh? Wait, what did I do?" Max stutters, struggling to try and figure out what to say.

"You just disappeared for over an hour. You left me alone at this dan table and you didn't even tell me where the fuck you went or ask if I wanted to join," I tell him back piching his thigh slightly under the table.

"M'sorry. I promise I've been trying to be good. Don't wanna make you mad, schat" Max mumbles clearly feeling the shame of the verbal lashing he was gonna get later when we got back to the apartment.

"You're gonna be in tears tonight," I reply back straight faced not cracking a normal smile.

"Please just one more chance," Max begs knowing I meant every word.

"I gave you a chance with Checo. I don't understand how you hanging out with Lando somehow always results in you getting punished. Maybe we should send him a video of you tonight to let me know he's a terrible influence," I tell him while looking into his eyes before placing a soft kiss on his cheek to throw him off.

"You wouldn't" Max says with wide eyes of the threat of sending a sex tape. I just shrug my shoulders playing along with the bit.

"I don't know, I think he would love to know that the man he's fighting to get the World Driver Championship is just a needy whiney little bitch," I reply back making Max whine.

"You're a meanie," Max mumbles.

"And you're a brat. Don't we make a perfect pair," I saw with a smile on my face.

When we finally get back to the apartment for the night Max was pretty much sober knowing I would wait until morning if he wasn't sober. He chose take his punishment now versus the morning when he would be nursing a hangover.

"Go into our room, make sure the cats are out of the room, then strip down and be laying on you back in the bed. I'll be there in 5 minutes," I say the second the door is closed.

Max makes quick work of disappearing into our room where I assume he listened to every word I said.

In the 5 minutes, I stripped down into the lingerie set I had chosen to wear under my outfit before making my way down the hallway where I find Sassy sitting by the door staring up at me curiously. I give her a quick pet before slipping into the room to find Max exactly how I told him to be. I look around the room and found a neatly stack of clothes letting me know that Max had folded them up instead of throwing them arounf our room.

"I see you remember some of our rules," I saw while staring at the clothes so Max understood what I was referencing.

When I start climbing into the bed with Max I can see him tensing slightly in anticipation.

"You know how embarrassing it was tonight?" I said before spitting onto Max's cock and starting to jerk him off making him instantly grow hard under my hand.

"I was sat there all alone for over an hour. I looked dumb as fuck. I'm sure the Monaco gossip is gonna eat that up "Max Verstappen disappears leaving his long-time girlfriend alone at the table' You know how media is, they're gonna make it seem like there's trouble in paradise. When in reality it's just little Maxie being a brat. Oh! I almost forgot," I stop my teasing to grab my phone which I brought with me into the room.

"Say hi to Lando," I say while pointing the camera at Max's face. He's giving the camera such a pained yet slutty look it makes me laugh at his desperation. I wait a couple seconds before my voice booms through the room, "I said, Say hi to Lando." While verbally reprimanding Max I send a quick slap to his inner thigh close to his dick before pinching the same spot making Max squirm a bit.

"Hi, Lando," Max mumbles barely audible.

"Try that again. I hear the way you yell at your engineer. Such a disrespectful boy," I tell him with a raised brow.

"Hi, Lando" Max finally says in a loud enough voice to be heard.

"Good boy," I tell him while moving my unoccupied hand back to his dick making sure I have the perfect angle to get Max and his already wet with precum ccok.

"So needy. You're already dripping for me," I say with a smirk on my face.

"So good, schat" Max whines making me speed up slightly just to watch Max's breath hitch.

"I love it when you get like that," I mumble while squeezing Max's cock a bit harder.

"M'close," Max mumbled making me speed up just slightly before pulling my hand away and watching Max's eyes roll into the back of his head and tremble slightly from his pleasure being ripped away in a matter of seconds.

"No," Max whines dragging out the O sounding so desperate.

"Awe you thought I'd let you cum that easy?" I tease while starting to jerk Max off again while zooming the camera in on Max's cock dripping with precum.

"Schat, please," Max says already starting to beg.

"Oh come on, you can handle more than one," I tell him while leaning down and kicking softly at his tip collecting a bit of his precum.

I shuffle down the bed slightly to start pulling Max into my mouth and down my throat taking all of Max's length into my mouth making sure to bob my head slightly before bringing Max to the edge all over again.

I could tell when he was getting close again because his thighs started tensing under my hands making me rip away from Max's cock to watch him thrash around while bucking his hips to try and gain some kind of friction.

"Fuck no," Max whines staring straight at that the camera that I angled perfectly on his face.

"I love watching you get progressively more needy," I say with a smirk while gripping onto his cock and giving it a rough couple jerks before pulling Max into my mouth again.

I didn't give Max much time to calm down so he was on the edge rather quickly.

"Please, I'm gonna cum," Max says making me bod my head a bit faster before pulling away and watching Max try and chase his orgasm on his own by moving his hand to go and finish himself off but I quickly get a grip on his wrist and giving Max a look that says knock it off.

"No more," Max whines making me smirk slightly.

"Can you give me one more?" I question with a raised brow making Max whine but slowly start to nod his head.

"Yes, I can give one more," Max mumbles softly making me smile softly.

I started jerking off his cock softly making sure I'm filming everything again. I loved it when Max got like. The noises, his hips bucking, and the pure desperation in his eyes always seemed to turn me on.

I could tell Max was getting close but I wanted to push him farther than previous so I continue my movements till the second I know Max will cum I rip my hand away and watch as Max lets out a roar of desperation while jerking his body around not being able to gain any friction as I moved away slightly.

"Please, I need it. I can't do it anymore. I need to cum baby, please," Max begs making me smile softly.

"I'm gonna let you cum in a minute," I tell Max softly while rubbing his thigh in a soothing manner making Max whimper at the touch.

I turned the video off and tossed my phone away from us. I was still sitting in my lingerie set which is completely soaked through both from just witnessing Max get to the point of begging and also because I had snuck a couple fingers into my folds and teased my clit while giving Max head.

I stand from the bed softly and strip down completely before climbing back into the bed and climbing on top of Max before instantly sinking all the way down on Max.

"Oh fuck," I moan when I feel Max stretch my tight walls. I knew neither of us would last very long but looking at Max's face he was completely blissed out.

"So good," Max mumbled making his accent come out a bit thicker.

"So big baby," I moan while softly grinding my hips to gain some friction but not enough stimulation to bring Max or I to an orgasm.

"More, please" Max begs and I give him exactly what he wants because I start bouncing my hips slightly making both Max and I moan at the pleasure coursing through our bodies.

It doesn't take me long for the knot in my stomach to grow alerting me of the incoming orgasm. I look at Max's face and can tell he's trying to hold his orgasm off until I was cumming.

"Cum for me baby," I whisper out bouncing harder on Max's cock throwing me off the edge and into a violent orgasm.

The way Max's hips were erratically thrusting and the feeling of him filling me up sent me over the edge into a shaking orgasm. I'm shaking on Max's cock trying to ride both of our orgasms out.

"So good baby," I whine softly still feeling the aftershocks of the intense orgasm I just had.

"Thank you," Max says softly through staggered breath still trying to catch his breath again.

"You did good for me," I tell Max softly while pulling off his cock and laying down on his chest.

"You're not gonna send that to Lando right," Max mumbles softly making me chuckle a little and shake my head no.

"You know I would never, but I did love watching you get desperate on camera. Might start having to do that more often," I tell him softly looking up to watch his face. I could see the conflict in his eyes but he still nodded his head letting me know it was something he would be willing to do again.

[wolverigrl]

Scorched Earth

Logan Howlett x mutant reader

!Disclaimer! Y/n is a mutant with the same skills as the human torch! Let me know if you'd like to read another part!

Warnings: mentioning of alcohol and death, angst

Enjoy!

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

“Bobby, for real, you can’t possibly think that’s better than mine!” I laughed, leaning back on the chair in the kitchen, feet propped up on the table. Across from me, my brother grinned, folding his arms over his chest with that cocky smirk of his.

“You’re just jealous I got the better nickname.” Bobby replied, his voice light, teasing. “Iceman? It’s sleek, it’s cool - literally - and it fits me.”

I snorted, rolling my eyes. “Oh, please. ‘Iceman’ sounds like the title of some second-rate action movie. Meanwhile, I’m lighting up the sky over here.”

Bobby raised a brow, feigning offense. “That’s a lot of talk from someone who’s still stuck with ‘Firecracker.’ ”

I punched him lightly on the arm. “I’ll take ‘Firecracker’ any day over your ‘cool’ puns.”

Our banter was easy, the kind that came naturally after years of being siblings. Bobby had always been the steady one, the one who could calm everyone down with a joke, while I was the hothead - pun intended - never one to back down from a challenge. It’s what made us a good team, even if we drove each other crazy half the time.

The way he carried himself, his calm demeanor, and his unwavering sense of control over his powers - everything I wasn't.

I was the fire to his ice, the chaos to his calm. We clashed often, but it wasn’t because we didn’t care. It was because we cared too much. And despite all the bickering, all the teasing, there was a bond between us that no one could break. I’d die for him. He was my anchor when my temper flared, my tether to reality when my powers spiraled out of control.

Just as I was about to throw another sarcastic remark his way, Logan walked into the room, his usual gruff self. He barely acknowledged us, heading straight for the fridge. Typical.

“Hey, Logan!” I called, a mischievous grin spreading across my face. “Did you finally get that stick outta your ass, or is it still lodged in there pretty good?”

Logan froze mid reach for a beer, then slowly turned his head, giving me the look - the one that said 'I am not in the mood for your crap right now, bub.' But that just made it more fun.

“Don’t you have somethin’ better to do, hotshot?” he growled, slamming the fridge shut and twisting the cap off his beer with more force than necessary. “Or do you just live to run your mouth?”

I smirked, unfazed. “You know, it’s funny you say that, because I’ve noticed you love listening to me. Maybe it’s because no one else has the guts to call you out on your eternal grumpiness?”

Bobby snickered from beside me, enjoying the show. “She’s got a point, man. You’re not exactly known for your sunny disposition.”

Logan shot Bobby a glare before turning his attention back to me. “Maybe I’m grumpy ‘cause some people around here don’t know when to shut up.”

“Oh, come on, Logan. You’d miss me if I didn’t poke at you every now and then.” I said, leaning forward with a grin. “Admit it - you secretly love the banter.”

Logan let out a low, frustrated growl, shaking his head as he took a long swig from his beer. “The day I admit that, is the day hell freezes over. And even then, I’ll blame Bobby.”

Bobby grinned, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, don’t drag me into your weird dynamic. I’m just the innocent bystander.”

I shot Bobby a mock glare. “Innocent? You? Yeah, sure. Tell that to the last five people you pranked.”

Logan huffed, clearly done with the conversation, but I wasn’t quite finished yet. “You know, Logan.” I continued, leaning back again and stretching my arms behind my head, “You really oughta work on that sunny disposition. You’re gonna give yourself wrinkles with all that frowning.”

He narrowed his eyes at me, jaw clenching. “Why don’t you mind your own damn business and keep that fire of yours under control?”

“Oh, I keep it very controlled, thank you very much.” I said, flashing a smile. “Besides, you seem to enjoy living dangerously. Why else would you keep hanging around us?”

Logan shook his head, muttering something under his breath before retreating to his usual corner of the room, beer in hand, grumbling the entire way. Bobby leaned in toward me, his voice low enough so only I could hear.

“I still think you’re his favorite.”

I laughed quietly, watching Logan brood from across the room. “Nah, he just hasn’t figured out how to handle all of this yet.” I gestured to myself with a playful smirk.

“Sure, that’s what it is.” Bobby chuckled, leaning back with a relaxed sigh.

Despite Logan’s gruff attitude and my constant teasing, there was a kind of unspoken respect between us. He was the first to step in when things got dangerous, always willing to put himself on the line for the team. And even though he’d never admit it, I knew he appreciated having someone who wasn’t afraid to challenge him, to call him out when he was being extra cranky. In a way, it kept things balanced.

Bobby and I exchanged another look, both of us knowing exactly how this dynamic worked. I teased Logan, Logan growled, and the world kept spinning. It was our version of normal - a delicate balance of sarcasm, snark, and the occasional grumpy Wolverine glare.

It was one of those rare moments when everything felt light, even if just for a little while. Days like these, with Bobby teasing me, and Logan grumbling from across the room, were the best. I’d give anything to hold onto them.

But life as an X-Men had a way of reminding you that those moments could be fleeting.

And I didn’t know then just how fleeting they would be.

Todays mission was supposed to be a standard takedown. Another mutant extremist group, radicalized and bent on 'mutant supremacy'. Charles had briefed us thoroughly, and we had faced worse before. Or at least we thought we had.

It went south almost immediately. We were outnumbered, and it was clear that our enemies had intel we weren’t prepared for. They knew where we would be, how we would strike, and worse - they knew how to separate us. That was when things really started to fall apart.

The battlefield was a mess of chaos and screaming. Blasts of energy, ice, and fire lit up the sky, while the air howled with the sound of Storm’s winds tearing through enemy lines. I was a blur of fire and fury, every step a combustion of flame as I ripped through the chaos, throwing up walls of fire to keep enemies at bay. But no matter how hard we fought, there were too many. We were getting spread thin. Too thin.

I caught sight of Bobby ahead of me, just in time to see him raise an enormous ice wall to shield a group of our teammates. His back was to me, and before I could shout a warning, a blast from one of the enemy’s weapons slammed into him, sending him sprawling across the ground.

“Bobby!” I screamed, my heart lurching.

He struggled to get up, one knee bent, but the blast had been too much. His walls of ice began to crack and crumble around him. Panic rose in my throat like bile. He was surrounded, the enemies closing in.

I pushed forward, flames erupting from my palms as I blasted through the mob, trying to reach him. “Hang on, I’m coming!” I shouted, but my voice barely cut through the cacophony of combat.

But I wasn’t fast enough.

Before I could get to him, a second blast hit him. The impact was devastating. I saw his body jerk violently before he collapsed, crumpling like a rag doll on the cold, scorched ground. Time seemed to slow, my breath caught in my throat, and everything else faded away.

“No!” My scream tore from my chest, broken and raw, but there was nothing I could do.

He was still, too still.

I scrambled toward him, my flames fizzling out as I dropped to my knees beside his body. I reached out, hands trembling as I gently touched his face. His skin was cold, colder than it should have been. His chest didn’t rise. His eyes were closed. My pulse pounded in my ears, but I couldn't hear anything except the roaring silence in my own head.

He was gone.

“Bobby, please…” I whispered, my voice cracking. “Please don’t leave me.”

I don’t know how long I sat there, holding him, begging for him to come back. I couldn’t save him. I. Couldn’t. Save. Him.

Then, something broke inside me.

The grief, the rage, the helplessness - everything surged at once, overwhelming every rational thought. The fire inside me, the power I always tried to control, flared up in an instant. It wasn’t just fire anymore - it was fury, pure and uncontrollable.

Flames erupted from my body, hotter and fiercer than they ever had before. I screamed, the sound ripping through the air as fire exploded in all directions, a supernova of heat and light. The ground beneath me cracked, molten lava seeping from the earth as the intensity of my power burned through everything in its path.

I couldn’t stop it. I didn’t want to.

The flames raged out, consuming everything they touched. The enemy soldiers who had killed Bobby screamed as they were incinerated, their bodies turning to ash in mere seconds. The ground smoked, trees around us igniting in a blaze, and the air became thick with heat.

Jean’s voice echoed in my mind, faint, as if she was shouting at me from the end of a long tunnel. “Y/n, stop! You have to stop!” Her voice was desperate, but I couldn’t listen. Couldn’t hear her over the roaring firestorm inside me.

Storm tried to summon her winds, pulling clouds thick with rain to douse the flames, but it wasn’t enough. Even the sky couldn’t hold back the inferno that had taken over me. I felt her power strain against mine, but my emotions fueled the fire, making it burn hotter, stronger. I was losing control completely, my body heating up like the core of a star.

“Y/n! You’re going to kill everyone!” Scott shouted through the comm, his voice barely audible over the roaring flames. I could see them, all of them, struggling to get away from the heat, the fire spreading in every direction.

Charles reached out, trying to touch my mind, but I was beyond reach. His calming presence couldn’t get through the thick walls of grief and rage that had consumed me.

I was going to burn everything. Everyone.

Then, through the haze of heat and fire, I saw him.

Logan.

He was moving toward me, slow and steady, ignoring the screams of the others as they begged him to stop.

“Logan, no! You’ll die!” Jean’s voice, frantic, but he didn’t listen.

“Logan, don’t!” Storm shouted, the wind whipping around her, but he kept walking, one foot in front of the other, his eyes locked on mine.

I couldn’t stop the fire. I was too far gone, too lost in my own power. The heat radiated off me in waves, scorching everything in its path, and yet he kept coming.

His skin started to blister almost immediately. The heat was unbearable, even from where I stood. I could see his face contorting in pain, could smell the sickening scent of burning flesh as he got closer. His clothes were already charred, the leather of his jacket melting and fusing to his skin. But he didn’t stop.

I wanted to scream at him to get back, to stop, but the words wouldn’t come. All I could do was watch in horror as he walked into the flames, his healing factor struggling to keep up as his body was scorched by the heat I was putting off.

And then he was there, standing right in front of me, his skin bright red, his hands trembling as the fire licked at his skin. His face was a mask of pain, sweat and blood mixing with the charred burns that covered his arms and neck. But his eyes, his eyes were steady.

“Y/n.” he said, his voice low and raspy, strained from the pain. “You need to stop.”

“I can’t!” I gasped, my breath catching as the flames flared up again, fueled by the storm of emotions inside me. “I can’t control it. I-I’m going to kill you, Logan!”

“I don’t care!" he growled, taking another step closer, his boots melting into the molten ground. His body trembled, his skin bubbling and cracking under the heat, but he didn’t back down. “I’m not leaving you.”

Tears streamed down my face, evaporating the moment they hit the air.

His eyes locked onto mine, unwavering, even as the flames licked at his skin. His face contorted in pain, but he didn’t stop.

“Bub.” he rasped, his voice hoarse from the heat. “You need to let go. I know it hurts, but you gotta stop.”

I couldn’t hear him over the roar of the fire. I was too far gone. The heat, the flames, my emotions - it was all consuming me. I was a supernova, and there was no pulling back.

Logan took another step. His healing factor was working overtime, but even he couldn’t withstand this for long. Yet, he didn’t hesitate.

“Y/n!” Logan yelled, louder this time, and I felt his words cut through the haze. “I know what it’s like! To lose someone - hell, to lose everyone! You feel like you’re gonna burn up inside. You feel like it’ll never stop, like you’ll never breathe again. But this ain’t the way!”

I felt the fire flare around me, almost as if it were trying to drown out his words. I wanted to listen, but the grief, the rage - it was still so raw. Bobby was gone. How could I stop the fire when everything inside me was screaming to let it burn?

But Logan didn’t back off. He stepped into the heart of the inferno, his arms opening, and wrapped me in a hug. The flames surged as they met his body, and I could feel his skin burning under my touch. I could smell it. His face twisted in agony, but he didn’t pull away.

“Let it out, hotshot. Let it all out,” Logan whispered, his voice softer now, almost tender. “But don’t burn yourself with it. You ain’t alone. I’m here.”

I could feel his chest rising and falling rapidly, his breaths ragged from the heat, but his arms around me were steady, grounding. In that moment, the fire faltered, flickering as my mind struggled to grasp what was happening.

Logan - the one person who could barely stand to be in the same room as me without a sarcastic remark - was holding me, burning alive in my fire, all because he wouldn’t leave me alone in my pain.

And then, I felt it.

The fire started to die down, the flames retreating into my skin as I began to sob against his chest. The heat that had consumed me so completely, so violently, began to ebb, leaving behind only the suffocating weight of grief. Logan’s chest was soaked with my tears as I clung to him, my body shaking with the force of my cries.

“I couldn’t save him, Logan." I choked out between sobs. “I couldn’t- ”

“I know." Logan murmured, his voice rough but soothing. “I know, bub. It’s not your fault.”

The last of the flames flickered out, and the air around us was suddenly cooler, still. Logan’s body, still blistered and burnt in places, didn’t move. He just held me tighter, letting me cry into his chest, never once letting go. I buried my face into the fabric of his ruined shirt, his heartbeat the only thing keeping me tethered to reality.

After what felt like forever, I became aware of the world around me again. The sounds of the battlefield had quieted. Jean, Storm, and the others were slowly approaching, their faces a mix of worry and relief.

“We need to get back to the mansion,” Scott said, his voice soft but firm. “Y/n, Logan… let’s go.”

Logan didn’t move to let me go, and I didn’t want him to. The thought of being alone right now, without the steady warmth of his presence, was unbearable.

“Can you walk?” Hank asked me.

Logan shook his head, giving a low grunt of pain as he stood up, still cradling me in his arms. “I got her.”

I felt Logan’s arms adjust under me as he began to walk, carrying me like I weighed nothing. I should’ve been worried about him, should’ve told him to let me go, but I couldn’t bring myself to. I pressed my face into his chest, feeling the burn marks on his skin, the roughness of his wounds. He was hurting because of me, but he didn’t care.

The journey back to the mansion felt like a blur, the sounds of the battlefield fading into silence as Logan carried me, step after step, his breathing labored but determined. I clung to him, my body exhausted, but my mind still racing with grief and guilt.

When we finally reached the mansion, Logan carried me straight to my room. He pushed the door open with his shoulder and laid me gently on my bed. His face was tense with pain, but his movements were careful and protective.

I reached out, grabbing his wrist as he turned to leave. “Don’t go... please.” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “I-I don’t wanna be alone.”

Logan’s eyes softened, just for a moment. He gave a small nod and sat down on the edge of the bed, his weight making the mattress dip slightly. He didn’t say anything, didn’t try to offer any more words of comfort, and for that, I was thankful. I didn’t need words. I just needed him to stay.

I curled into his side, my head resting against his chest once again. His heartbeat was slower now, more even, though his body was still warm from the burns. He didn’t flinch when I pressed closer, seeking the comfort of his presence. His arm wrapped around me, holding me close, and for the first time since Bobby died, I felt a small flicker of something like peace.

As I sobbed into Logan’s chest, my body exhausted from the emotional and physical strain, I felt his hand gently stroke my hair. He didn’t say anything, just let me cry. His presence as steady as the heartbeat beneath my cheek.

The tears slowly began to subside, my body relaxing into his as the exhaustion took over. I was grateful for the silence, grateful for the way Logan just was - strong, unyielding, and never pushing me for more than I could give.

Eventually, my eyes grew heavy, the grief and pain pulling me into a restless sleep. The last thing I remembered was the feel of Logan’s hand still in my hair, his quiet strength wrapping around me like a protective shield.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, I let myself drift into sleep, safe in his arms.

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

[ninjatrashpanda]

(Please say to Me) You'll let Me be your Man

Written for @bucktommypositivityweek Round 2! Day 3 is "Missing Moments." Read on AO3 here!

“So, what is your coffee order, anyway?” Evan asked, lightly bumping his shoulder against Tommy’s. He was smiling that brilliant, adorable smile that Tommy already could feel himself falling for, (He felt like a teenager, and found himself genuinely enjoying it. Maybe there was something to that Katy Perry song after all.) which almost made him a bit weak in the knees.

“Black, no sugar.”

“Ah, okay. So that’s a red flag.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow, feigning shock as he nudged Evan back, a playful grin tugging at his lips. “A red flag? Just because I don’t drown my coffee in cream and sugar?”

Evan laughed, the sound light, warming Tommy up from the inside. They were strolling down the street, neither of them having been willing to part ways after their coffee conversation. (Coffee date? Had it been a date? Had it turned into a date after they had cleared the air?) The sky was a soft, sunny blue, the kind that was usual for Los Angeles, but no less beautiful, and the gentle breeze blowing around them was just cool enough to counter the swelling California heat.

Tommy honestly could get used to this, could see himself settling down with Evan (and maybe that was a little hasty, considering that this was only their second date, but hey, he was forty and wasn’t getting any younger), and honestly, that thought excited him. After he came out, he’d at first thrown himself into the casual sex scene, Grindr profile and all. He’d already been in his early thirties by that point and figured he should make up for lost time. Plus, dating as a firefighter-slash-rescue pilot was a pain anyway. If there was one thing he’d never lied about during his Closet Era™, it was that while his scars attracted people, him getting them freaked people out. It had been true for the women he tried dating in his twenties, and it was true for the few men he occasionally tried to actually build something with inbetween hookups and friends with benefits situations.

But as the years went by, Tommy had started to yearn. He'd found himself longing for something real, something steady, something with someone he could see himself getting married to and maybe even raise a kid or two. Someone who understood what his job meant to him, who could handle knowing that every day bore a risk, who didn’t try to talk him into switching careers.

Someone who could see past the tough firefighter persona and not get weirded out by the guy loving RomComs, monster trucks and craft beer.

Evan seemed like that kind of guy. He was a fellow first responder after all, so he knew first hand how deep the commitment to the job could run, and right from the beginning, he’d just seemed so genuine and sincere that Tommy hadn’t been able to help the butterflies in his stomach. Of course, he had also thought Evan was cute pretty much right away (Just like a teenager. Katy Perry was actually a prophet.) but had brushed it off at first. There’d been more pressing matters at hand, never mind that he’d figured Evan was straight.

Even after they’d kissed for the first time, Tommy hadn’t allowed himself to get his hopes up. He’d been in these situations before, where things just looked right on paper only to crash and burn shortly after, and when Evan had very decidedly not been ready for a relationship with another man at their first date, well, Tommy had been able to shrug it off. Good thing he hadn't gotten overly attached, or Evan shoving him back into the closet the way he did would’ve hurt a lot more than that single, sharp sting in his chest that it had been.

When Evan had called him and asked to meet so they could clear the air, Tommy’s first thought was to decline. It had been less than a week, and it was bound to be awkward. But then he’d figured he kind of owed it to Evan to hear him out, and it had somehow ended with Tommy being Evan’s date to his sister’s wedding.

“Yes, actually, being a coffee demon is a red flag,” Evan said, wiggling his eyebrows with a smirk. “Everybody knows that those who drink it black are super pretentious. I bet you post on Facebook about all the young whippersnappers ruining coffee with syrup and whipped cream.”

Tommy chuckled, shaking his head at Evan’s quip. This was another thing he more than appreciated about Evan, his sense of humor, and the casual way he managed to make Tommy feel welcome. Tommy liked to think himself quite sociable, that he could make people comfortable with him, but Evan was in a whole other league in that regard. He seemed to have some kind of aura that put people at ease.

"Oh, you caught me," Tommy said, his voice dripping with mock seriousness. "Every morning, I log on and rage-post about how the youth of today don’t appreciate the subtle notes of bitterness in a proper brew and how society will crumble over it. It's part of my morning ritual."

Evan laughed again, the sound washing over Tommy like warm summer rain. It was amazing, really, how easily Evan’s presence filled up all the little spaces that Tommy hadn’t even realized were empty. “Besides,” he continued, patting Evan on the shoulder, which caused a pink blush to spread over his cheeks. “Chimney told me about one of your red flags. You don’t watch movies?!”

Evan scrunched up his nose and playfully shoved Tommy. “Hey, that’s not a red flag, it’s just… a quirk. Every time I sit down to watch a movie, I just get bored and want to do something else.” Then, with a slight smile, he added, “Unless I have the right kind of company.”

Tommy felt his heart do a little flip at that, a warmth spreading through him that was both unfamiliar and strangely comforting. Evan didn’t really like movies, but he wanted to watch them anyway. With him. Together. Probably cuddled together so close they’d be about to fuse into a single person. It took all of Tommy’s willpower to not throw Evan over his shoulder and carry him to the nearest movie theater.

“Oh, so now it’s up to me to educate you, huh?” he teased instead, nudging Evan again. He could already imagine it: the two of them on a couch, a bowl of popcorn between them, his arm around Evan’s shoulders, the two of them laughing or crying or raging over some silly RomCom Tommy would undoubtedly choose. (Not ‘Love Actually’ yet. Evan had to experience that movie during Christmas time, under a warm, cozy blanket with massive cups of hot chocolate with marshmallows.)

“I mean, you brought it up,” Evan said, his grin softening, eyes meeting Tommy’s with an earnestness that made Tommy’s breath hitch. “Plus, you actually know where to start. I’d have no idea.”

Tommy chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief at how easily Evan could tease him and be earnest all at once. It was this effortless mix of playfulness and sincerity that drew Tommy in. He'd spent so long compartmentalizing his own life—work, family, dating—and here was Evan, breezing into his world with the potential to make everything feel seamless.

“Alright, I’ll pick a good one for next time. Prepare for your mind to be blown,” Tommy said, his tone light but his gaze lingering on Evan’s face. He let the moment stretch, comfortable in the shared silence as they continued their walk. The city bustled around them, but it felt like they were in their own little bubble, untouchable by the noise and chaos of everyday life.

Evan smiled back, a soft, almost shy smile that made Tommy’s heart stutter, and tentatively reached out to Tommy’s hand, but then quickly pulled back at the slightest brush of their fingers. The contact was brief, but long enough for Tommy to feel a jolt of electricity run through his body. Evan, red-faced, cleared his throat. “I, uh, I’ll hold you to that. But just so you know, I’m picky.”

“Noted,” Tommy said, trying to sound casual, but he couldn’t help the way his voice softened. He hadn’t even thought about it, but now that it had almost happened, he really wanted to hold Evan’s hand. He fought the urge to grab it though. Evan had said he wasn’t sure what he was ready for. Showing PDA with a man might’ve been too much. “We can hold hands. You know, if you want to.”

Evan looked up, eyes widening slightly as if Tommy had read his mind. He hesitated for a moment, his gaze flickering between Tommy’s face and the space between them, before slowly extending his hand again. This time, Tommy met him halfway, their fingers brushing once more before finally interlocking. Evan’s grip was tentative at first, like he was still testing the waters, but when Tommy gave a gentle squeeze, Evan relaxed, his thumb brushing lightly against Tommy’s knuckles.

Tommy’s heart raced, and he could feel the slightest tremor in Evan’s hand. It was a small gesture in theory, but Tommy knew that this was monumental for Evan. He had only just discovered and come to terms with his sexuality, and had completely freaked out just a few days ago when their first date had been crashed by his best friend. Holding hands with another man in public was big for him.

“You good?” Tommy asked softly, glancing sideways at Evan. He tried to sound casual, but there was an edge of vulnerability in his voice. He needed to know that this was okay, that Evan was comfortable and not pushing himself too far too fast.

Evan nodded, his cheeks still flushed but his smile genuine. “Yeah, I’m good. Better than good, actually.” He took a deep breath, as if he was trying to solidify the moment in his mind, etching the feeling of their joined hands into his memory. “It’s…nice. Really nice.”

Tommy felt a swell of affection that almost took him by surprise. This was new territory for both of them, and it was exhilarating and terrifying all at once. He was used to charging headfirst into danger, running into burning buildings and flying into storms, but this, this simple act of holding Evan’s hand, felt like the bravest thing he’d done in a long time. It was vulnerable and honest, and it was everything Tommy had been afraid to hope for.

They continued their walk, the rhythm of their footsteps syncing as if their bodies had quietly agreed on a shared pace. The sun wandered further across the sky, casting long shadows that danced across the pavement, and Tommy couldn’t help but steal glances at Evan. He was struck by how natural this felt, like they’d been doing it for years, like they hadn’t literally just talked about how they didn’t really know each other maybe an hour ago. Tommy wondered if he should count this as a sign. He didn’t even believe in God, or any other deity, but still. The universe telling him he was doing something right was a nice thought.

Evan glanced up, catching Tommy’s eye, and gave him a sheepish smile. “You keep looking at me like that, I might start thinking you like me.”

Tommy snorted, squeezing Evan’s hand again. “Oh, I’m pretty sure it’s more than just ‘like’ at this point. But don’t get ahead of yourself, alright? We’ve still got a whole list of red flags to go through. Might be a dealbreaker or two in there.”

Evan chuckled, his eyes sparkling with a mix of amusement and something warmer, deeper. “I think I’m willing to risk it,” he said quietly, his voice almost lost in the hum of the city around them. “Besides, we’ve got time, right?”

Tommy nodded, feeling the weight of those words settle into his chest. They did have time, and it was a luxury Tommy wasn’t used to indulging in. His job was unpredictable, and he’d seen too many lives cut short, too many futures that never got a chance to be. But here and now, with Evan’s hand in his, the future felt like something he could reach out and touch, something he could build, slowly but surely, step by step.

“Yeah. We’ve got time.”

[verstappentime]

i posted about this before, but let me (as a journalist irl) elaborate what's likely going on with daniel!!

when no one asked dan about his future during press day last week, we all automatically recognized this was probably the result of an embargo (we have quite a few f1 fans in the newsroom). stranger still that christian horner was in the TP conference and didn't speak on it either. we had expected that combo to make a sort of joint announcement.

so what's an embargo/how does it work?

essentially, it's when a source gives you any information ahead of time, but requests you do not publish anything on it until a certain date and time. this can be done for a lot of reasons. embargoes usually request that you refrain from sharing information from a press release or document.

usually embargoes are put in place so essentially you keep to your time table of when the information becomes "public," but news outlets aren't left scrambling because they have already written their story and have it ready to go live as soon as it's acceptable. in the case of f1 this also applies to instagram posts and things like that. that's why you'll often see the posts go live straight away when an announcement is made; everything's pre-confirmed & pre-written, they're just waiting for the green light.

if you violate an embargo in sports journalism, you'll likely have your credentials to, say, get into the press pen revoked. you/your outlet will no longer receive any privileged information. and you'll likely be asked to take it down. not for any legal reason -- you're just burning a bridge and violating trust. so this info COULD be leaked, but under the honor system, it rarely is. (especially bc if you post embargoed info & ruin your org's reputation with the source, you're probably losing your job.)

so what's going on in DR's case?

most likely, all credible sources have either A) been given the information under an embargo, or B) been told the time they can expect an embargoed press release. (i work with law enforcement, so for me this is usually just something like "you can expect the records to be sent out before dinner time friday night but it will be embargoed till 9 a.m. when they're officially public record.")

either way, everyone has probably been warned off asking those questions, but they also likely already know the answer. whatever they received, even if it doesn't reveal all the cards, most likely said daniel would not answer questions prior to the official release time and essentially, don't bother.

what's up with all the rumors?

essentially, when every credible source has their hands tied, there's no one to counter all the randoms. we see it all the time -- people yapping trading theories when we actually know what happened and can't say. unfortunately in f1 some of the randoms have some sort of name recognition -- and for some reason there are like 500 completely not credible news outlets full of untrue shit. so right now, they are the only people 1) free to bang on with theories and 2) who dont either have the info or know when the info is coming available. so that's allowing them to take up all the space.

conclusion: this isn't necessarily good or bad, but explains why we're hearing so many irrelevant people's opinions on this and not hearing anything from VCARB, daniel or his team. it was most likely done to give preferred sources the jump on announcing the news, but also to allow daniel to focus.

i'm assuming the embargo will be lifted monday morning european time, but we may hear a vague denial this weekend as theres probably some building frustration (like daniel saying yeah you'll see me in COTA or whatever).

[amoscontorta]

Wine time with Sylus | ao3 | other stories in this 'series'

Summary: Sylus invites himself over, helps himself to your first aid kit and your kitchen, manipulates you into tasting wine with him, discusses his latest business venture, and gifts you more than one present before he's good and ready to finally leave.

Notes: Sylus x gn reader, Sylus x mc, second person pov, no use of y/n

This story contains: fluff, banter, angst, mc with obvious self esteem issues, grief, self-destructive behavior, profanity, alcohol use, criminal activity, allusions to violence, sleepy kissing, biting, inappropriate thoughts regarding kitchen tools, the mental gymnastics mc engages in to avoid acknowledging or recognizing feelings on either side should come with their own warning to be honest, one very thirsty mc whose thoughts are NSFW. This part ends with a misunderstanding that you can bet Sylus will not put up with for long.

In the days following Sylus’s latest little… visit, you’re called out more frequently than usual to counter wanderer attacks. You’re barely home, and the few times you stumble home late into the night, you peel your sweat and sometimes blood-stained hunter’s uniform off right in the entryway, promise yourself you’ll do laundry soon, and drag your aching body to the shower. Then you usually spend what little night you have left lying there with your eyes closed, carefully keeping your mind blank as sleep remains elusive. You have to admit to yourself that the few times Sylus kept you company overnight, you slept like the dead, but you refuse to go so far as admitting that you wouldn’t mind if it were more frequent. If you were to admit it to yourself, which you will not,  you only yearn for it strictly for the sake of your sleep schedule, and absolutely not because you’ve come to crave his warm, comforting bulk against your body.

Tonight is no different, but you’re both looking forward to and dreading the next few days, as Captain Jenna has ordered you to take some time off to rest and recover from the brutal schedule you’ve been keeping for months now, capped off by the recent spate of increased attacks. All of your wheedling to let you keep going, that you’re fine, that the people of Linkon need you, that you need the constant distraction, has proven useless. Apparently the frequency with which you are getting injured remains acceptable, but she is finally at the end of her patience reading your barely coherent, misspelled reports with unfinished sentences that you only manage to submit before Association mandated deadlines by the skin of your teeth.

“Go home, get your head on straight, and come back rested … and literate again, please.” She looks back down at the tablet on her desk, trying to dismiss you, but you stubbornly remain at attention at her desk.

“That’s discrimination, Captain. I can be a perfectly functional hunter without being able to read or write,” you protest, while Xavier winces behind you. “I mean, obviously I can read and write, I’m just a little tired, that’s all. Still able to destroy wanderers!”

Jenna’s already formidable expression begins to darken, but you’re not cowed. You open your mouth to helpfully point out that wanderers don’t care about how well you can spell, when you feel Xavier’s gentle hand on your arm. “Come on, why don’t we go together to get some snacks on the way home? I think they’ve started re-issuing that wasabi flavored chocolate bar we tried at the beginning of the year,” he says softly, and Jenna shoots him an appreciative look before proceeding to ignore you both.

You glumly follow Xavier out into the early evening. Rush hour is over, but the sidewalks are still bustling with life. You weave through the mass of humanity, resisting the urge to drop-kick anyone who cuts you off or brushes against you accidentally. I am a role model for the Hunter’s Association, even when I’m off the clock, I am not allowed to arrest someone for bumping into me…. I am not allowed to arrest someone for…

Xavier tries to distract you from your obvious frustration by describing the plot of the latest manga series he’s reading that he thinks you’ll like as you two make your way  home. You listen absently, feeling slightly calmed by his soothing voice, despite its graphic descriptions of violence in the manga that you are pretty sure you’re going to really like.

“Are there any hot guys in it?” you ask as the mass of people begins to thin the closer you get to your building.

“Hot… guys?” he blinks in confusion, his impossibly blue eyes flashing in the streetlamps that have just turned on.

“Yeah. Like that other one we read, Help, I, a lowly office worker, went to sleep and woke up as the Queen’s assassin in the book I fell asleep reading. The main guy in that was super hot.”

“Well, it is by the same mangaka, so you’d probably like the way they draw the main character in this one too,” he says uncertainly, but with a strange expression on his face, like he suddenly doesn’t want you to read it with him anymore.

“Okay, I’ll give it a try. Have you finished the first volume yet? Can I borrow it?”

You’ve reached your building, the trees surrounding the courtyard rustling in the soft end-of-summer breeze.

“…Great,” he says after a brief hesitation. He holds open one of the entrance's doors for you to enter the your building’s foyer. Your boots and his echo on the polished floor as you make your way into the lift. “I’ll be finished by tomorrow. How about we go the bookstore and afterwards you can come over and read since we have the day off? You can start volume one, and I’ll start volume 2. Does that sound good? We can make fancy ramen,” he says, his normally sleepy energy spiking with the idea of adding a boiled egg and some frozen vegetables to the normally plain ramen the two of you consume more often than not while on the go. Xavier’s idea of fancy has always been adorable to you.

The idea of not just sitting in your apartment alone on the first day of your forced leave is a welcome one, and you agree that he can come find you when he’s woken up, so that you don’t risk waking him up. He likes this plan, because obviously, you’re hardly sleeping at all, and he sleeps longer than you ever would have imagined possible for humans until you met him. As the elevator approaches your floor and the doors slide open, you’re about to step out when Xavier’s soft voice behind you has you turning to look back at his pretty face.

“It’s going to be okay,” he murmurs, eyes searching yours. “I know you feel like you’ve lost everything right now, and that the pain seems unbearable.”

You quickly turn your head—you were not expecting this sneak attack of sympathy and kindness from him. You nod jerkily, trying not to let his warmth sink into you, or else you might start crying.

“It sounds cliché, but with time, even this pain will fade. And you have so much time ahead of you. I can promise you that. One day you’ll wake up, and it will be slightly less unbearable. That doesn’t mean you forget about what you’ve lost. But you can think of it without… without feeling like you’re destroyed again, every time.” He’s looking at you, but you also have the feeling that he’s looking at something else, from a great distance. Knowing how secretive he is, it’s unlikely you’ll ever know what it is he’s seeing.

You nod again, and whatever he sees in you profile seems to satisfy him as he offers you a soft ‘Goodnight,’ and you scurry from the lift to your front door. You tuck away his words, and push them down deep. You know they’re well intended. But you can’t handle crying right now. Not yet. Not yet. So you focus on possible plans for the days stretching ahead of you.

There is a part of you that’s looking forward to possibly being able to rest, it’s true. But the stretch of empty days, without work and battle and the social interaction of colleagues, had been filling you with anxiety before your plans with Xavier were made. But even after tomorrow, you’ll try to make the best of it. You can… try to remember what hobbies you had, before your life blew up. Maybe you can take up a new hobby! Within the span of a few days. Yeah, you can teach yourself to crochet,or make stained glass art, in a day, right? Online videos are super helpful. Maybe you’ll even deep clean your apartment, and go grocery shopping, properly, for the first time in weeks. You’ll buy vegetables that have to be prepped instead of the hottest insta-ramen you can find and slurping packets of applesauce while telling yourself that it counts as fiber, right? You can cook, and bake! You just haven’t in… a really long time. Maybe you’ll bake an entire cake, and then eat the entire cake. Yeah. You have plans, you think to yourself, pressing your fingerprint to the scanner under your flat’s door handle and pushing the door open when it beeps.

As soon as the door closes with a soft whump, you carefully hang up your blades and pistol holsters on your wall-mounted weapon rack, and then you’re furiously undoing the laces on your knee high leather boots, hopping from one foot to the other as you try to kick them off without actually having to sit down and pull them off. You yank off your socks, then shimmy out of your pants, which you also kick off unceremoniously. You’re going to be positive about this little holiday! You’re so close to being comfortable and staying that way for days. You almost rip your buttons in your haste to remove your shirt, and just as you’ve gotten the last one undone, you finally notice the dark, looming figure in the shadows at the end of your foyer.

You’re in your fucking underpants, barefoot, and your weapons are out of reach due to your current strangulation by your own shirt sleeves.

Heart racing, you throw yourself backward against the door, prepared to make a strategic retreat and escape into the building’s hallway to buy yourself some time to free yourself from your shirt, no matter the cost to your pride at being caught out in your underwear, when familiar scarlet-ink tendrils of energy gently wrap themselves around your waist and softly lift you in the air. You find yourself kicking and squirming like a kitten picked up by the scruff of its neck.

“The fuck, Sylus?” you choke out.

“Why are you still struggling, when you can clearly see that it’s me? Cease, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

“Why are you using your evol on me without my consent?” you retort, wriggling some more for good measure simply because he told you to stop.

“To prevent you from giving your neighbors the show of their lives without even charging admission,” he responds languidly, eyes the color of sunlight filtering through a glass of wine drifting from your probably red, sweaty face down your barely clothed body.

“Oh, they don’t get a free show, but you do?” you sneer, continuing to struggle to no effect.

“Look at yourself,” Sylus commands, and turns his head as if bored. You note absently that he’s wearing a ruby stud earring in his ear... the one that matches the earring in your own ear. So you never bothered to take it out. That doesn’t mean anything—you’re just lazy. You refuse to think about it anymore deeply than that, and then notice that Sylus not only looks bored, but also looks almost… offended? You do as he asks, and see that his evol is wrapping itself around your body in such a way that its bright-dark tendrils are covering all of your exposed, sensitive areas like a fluid robe.

“Oh,” is all you can think to say.

“Oh, indeed.” He continues to look away from you, aggressively bored, but his evol gently lowers you enough so that your bare feet rest on the ground, and then it loosens, but remains swirling around you.

“Then I’ll… just go get dressed.” You begin making your past him, but stop when you see him nonchalantly hold up a large, elegant shopping bag. It’s black, with some brand name you don’t recognize written in flowy silver script. “What is this?” You look from the bag to his face. He deigns to look at you again. Your eyes drift to his other ear, and you see that where it is pierced is empty.

“Wardrobe options,” is all he says, jerking you out of trying to puzzle out this opaque maniac’s intentions. You take the bag from him and quickly walk to your bathroom. No way you’re going to put on new clothes while feeling filthy from a long day and night of annihilating wanderers. His evol dissipates the moment your bathroom door shuts behind you.

It’s becoming a pattern. Thinking the worst of him, only to be proven wrong. But you don’t know how to overcome the cognitive dissonance of Sylus from your first meeting, and this Sylus who seems intent on taking care of you better than you take care of yourself.

You rinse off as quickly as you can in the shower, towel yourself dry, and take a peek in the bag that he gave you. The first thing you see is a black…? You lift it out of the bag, and it unfolds into a very large sweater. It’s thick, the fabric obviously of high quality. You touch it gently, running your hands along a sleeve—is it cashmere? It’s unbelievably soft. It’s probably a nightmare to wash. On impulse, you lift it to your nose, and take a deep breath.

Your suspicion is confirmed. It smells like him. This isn’t a brand new piece of clothing. This is one of Sylus’s own sweaters that he has worn before. The scent of his clean skin, the sharp tang of gunmetal, the bright burst of citrus, probably from some ridiculously expensive shampoo or body wash. The mix sends a thrill through your entire body: after only a few encounters, you already have bone-deep associations with the way Sylus smells. Fear and adrenaline, yes, but also anticipation—and bizarrely, safety. Instead of feeling terrified, you feel the way you would before riding a roller coaster. Yes, you’ll be screaming and holding on for dear life the whole ride, but you are also inexplicably convinced that in the end, you’ll have your feet firmly planted on the ground, safe again. A part of you whispers that it’s safer to avoid the roller coaster altogether—bolts come loose, wheels pull free from the track, tragic accidents happen all the time. But standing here in your humid bathroom, bone-weary from the day behind you, sniffing Sylus’s unwashed sweater makes you feel more alive than you’ve felt in a very long time.

You pull his sweater over your head, and you’re basically swimming it, it’s so big. The collar is big enough that it threatens to fall off one shoulder. But it’s so soft. And cozy. You hug yourself, and peek into the bag again. There are a few more sweaters, each dark with varying degrees of dramatic flair. This is part of Sylus’s wardrobe, after all. But there are also little sleep shorts, like the ones you were wearing the last time he invaded your home. You pick up a pair—no way would they fit on his big ass. You try, so, so, so very hard not to picture his thick cake stuffed into these tiny shorts.

You fail.

Your brain short circuits for a few seconds.

When it comes back online, you lift out a pair, and the fabric glides silkily along your skin. You’re pretty sure these are silk. They’re black, because of course, but they also have little red … happy pomegranates? Dotted along the hems. They’re adorable. You pull them on over your own bare ass and the sweater-shorts combo is probably the softest thing you’ve ever had on your body. The sweater swallows the shorts and makes it look like you’re wandering around without bottoms on.

You look at yourself in the mirror, silently telling yourself that you shouldn’t get on this particular ride. You don’t know where the track leads, and it scares you. What if it ends over a cliff, and the last thing you ever see is Sylus’s triumphant, cruel face looking down at you as you fall? There are other, less risky rides, certainly ones without wanted posters, right? Right? On second thought, you don’t even have to go the amusement park at all. You’re just fine with trying to get some fucking sleep, with continuing to hone your combat skills, with just trying to be a good person despite really liking knives and being an enthusiastic hunter.

But maybe you can just. Be friends with the roller coaster? Like, you don’t have to ride him. IT. THE ROLLER COASTER. YOU DO NOT HAVE TO RIDE THE ROLLER COASTER. You can just, watch it from a safe distance. You might indulge in little fantasies about what it’s like to ride… the roller coaster. And honestly, fantasies are almost always a hell of a lot better than the reality ever turns out to be. Not to mention! Sylus has never directly expressed any desire to ride … your roller coaster. Sure, he shows up unannounced and cares for you in ways that no one ever has, and he touches you a lot for someone who has no physical interest in you, but physical isn’t necessarily sexual, right? Maybe it’s an evol thing, and the way he touches you has to do with why you both find yourself inexplicably connected for periods of time. Like charging a battery. The point is! There will be no tickets to either ride, thank you, you aren’t open for business and he definitely does not have the proper safety inspection certificates in order, so. No.

You nod firmly to yourself in the mirror. This should be fine. You can be friends with Sylus. You don’t have to let him drag you over a cliff. Maybe you can learn a thing or two from him—he seems to be pretty competent at a lot of things that might be useful for certain aspects of your job. Like intimidating people. And exploding people with a thought and twitch of his fingers. And convincing them to do things they don’t want to do by sheer force of obnoxiousness.

Having sufficiently deluded yourself into believing that your plan of action has a chance of success, you slip out of the bathroom and find Sylus in the kitchen, next to a pretty wine glass that you certainly do not recall owning on the kitchen island.

He’s slicing strawberries with a very sharp knife that you do recall owning, because you do spend quite a lot of time sharpening the set it belongs to. They’re not kitchen knives, per se; you actually have them for work and they are really nice to throw. You already had so many knives before you moved into this place that you didn’t see the necessity of spending more money on probably inferior kitchen knives. But the large, really nice butcher block-style cutting board that he’s chopping the fruit on is not yours. And neither are the delicately arranged variety of cheeses, thinly sliced meat, and savory tarts set in puff pastry that fill up most of the cutting board. And lastly, you do not recall purchasing two bottles of what look like red wine sitting next to the wine glass, nor cleaning your kitchen so thoroughly that Zayne could probably perform surgery in here without worrying about risk of infection.

Despite your presence standing at the island before him now, he continues to serenely slice the ever-growing pile of fruit.

“Sylus?”

“Have a seat,” he says, not looking up.

“Oh, why thank you for offering such hospitality to me, in my own home,” you mutter, pulling out one of the wooden bar stools at the kitchen island. You’re about to sit down when you realize that the repetitive chop of the knife has stopped, and you look up to find Sylus frozen with the knife mid-slice in a fat strawberry. His eyes drift from your neck and exposed shoulder, down the soft expanse of sweater, to your bare legs, and then back again. You’re suddenly self-conscious—he’s the one who gave you these clothes. And now he’s staring at you like a wanderer is about to burst out of your chest.

“Did I misunderstand the assignment or something?” you ask, plopping down on the bar stool in the hopes of breaking him out of whatever weird trance he’s apparently glitching in. He swallows, flicks a final look at your shoulder, and then goes back to slicing.

“I’m simply shocked that you actually did as you were told, for once,” he responds, seemingly unruffled again. “You should also put one of the sweaters in your go bag as a backup in the event that your uniform gets destroyed, again, which it does at an alarming rate these days. The Association’s overheads for keeping you clothed must be in the stratosphere.”

“Mm, yes I’m sure you’re very concerned about the costs of doing business for the Association.” You rest your head in your hand, propped up by your elbow on the counter. The two of you sit in companionable silence for a while, with only the snick of the knife filling the space between you. The lights underneath your cabinets are on, emitting a soft warm glow from below, but you notice that he hasn’t put on the harsher, brighter overhead lights. The city’s skyline blinks serenely like an endless fleet of starships in the dark expanse of space through your windows, and a cool breeze wafts in from time to time.

Finally, Sylus is done, and he carefully rinses the knife in the sink and sets it on the counter. He turns back to you.

“No interrogation regarding why I’m here this time?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest. He’s wearing a light sweater in a deep grey, of a style quite similar to the one you’re now wearing. He looks domestic, and delicious, and you tell yourself sternly that he is friend shaped, you will not ride the Sylus roller coaster, you will not ride the Sylus roller coaster—

You have to say something. “Oh, are you missing my very effective questioning techniques? Sadly, I left my handcuffs at the office,” you lift your shoulders in a what can you do? gesture, and his eyes follow your bare shoulder again.

“Handcuffs aren’t the only means of restraint available to a truly resourceful hunter,” he says, shaking his head as if disappointed.  “Your lack of imagination is boring.”

“Okay, Sylus. But only because you’re basically begging for it: why are you here?”  You lift a puff pastry and brandish it at him like a knife. “Answer honestly, or you’ll really get it this time!” You take a big, aggressive bite as if to illustrate what he’s got coming to him in case of his non-compliance, and then moan because what the fuck, this is so good, is it goat cheese and honey? And suddenly you’re devouring it, licking your fingers clean when you’re done because you can’t get enough.

“This definitely counts as an enhanced interrogation technique.” His voice is low, and has a rough quality to it that normally isn’t there. You glance up from slobbering all over your fingers and find that he’s staring at you in what is probably disgust.

“Ha, yes, and I’ll keep subjecting you to it until you tell me what you’re doing in my home, again. And how did you even get in? I never got you a key.” You finish licking yourself like an animal and reach for a strawberry. If he’s going to play chef in your kitchen, who are you to refuse to enjoy the literal fruits of his labor? You just live here and pay the damn rent.

He holds up the index finger of his right hand, which is sporting a band-aid that you recognize as one of the same kind you have in your first-aid kit. They’re super cute, with a design of sad little cartoon mushrooms. “I was at my accountant’s, which happens to be in this neighborhood, and I got a paper cut while signing some documents.”

You pause before biting into the berry. “You… came to my flat. With extra clothing, wine, wine glasses, and various appetizers, in order to get a band-aid for your paper cut. Is this a correct summary of events?” You decide you’re not going to wait for him to answer, and take a big bite of the strawberry, feeling some juice drip down your chin. You catch it with your index finger, and then suck the juice off after you’re done chewing.

There is a long pause, and you look up to find him staring intently at your finger. You widen your eyes and wave your hand in the universal gesture of hurry the fuck up, get on with it already? He closes his eyes for a moment and breathes deeply. Apparently you’re so horrifying to witness eating that he needs to seek some zen before he can answer. It’s not your fault that he brought you half of his wardrobe and wine glasses but didn’t think to bring any napkins. “Yes, that is a correct summary of events,” is all he offers.

You look at him.

He looks back at you, occasionally flicking his gaze down to your mouth and back to your eyes. You consider baring your teeth at him just in case he wants an eyeful of the strawberry undoubtedly stuck in them, but refrain because you’re polite.

“Okay. Do you care to explain the motivation behind these events?” you ask slowly, thinking that maybe you will brandish a real knife at him to hurry up this so-called interrogation so you can straight up devour the rest of this charcuterie board that this wanted criminal has inexplicably prepared in your kitchen.

Fortunately, you don’t have to go for the knife, because he begins to speak. “There was a wine merchant that looked rather appealing on the way to your place. Since you revealed a deplorable lack of discernment when it comes to selecting a good bottle of wine the last time you hosted me, I thought I’d do my civic duty for the week and educate the less fortunate on how to choose, and enjoy, a decent bottle of wine.”

“I see.” You nod slowly. “That’s very civic-minded of you. You’re truly a model citizen. And the food?”

“It’s not wise to have a wine tasting without something to eat. Otherwise, you might find yourself making questionable decisions. We wouldn’t want that, would we, sweetie?” he seems to have recovered from his nausea at watching you wolf down food, because he says this with a playful lift of a silver eyebrow.

“Because letting a man whose baggage includes a wanted poster into my home whenever he wants could hardly be considered a good decision, and I made that one while sober,” you sigh. “I see your point.”

“Exactly. Just imagine what kind of trouble you could get into after a bottle of wine on an empty stomach?” He tilts his head to the side, and runs a middle finger slowly over his brow.

You shudder, because his big hands. You can’t pursue this line of thought.

“And the clothes?”

“Now you won’t need to borrow your partner’s clothes in case of an emergency. And I’ll have something to wear at my safe house in case you decide to assault me with beverages again.”

“That was one time. And if you don’t show up, then there’s no chance you’ll be assaulted. Therefore, no need for a change of clothes. And, pardon me, but your safe house? I think you meant, my flat. But what you’re telling me is that the whole reason you were coming to my flat in the first place was to put a band-aid on your boo-boo.”

He lowers his hand and begins running his thumb along his lower lip. “Even a small cut can turn life-threatening if not treated properly. And I wouldn’t want a scar, now would I? It’s not much of a safe house if I can’t make use of it when in danger of lasting bodily harm.”

“Mmm yes, what with your evol that renders scarring impossible for you, we wouldn’t want your paper cut to cause you lasting bodily harm. And you couldn’t acquire a band-aid at a pharmacy, perhaps like at the one next to the wine merchant I’m pretty sure you’re referring to?” You refuse to look at his big thumb pressing into his thick, soft-looking lower lip. You stare up at the ceiling, and consider cataloguing wanderers in your head to stem the sudden urge to vault over the island counter separating him from you and pulling that damn thumb into your own mouth.

“They didn’t have a box containing such cute little designs. I never knew I wanted anthropomorphized fungus to decorate a bandage intended to protect an open wound until I saw your own box.”

It takes you a second to remember what the hell the two of your were discussing when you realize he’s talking about your adorable little mushroom band-aids.

“A wine snob, and a band-aid snob.”

“I prefer the term cultured, but yes, I’ve told you before. Life is too short to waste on the inferior. Your sad little champignons surpass all others.”

He’s done it again. He has hardly even moved this entire time, and has managed to exhaust you to the point of blissful indifference. He shows up unannounced, rifles through your first aid kit, decides what you’re going to wear both this evening and in the future when you need a spare change of clothes, and has prepared an hors d’oeuvre spread worthy of at least a mid-ranged restaurant for you to eat while offering you a wine tasting? Fine. “Okay,” you say, reaching for another one of those puff pastries.

He watches you steadily for a few moments, as if trying to sense a trap. “That’s it?”

You shrug. “Sure. I told you that you could use my house if you needed it. I’ve just learned my lesson: next time I’ll be very careful in drafting the conditions of any deal we make, since your interpretation of certain terms appears to vary wildly from any reasonable person’s.”

“I think I’m quite reasonable,” he examines his nails. “I come bearing gifts, and this is how you show your gratitude? By insinuating that I'm unreasonable?”

Another thought occurs to you. “How did you even get in, Sylus?”

“Ah,” he says, squinting and looking out the window, as if contemplating a very deep philosophical question. “While you were sleeping last time… I took the liberty of adding my fingerprint to your door’s fingerprint scanner.”

What. The. Fuck. “What. The. Fuck.”

“Again, it’s not much of a safe house if I can’t access it without your presence. I didn’t think you’d mind. It’s not like I can’t just use my evol to teleport into your place anyway, but I thought you’d appreciate me coming through the front door. Fewer feathers. You didn’t seem to like cleaning those up the last time I teleported out of your place.”

You just stare at him. How would he even know that you cursed him, loudly, as you were mopping up the mess of blood and feathers he generously left in your entryway after being shot? And then it comes to you. Mephisto. Of course. You pinch the bridge of your nose, and visualize violently shaking that bird until his circuits are rewired.

Sylus continues, ignoring your mounting rage. “Come to think of it, we should probably upgrade your locks, kitten. It was laughably easy to override the system and add my print as authorized for entry.”

Forget riding the Sylus coaster—you think that maybe he isn’t even friend shaped after all. He might just have slid right back to enemy shaped. Frenemy shaped? Where does a frenemy lie on the spectrum of “fuck his brains out” to “polite, but distant acquaintances?” But then you remember that it’s not a linear spectrum, and fucking his brains out is not mutually exclusively to being mortal enemies. You’ve read enough enemies-to-lovers romances to know that perfectly well, so even if he is enemy shaped… you shudder. Why are you like this? You redirect your self-disgust and deflect, like a true emotionally well-adjusted adult:

“Why can’t you be normal? Like, do you do anything like a normal person?”

“Why would I pretend to be normal when I’m so obviously extraordinary?” he scoffs, looking at you like you’re the unhinged one in this little situationship.

 “Sylus.”

“Yes, my heart’s delight?”

You stare at him, and he gazes back at you, leaning leisurely back against your counter, arms folded and long fingers slowly tapping out a rhythm on one bulky bicep. You know that if you remove his authorization on your locks that he will just teleport himself right into your place, and you’ll be endlessly cleaning up feathers. And you also really don’t want your neighbors to wonder who the hell the creep is loitering around your door at all hours of the night and then start asking questions if he actually honors your request not to simply appear in your place on a whim. You did previously offer him a key. Which he declined. Apparently because he was already planning this. You run your hand along the back of your neck in an effort to relieve some tension. “You can’t just let yourself into my place anytime you want. There need to be rules.”

“Fair enough. Provided that they’re not moronic, I can follow your rules.”

“And who decides whether they’re moronic or not?” you ask, knowing the answer.

He just smiles at you, radiating satisfaction.

“Okay. Rule number one—” you begin, only to be interrupted as he lifts a finger.

“I’ll follow your rules, if you promise to taste the wine I brought with me tonight.”

Even though you had already resigned yourself to whatever he had in store for you tonight, you can’t help arguing at this little added condition. “No, the deal is, you can use my flat, with your fingerprint, when you need it, if you follow the rules,” you huff.

He starts shaking his head. “I’m afraid not, kitten. You should have set rules at the beginning of our deal. You can’t just impose new conditions halfway through. A deal’s a deal. I suggest keeping that in mind the next time you have to deal with anyone else less… generous, than myself,” he intones, as if you’re a somewhat lacking student in need of instruction.

“So you’ll follow the rules if I promise to… taste wine tonight?” you ask, hoping that you can catch him out on a technicality and beat him at his own game. He considers for a moment, but must see something in your expression, because his eyes narrow and his smile widens to reveal his sharp canines.

“I’ll follow your reasonable, and not moronic, rules if you promise to taste the wine I brought tonight, with me,” he says.

You need to work on your poker face. You need to get Sylus to teach you how to improve it. Ugh.

“Fine.” If this means more food can happen soon, and honestly, yeah, a glass of wine, you’ll accept anything at this point.

He straightens from the counter and claps his hands once, looking more eager than you think you’ve ever seen him. “Excellent, let’s begin.”

“You didn’t even wait to hear what the rules are,” you protest, watching him fish out a wine corkscrew from his trouser pocket. It looks heavy, with a handsome wooden handle, and the stainless steel flashes under the soft lights.

“Send them in a text, I’ll redline them and return them to you, you can counter, and so on and so forth until we have an agreement. Like any proper contract negotiation. For now, it’s wine time.”

And with that, he sets to work opening the wine, humming a little tune so off-key that you have no idea what melody it’s supposed to be. It occurs to you that you’ve never used a corkscrew as a weapon, but as Sylus uses the small blade to slice through the foil covering the neck of the bottle, and then unfolds the lethal-looking twisted screw and begins expertly driving it into the cork, you realize that it could come in really handy in a fight. And there’s something else that’s really appealing to you—the combination of the contained savagery of the corkscrew, the assured movements of Sylus’s hands, the penetration of the cork—you feel a warmth spreading through you that has nothing to do with the sweater you’re wearing.

“See something you like, kitten?” Sylus’s smoky voice drifts into your thoughts, and you look up, realizing you’ve been unabashedly staring at his beautiful hands, again, and the corkscrew, with undivided focus for the past few moments, and he has noticed.

You clear your throat, and then gesture weakly at the corkscrew. “That’s uh, a very nice looking wine opener.” You nod to emphasize your very normal approval of this very normal household item, because you are not thinking any thoughts about Sylus’s huge hands or screwing or penetration. None.

“Good eye. I’m rather fond of this model. I’ll have one delivered to you,” he says as he firmly pulls the cork from the bottle with a soft pop. He sets it on the counter, and picks up the other bottle.

“Oh, that’s not necessary. I’m sure it didn’t escape your notice that the kind of wine I drink tends to come with a screw cap instead of a cork,” you decline, shaking your head. You can buy your own damn self a corkscrew for tucking into your pocket if you ever find yourself at a wine bar that doesn’t allow patrons to be armed, but you anticipate needing some kind of weapon.

“Refuse me all you want,” he murmurs, and you feel like there’s an implied part of that sentence that he’s just not saying out loud. But then he’s repeating the opening process with the second bottle, and you suddenly find the night view outside your window immensely fascinating, because whatever is continuing to happen in front of you is just. Boring. Utterly sleep-inducing. You can’t look or else you might just pass out from the tedium of it before you even get to taste the wine. And a deal’s a deal, as Sylus is fond of repeating ad nauseum.

After hearing the soft pop of the other bottle, you sigh and turn back to find Sylus holding the wine glass and pouring the first bottle’s wine along the inside of the glass until it reaches the widest part of the bowl. For the first time, you notice that there’s only one glass on the counter. But before you can comment, Sylus begins to lecture.

“Now, if this were an ideal tasting, I’d have brought a decanter to let the wine breathe properly for an appropriate period of time before pouring. We'd also be using a container for spitting each mouthful out in between tastes, to avoid the intoxication and poor decisions I mentioned earlier and interfering with our judge of taste. But since we only have two bottles to try, and it’s just you and me here, I took the gamble that you wouldn’t mind if we were a little less formal.”  

You wait to see if he has any other fun facts to share, but he’s looking at you to confirm that indeed, you can live with not waiting even longer to taste this wine that better have gold leaf flakes in it or something to justify this amount of ceremony and can also live with not… spitting out said wonder wine after tasting it.

But you recognize that Sylus appears to be truly passionate about this, and he’s looking at you so earnestly—you do not have the heart to meet his sincerity with sarcasm, when he's so sweetly trying to teach you something new.

“Your gamble paid off. I don’t mind at all,”  you say, meaning it. He perks up and gives you one of his almost smiles, with just the corners of his generous mouth lifted. He then proceeds to explain, in great detail, what type of wine this is, where the grapes for it are grown, its signature characteristics, what year it was bottled, and how it was received by the international wine community. It’s all actually quite interesting, except once again, right now you’re at the end of a long day, you’ve run the gauntlet of interacting with this unpredictable force of nature walking around in the body of an extremely attractive man, and you feel like you should be taking notes to actually retain any of this information.

After he seems to have informed you to his satisfaction and is looking at you expectantly, you nod. “That is… very fascinating. So how do we go about actually tasting it?” You might be an uncultured heathen, but even before Sylus’s lecture, you knew there are rules when it comes to tasting wine. You just always had other things you needed to learn first, like the weakest spots on a wanderer or human body. Or the best method of sharpening knives for the sharpest edge. Or how to clean guns to prevent jamming. How to affix a scope on a sniper rifle and measure the effect of wind speed and direction on a bullet’s trajectory. Or whether you should use baking soda or baking powder as leavener when baking certain kinds of cake. You have priorities. But tonight, it seems, is the night for you to learn about wine.

Before he answers, he moves around the kitchen island to where you’re still seated on the bar stool and leans down, gently spinning your stool so that you’re facing him instead of the counter. He then pushes the one next to you closer and seats himself. Even sitting, you have to look up into his face. You suddenly realize that the way he has positioned the stools puts him so close to you that his long legs don’t have anywhere to go—he just spreads them so that one is stretched out on one side of you, and the other is between your own, his knee incredibly close to your lap. If you shift forward even a little, you could grind on him.

Why is he doing this to you? What does he want? But then it occurs to you that Sylus has never seemed to either recognize or respect boundaries like a normal person—maybe this is just how he interacts with his friends. Constant, small touches, no sense of personal space. You wonder if he and the twins huddle together on the couch, sharing a blanket, while watching something on television.

So maybe you’re the freak, imagining riding this poor guy’s meaty thigh when he’s only just trying to share his appreciation of a sophisticated beverage with you. You close your eyes. It doesn’t matter whether he’s playing this little game on purpose or not. You refuse to let him see how much his proximity is affecting you, because then he wins. You don’t know what he wins exactly, but you will beat him before you let him have it. You try to think about his big hand choking you, but instead of having the intended effect of reminding you why you should never even consider buying tickets to the safety hazard now wedged between your thighs, it has … unforeseen consequences instead. What has this man done to you?!

You open your eyes, reach across the counter and grab a handful of carefully cut pieces of cheese, and then promptly stuff them all into your mouth at once. When in crisis, cheese is always a good solution. Except for maybe the blue cheese you accidentally mixed in with the Manchego or whatever-the-fancy-fuck he brought with him. Aaaand now you’re going to smell like blue cheese for the rest of the night.

You stare at him defiantly as you chew with puffed cheeks, and brace yourself for whatever is coming next. He side eyes you, face impassive.

You’re expecting some biting comment, but “Well, that’s one way to make sure you’ve eaten enough to absorb the alcohol,” is all he says. He slowly slides the glass with two fingers along the base across the counter until it’s sitting between the two of you. “Whenever you manage to finish inhaling all that dairy, we’ll be sure that we’ve given the wine enough time to breathe.” He pauses. “It occurs to me now that while I was preparing the food, I didn’t think to ask if you’re lactose intolerant.”

You deliberately chew as slowly as you can, making him wait as a punishment for making you feel things that you should not be feeling. When you’ve swallowed, you shake your head. “Fortunately, not one of my many flaws.”

“It’s not a flaw.” He shrugs. “How can anything you can’t control about your body be a flaw? And Luke and Kieran are lactose intolerant, so I always have lactase enzyme tablets on me to avoid… unwanted consequences when they decide to have a cheese tasting contest.”

You cock your head. “A what now?”

 He rubs his middle finger between his eyebrows. “Yeah, they can’t help themselves from making a competition out of every single human activity, so on the nights the chef prepares a cheese board with dinner, they try to outmatch each other regarding who can identify the most flavors of cheeses without cheating by asking the chef or querying Mephisto or searching online. Or asking me, because I’m undefeated.”

You stare at him, and think if there’s ever any universe in which you voluntarily return to the base where Sylus kept you captive for days and touched you like he owned you, hand violently clasped in his, where you were terrified for your life, exhausted and confused… and if you ever have a friendly enough relationship with the chaos twins, you’re going to practice your ass off so that if you’re ever invited to such a competition, you can wipe the floor with them. Their cheese-off sounds fun.

Your train of thought is derailed as it registers how smug the last thing he said was. “You’re undefeated,” you repeat, giving him a chance to redeem himself. “At identifying cheeses by taste.”

“And smell, yes. So I’m not allowed to play anymore. My palate is too refined, and they know they don’t stand a chance.”

Oh, you’re definitely going to start sampling cheese every week. You cannot let this smugness stand.

“Ah yes, his royal snobness and his impeachable palate,” you roll your eyes. “Now, will his grace the Duke of Gouda please get on with the wine instruction?” You would give him a little mock bow, but that would put your face right in his formidable cleavage and you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself from motorboating his unfairly huge pecs. Ugh.

He snorts. “Finally, you’re showing me some long-overdue respect.”

You nod gravely, thankful that the aether core in his eye is not currently delving the depths of your depravity. It’s time to focus. On wine.

“So why do you have to let wine breathe before drinking it?” you ask, because you’re focused.

He looks pleased that you’re interested enough to ask a question. “Much like people, it’s good to expose a greater surface area of the wine to fresh air for a while—it allows undesirable scents and flavors to dissipate, so that it tastes better when you do take a sip than if you drink it straight after opening.”

“Well aren’t you wise, philosophizing about wine and people,” you smile. You find yourself being surprised again and again tonight—at his presence, his bearing gifts, his surprisingly sweet attempt to teach you something, his kind takes on lactose intolerance and what people need to be healthy.

“Did you think I only consist of feathers and spite?” He lifts the wine glass by the stem with one hand, and your hand in his other. He gently wraps your fingers around his own.

“Let’s not forget hubris and violence.” You watch as he gently swirls the wine in the glass held between you. His hand is so warm compared to your own.

“If that’s all, then you still have a lot to learn about me,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t seem offended. Almost as if he’s simply determined. To do what, you’re not sure. “I’d tell you that you should always hold a wine glass by the stem so that the heat from your hand doesn’t affect the temperature of the wine through the glass itself. But your hands are so cold—I don’t think that would be a problem for you. But if you want people to think you’re a connoisseur, you should anyway if you’re ever on an undercover mission. Now, before you take a sip, inhale the scent we’ve just released by swirling the wine.”

You do as you’re told, and lean over, hovering just over the edge of the glass and taking a deep breath. The scent of the wine, warm and deep, fills your senses.

You look up at him and smile again. “It smells really good.”

“Of course,” he lifts the bottom of the glass with his free hand so that you can straighten, and guides your other hand to support the glass while slipping his own from around the stem and allowing you to hold it by yourself. Your hand immediately feels cold again. He leans one elbow on the counter, “I chose it for you. I’m not going to let you drink plonk.”

“Plonk?” What a cute word.

“Shit wine.”

“Mmm, not allowing me to drink shit wine, you’re truly a knight in shining armor.”

“I don’t need armor, kitten. Now that you’ve established that the wine hasn’t gone off by smelling it, you can take a sip.”

You’re about to lift the glass to your lips, when he reaches up and runs his fingertips along your wrist to stop you. “As you do, don’t swallow immediately. Roll the wine with your tongue in your mouth, and try to really think about what flavors you can taste: can you detect the oak from the barrels, earth, tannin, fruit or spices? Is it sweet or dry?”

You nod, mouth suddenly dry. But you follow his instructions and take a slow sip, rolling the rich liquid around in your mouth, and then slowly swallow. A familiar warmth spreads from your stomach, radiating out through your body. His blood bright eyes follow the movement of your lips, your throat. “I taste… fruit.” You pause, trying to appear very serious about finding the perfect description of flavor. You take another sip, close your eyes. “Yes, very fruity notes. Grapes, in particular.”

You open your eyes to find him scowling at you.

“Aren’t you the comedian?” he growls. “I’m going to revoke your wine privileges if you don’t take this seriously. How are you going to feel confident if you ever need this knowledge on a mission? Or on a date?”

You just laugh at him and try to turn a little on the stool, lifting your arm to keep the glass out of his reach, but his knee between your legs prevents you from moving, and he easily leans forward, fingers drifting up the length of your arm to then wrap around your own hand on the stem. He carefully pulls it back between the two of you. Your hand feels warm again. Safely wrapped in his.

“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned my needing to know how to pass as a wine snob on a mission. What kind of missions do you think I’m regularly going on?” You gently lift the glass again, pulling his hand with you, and take another sip. It really does taste so good. You can’t tell if it’s wildly different than the wine you normally get, but you know it doesn’t taste like it’ll leave you with a headache in the morning.

He shrugs. “If we didn’t have to bring the place down when we were at the auction, people would have been watching you at the dinner banquet. What would you have done if people started to notice that you were clutching the wine and swigging it like a drunken toddler and started to suspect that your behavior wasn't matching your cover identity?”

You gasp. “Excuse me, you don’t know how I normally drink my wine!” Who does this bastard think he is? And here you were, thinking he was sweet, sincerely trying to share one of his interests with you. “I don’t need you patronizing me regarding how I’d manage at a formal event or on a date! I’ve been on plenty of dates where I was able to drink wine without driving off my partner.” You try to pull away from him, and the wine sloshes dangerously with your movement.

“Sit still,” he commands, holding your hand tight with his and placing one large palm on your bare thigh. You immediately freeze. “I watched you gulp wine from a mug the last time I was here,” he retorts.

“So you think that just because I don’t care what you think, I can’t read the room and act according to the demands of the situation?” The indignation coursing through you is amplified by the wine spreading through you.

“Then is it fair to say that you didn’t feel the need for any pretense between us last time because you’re so comfortable with me, and not because you’re as civilized as a cactus?” he asks, running his thumb gently back and forth along your inner thigh.

Your brain is being scrambled by his thumb, how close he is to you, his clavicle exposed by the V of his sweater’s neckline, the scent of his warm, clean skin, the wine going to your head after a long exhausting day.

“I’m saying I don’t feel the need to impress you in my own home when you show up uninvited and demand beverages and band aids,” you finally manage. You’re warm. Too warm. “And what’s wrong with being a cactus?”

“Did I say there was something wrong with it? Cacti can survive the harshest conditions on earth and still produce the most beautiful flowers. And they hurt when they stab you.” He smiles like the thought pleases him immensely.

You can’t process this. He says shit like this so easily—he can’t possibly mean it in the way you are trying so hard to deny that you want him to mean it. You refuse to be lured in, only to see the cruel lines of his face when he realizes you have pathetic feelings for him. The man who could as easily rip your spine from your ribcage as offer you a glass of wine, if you lose your usefulness to him. A usefulness you still don’t know the nature of.

You’re suddenly viciously aware of how close he is to you, how he is watching your face with an intensity that makes you feel like the use of his aether core is unnecessary: you’re afraid that he can see everything you’re feeling, and you hate it. You need space. “What are we even doing, Sylus?”

His eyes drift from your eyes to your mouth, and you try very hard to steel your expression, to conceal how utterly raw and exposed he’s making you feel. You can’t tell if you’re successful, when he finally lifts his hand from your thigh and runs the back of his knuckles with such softness along your cheek that it makes you ache. You resist the urge to turn your face and nuzzle his palm.

“We’re tasting wine, sweetheart.” He leans back, pulling the glass of wine you’re still holding with him. He inhales deeply, and then takes a sip, eyes glittering over the rim, watching you. “It is a good vintage. But it’s not the only one I brought.” He guides your joined hands to set the glass on the counter, and then gets up, rounding the counter to rummage in a bag on the floor on the other side. When he stands up, he’s holding another wine glass.

You do a double take. “You brought two glasses?”

He looks from you to the glass in his hand, then back to the glass still on the counter, and then lifts his eyebrows. “Is this a trick question?”

“Why haven’t we been drinking about of separate glasses then?” you demand.

He shrugs. “That glass is for that bottle,” he nods to the glass sitting next to you. “This glass is for this bottle.” He gestures at the other, untasted bottle sitting on the counter. “No need to rinse our glasses in between tastes.”

You want to laugh, and cry. You’re so fucking done with thinking for tonight.

“Okay, Sylus. Whatever you say,” you sigh.

“Oh, I quite like the sound of that,” he smiles, one canine peeking over his lip. “Then you’re going to enjoy the sorbet I brought for us as a palate cleanser.”

He proceeds to go to your freezer, scoop out some of the aforementioned sorbet that has apparently been in there all evening into a bowl, and takes the stool next to you again. This time, he situates one long leg on either side of you, caging you in. He takes a spoonful and offers it to you. “This will help rinse your palate so that you can taste the next bottle without any lingering effects of the other.”

You look from his seemingly guileless face to the spoonful of sorbet. Yup, you’re really done thinking for tonight. You lean forward and open your lips. He slips the lemon sorbet into your mouth. His eyes remain on your lips as he pulls the spoon away, dips it back into the sorbet, and brings it to his own mouth.

After he continues to trade spoonfuls with you until the sorbet is gone, he pours the second glass of wine, and you both take turns sipping it in companionable silence.

“Now tell me. Which one is your favorite?” he asks after you’ve finished the second glass, and return to the first to finish it as well.

“I like them both,” you shrug. “Sorry for not having a more sophisticated answer.” You’re feeling drowsy and loose. He can walk off a tall building for all you care if he doesn’t like your answer.

“They’re both excellent wines. Each one is suited for multiple situations or meal combinations. They’re versatile, just like you are. And I don’t require any particular answer, except your honest one. I think you already know that you don’t need to put on an act for me, ever.”

You rest your elbow on the counter, mirroring his position, and rest your head in your hand. “Why would I pretend with you, if you can just force the truth out of me?”

“I will never do that to you.”

You look away. “You’ve already done it to me once before. What else is there to hide, when you’ve seen the ugliest parts of me?”

“I will not do it again. Not unless you ask me to,” he says so solemnly that you’re tempted to be a fool and believe him. “And is that what you think? That what I saw was ugly?”

You sit up, take the glass from him and knock back the rest of the wine in one gulp. You can't do this right now. You can't think about the the violent hunger, the savage thirst, that his eye brought from the depths of your soul when he forced his way into your deepest, darkest desires the night you met. The extent of how much you wanted to kill him, and make it hurt, when you thought he had killed Caleb and your grandmother. How you still feel that hunger and rage, with every wanderer you kill, every time you hope some dealer in modified protocores resists arrest so you can put them down, with prejudice.

“I’m tired, Sylus. Thank you for the lesson. Now I can successfully fool rich assholes at upscale dens of corruption and unsuspecting dates into believing that I’m a sophisticated connoisseur of overpriced beverages, and swindle them all. And I’ll never horrify you again by swigging wine out of a mug like a drunken toddler. You should invoice the Association for your services. In the meantime, I’m going to try to get some sleep.”

“I see. You’re still on guard, and defensive, when you're drunk too. How fascinating.” He narrows his eyes, not seeming to get the hint that you want him to leave now.

“I’m not drunk. I’m maybe tipsy, and I’m fucking tired. I’m going to bed.”

“All right,” he says easily. He stands and begins tidying up the counter.

“All right,” you repeat, feeling a little dizzy, a little empty. “You know where the door is.”

“As you say,” he says serenely, pulling out food storage containers you also didn’t realize you own and packing the food away.

“Thanks again,” you say, because you are polite, dammit. You make your way into the bathroom and begin getting ready for bed. When you emerge, your flat is dark. The kitchen looks pristine in the streetlight drifting in through the windows. You stare for a moment longer, wondering if maybe he’s finally given up on whatever his agenda with you is after your little emotional display tonight, and he’ll stop coming by now. You’re fine with that. Maybe this is what you’ve needed to do all along. Get drunk and sloppy. Guarded, defensive, he called you. What an asshole.

You pad into the bedroom, yawning, pulling up your phone to look at it as you walk. Maybe you should try listening to audiobooks to try to help with the insomnia. Like, boring ones with deep, sexy voiced narrators who can bore you to sleep like Sylus did the other night. You crawl onto the bed, and then—

“The fuck, Sylus?”

He’s sitting in the middle of your bed, sweater off and replaced by… nothing. Just the expanse of his big, creamy chest. And he’s wearing a pair of silky looking loose, black pyjama pants. An impossibly soft looking line of silver hair drifts from his tight navel, disappearing under his waistband. His gold-rimmed glasses are perched on his nose, like last time, and he’s scrolling through something on his tablet. He glances up at you, but then goes back to his… spreadsheets?

“Haven’t we already been through that little routine tonight?” he asks, and yawns. “I’m getting déjà vu.”

“What. Are. You. Doing?” you seethe.

“Going over the financials from the meeting with my accountant today.”

“Why?” You just sit there on your knees, on your bed, gaping at him like an idiot.

“To ensure that my next acquisition is suited to purpose.”

“What?”

His gaze flicks to you, and he pushes the glasses further up his nose. “Well, I made a promise that I wouldn’t change a thing about my latest business venture, so now I need to ensure that the next chain of businesses I acquire can serve one of the functions I had intended for the arcades.”

“What function is that?” you ask, curious now, despite yourself.

“Well, one of two primary functions,” he amends, tapping his temple thoughtfully with a finger.

“Okay,” you say slowly, inviting him to continue.

“Money laundering.”

You shake your head. “Come again?”

“Oh, I’ll be happy to. Thank you for the invitation. I wasn’t sure I’d ever receive one again, what with your heavily implied dismissal earlier.”

“Sylus!”

“Yes, my most precious gem?”

“What do you mean you intended to use the arcades for money laundering?” You want to cry even thinking about it.

“To be fair, after you asked me so sweetly not to change a thing, I immediately agreed. You don’t have to worry about that.”

“But that’s why you wanted to buy them?” How many times can a heart hurt in one night?

“I said that was one of the two primary reasons I wanted those arcades,” he says, reaching out with one hand and softly stroking your knee.

You look down, watching his calloused fingers drifting so sweetly across your skin. How can this man be so cruel and so gentle at the same time?

“What was the other reason, then?”

“Guess.”

“I’m done playing games with you tonight, Sylus.”

“When was I playing a game tonight?”

“Fine, don’t tell me. Just promise again that you won’t change anything about my favorite arcade.”

He sets the tablet on his lap, and reaches over to grasp your hand. He links your pinkie with his, and lifts it to his lips. “I already promised. And I promise again.” He seals the promise with a brush of his lips, and then rests both of your hands on the bed between you.

You don’t know why, and you will probably never know why, but you believe him right now. It’s clear that no matter what you do, he will not be leaving tonight without great violence on your part, and once again, you’re just too tired to fight him anymore. He reads your body like a damn book, because he silently hands you the glass of water that was sitting next to him on the nightstand. "Even if you're not drunk, but only maybe just a little tipsy," he says, doing an awful imitation of your voice. "You should still drink some water so you don't feel terrible in the morning."

Perhaps because of your easy compliance with his reasonable advice by simply taking the water and drinking it, he seems to deem it safe to pull you into his side. You go down, resting your head on his thick shoulder, and let your gaze wander over his tablet.

“So what are you thinking of buying this time?” you ask, yawning.

 He shifts, lifting your head so that he can wrap his arm around you, repositioning you so that you’re tucked a little closer under his chin, cheek resting against his chest. “A chain of casinos.”

“Casinos?” you laugh softly. “That’s on brand, I guess.”

“Mmhmm.” He runs his fingertips absently along your arm, from wrist to elbow and back again. “Lots of money changing hands. Ideal for functioning as a washing machine for the dirty proceeds from the weapons business, which comes out clean in the pockets of lucky winners.”

“You make your living profiting off the worst in people, you know that?” you ask sleepily, the numbers on the screen blurring.

“They’ll continue being terrible, with or without my involvement. I don’t make them take the bet, or pull the trigger. And if I don't, someone else will put the chip or gun in their hands. Might as well be me collecting the paycheck.”

“Maybe, through the power of friendship, I can change your mind,” you murmur. You don’t think you’ll need that audiobook to fall asleep tonight.

“Friendship, huh?” Sylus asks, but when he looks down at you, he sees that you’ve already fallen asleep. He traces the long sweep of your eyelashes across your cheeks with his eyes, feels your measured, calm breath drifting across his skin. He gently touches one finger to the ruby earring you haven’t taken out yet. The thrill of satisfaction he felt when you answered the door still wearing it would sustain him for weeks. He is absolutely certain that it won’t be the power of friendship that’s going to change him.

He pulls you a little closer into his chest, snorts when he feels you begin to drool onto his pec, and continues scrolling through his tablet.

That night, you dream. You’re walking through your childhood home—but not your childhood home from before your memories, because you will never know what that home looked like. This one, the home from your earliest memories, with its wood panelling on the walls, old-fashioned lace curtains in the windows that you can’t see out of, because it’s pitch black beyond the glass. Hallways lengthening at the same pace as you can walk down them, boots echoing on the polished hardwood floor. You walk and walk, and you can never reach the end. Doors that won’t open, but you know Caleb might be behind them, because in your dream logic, his bedroom is behind every door you pass. You turn the handles, but they remain locked. Sometimes you think you can hear the sound of someone biting into an apple, crisp flesh giving way to sharp teeth, but the door won’t open no matter how hard you throw yourself against it. You hear your grandmother speaking, just around every corner, but you can’t understand what she’s saying. You follow the sound, and every time you think that she’s just around the next turn in the hall, the corridor stretches in front of you again, empty.

You have been in this empty house for years now, and you’re afraid that you’ll never be able to get out. But you’re more afraid that once you get out, you’ll never hear them making these particular sounds again, this slim proof of their existence echoing through the empty hallways.

Slowly, you wake up, and in that endless moment caught between your dream and reality, it’s just peaceful and black—you are coming from somewhere so far away toward something you know will hurt, and you’re not ready to feel that yet. But then a feeling of suffocation is overwhelming you, and you open your eyes to realize you’re literally being smothered by a very big, very warm body.

The relief you feel, the gratitude, that Sylus is still here, that you aren’t waking up alone, again, from the nightmare in your sleep to the reality that the nightmare is real, and you’ll never be able to see your family again, is more overwhelming than your current need for oxygen. Sylus is still here, and the yawning emptiness you were carrying with you for what felt like years during that long dream dissipates in the warmth of his body against yours. You can’t help yourself. Your throw your arm that isn’t being crushed by him over his torso and hug him tightly to you, giving in to the urge to nuzzle his chest and just listen to his steady heartbeat.

You lie like that for awhile, blissfully listening to his soft breathing, when suddenly you realize that pressed so close to him, you can feel every contour of his body, from your chest against his abdomen, his muscular, silk-covered thigh wedged between your legs, and his apparently very, very big dick pressing into your hip.

You freeze, feeling like the creep you have accused him several times of being. He’s just sleeping, and you’ve plastered yourself against him like a vacuum sealed burrito. You have absolutely no business being utterly thrilled that this part of him matches the rest of him in terms of size and intimidation. You will not be taking this joy stick for a test drive. You can get out of this. You’re a very good hunter, and you can evade detection and make a tactical retreat when necessary. And it’s very necessary right now, because you do not want him to wake up and find you attached to him like a love-sick leech.

Slowly, sooo slowly, you slide your arm from where it is slung over his waist, and begin to incrementally scooch backwards, his leg slipping from between both of yours, freezing when he seems to shift a little, and then continuing the slow slide away when he settles again.

You’ve managed to extricate all of your limbs from him, except the one that is currently numb and squashed underneath him. You slowly roll onto your back and contemplate how you’re going to get it out from under him without waking him, when suddenly his arm flops over your waist. You jerk in surprise, eyes flying to his face, but his are still closed. His hand slides from your waist to your hip, and then snakes around to take a big handful of your ass. He makes a little happy noise and then pulls your body into his again. In the process, he has managed to jam his thigh back between your legs. You stare at his face, trying desperately to see if he’s starting to wake yet—how did you even end up in this situation? Then he pulls you even closer, causing his thigh to press deliciously against you. You suppress a whine, because it has been so long since someone has touched you liked this. But of course the person who is touching you is a maniac and is doing so while still asleep. You reach up and pat his cheek to wake him up, simultaneously trying to to pull away from him, but tightens his arms around you again, dipping his head to your shoulder still exposed by his too-big sweater.  You freeze in shock as he inhales deeply and hums, and soft kisses trail from your neck down, and before you can push him away he bites into the meat of your shoulder. The pain, pressure, and warmth of his mouth on your skin have you trying to arch away and into him—you do whine this time, loudly, because it hurts but you want.

Suddenly, his whole body seems to tense. The pressure on your shoulder eases, and he sighs, his breath cool drifting along your over-heated skin.

“Good morning.”

You open your eyes, realizing you’d been squeezing them shut through the last few moments, and meet his sleepy gaze.

"Were you awake?” you demand, terrified of the answer. Because if he was, then what the hell was he thinking, pretending to be asleep? And if he wasn't, was he just dreaming? Was it you in his dream, or was he dreaming of someone else? You don't want to know. You have to know.

“Your rather loud response to my love bite woke me up, I think,” he smiles softly. "I didn't realize that I was... dreaming until then."

“So you didn’t mean to—” you start to pull away.

He tightens his arm around your waist. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Sylus, let go. I’m sorry for not waking you fast enough. I was just—I was just shocked. I know you wouldn’t have done that otherwise.” You struggle, but his arm is a steel bar holding you in place.

“You’re right, I wouldn’t have,” he agrees, and you feel whatever fragile, tender root that had been growing in the cracks of your broken heart wither, the dry husk drifting away in an autumn breeze. Replacing that faint feeling of hope, you're livid that you do not share the same teleportation ability that Xavier and Sylus have. If you could, you'd teleport in a poof of glittering light or melodramatic feathers. To anywhere else but here.

You nod, and nod, and nod, because he’s not letting you move but you have to do something or else he’ll see it right on your stupid, open face, and you’d rather he slit your throat than see the pain his rejection is inflicting on you. You had lied to him earlier, about not having anything to hide, about always being honest with him. You've been lying to yourself, and to him, ever since you met him.

“What I mean—” he’s looking at you intently, and you want to cover his eyes with your hands, because as always they’re seeing too much, but suddenly, the doorbell rings through your flat.

You both turn your heads to look at the bedroom door at the same time.

Oh. Fuck.

Xavier.

Sylus turns to look back at you, so close that his nose brushes yours. “Expecting company, kitten?”

“It’s Xavier. Shit.” You try to roll away, and this time he lets you. You grab your phone off the nightstand and see that Xavier has already texted you a few times to see if you’re ready to head to the bookstore yet. The texts grow increasingly concerned the longer you don’t respond. The doorbell rings again. “You have to go. Now.”

You turn to Sylus, who is now lying leisurely on his side, head propped up in his hand, silky silver hair cascading across his forehead, occupying the bed like an imperialist force annexing a weaker neighbor’s territory, with no intention of leaving.

“And what are you going to do?” he asks, eyes drifting from your face, to your shoulder, down to your bare legs.

“I need to answer the door and tell Xavier that I’m running late.”

“Late for what?”

“Sylus, I don’t have time for this. You can’t be here. Xavier helped me get into the N109 zone, he spends a lot of time there—he’s smart enough that if he finds out what you look like, he might eventually be able to figure out who you are. You can’t be here,” you repeat, starting to panic. Sylus may not have any feelings for you beyond friendship or a predator toying with its food, but you still don’t want him to get caught because of you.

“You’re not working today. What plans do you have with him?” he asks, completely ignoring your distress.

“We’re going to the bookstore. We were going to spend our first day free just reading manga and eating junk food,” you rush out impatiently.

Sylus just looks at you for a few beats, the picture of lazy boredom on a weekend morning.

“Okay? Are you satisfied? Can you please leave now?” This is good. You can avoid the inevitable, It was a mistake, thought you were someone else, was dreaming about a giant amorous anthropomorphized ruby, you’re not exactly my type, because my type is someone who has their shit together, can identify what fucking region a certain grape was grown in and its exact soil acidity based on the year of the vintage, my type is someone else, anyone else—you reach down and hit yourself hard in the side of your thigh with a fist to get your head on straight, and start heading to your closet, intent on throwing on a robe or longer shorts so that you don't answer the door looking like you're not wearing any pants.

Sylus's irritated voice follows you. “Satisfied? No, I'm not feeling satisfied. But I would advise against answering the door wearing that.”

You jerk to a halt. “Excuse me?” You turn to find him scowling at you.

He waves a dismissive finger at the sweater and silk shirts you’re still wearing. “I think you should change before you answer the door.”

“I look that bad, huh? Thanks for the advice. You need to be gone when I get back.” You turn, hating everything and everyone, and make your way to the front door.

You throw it open, just as Xavier is lifting his hand to ring your bell again. His sky blue eyes, usually so calm and sleepy, widen when he takes in the dumpster fire that you are today.

“Hi, yeah, sorry. I overslept,” you rush out, hoping you can skip this part and go straight to the moving on with your day and your entire life part. “I just need like, fifteen minutes, and then I’ll be ready.”

“Did you get in a fight with a wanderer last night after we go home?” he asks, hand lifting again, this time toward you, as if he wants to touch you, but then thinks better of it and drops it back to his side. He’s wearing the white hoodie that Sylus stole from him. What even is your life right now?

“What? No, I just had some wine and was really tired.” He’s staring at you, brow furrowed now, and it takes a minute to realize that he’s staring at the sweater hanging off your shoulder. You suddenly get a really, really bad feeling. “Why?”

He lifts his hand again, and points, but in a kind of timid way, like a little kid who knows that it’s rude to point but can’t help himself anyway so just points a little so that his mom won’t get mad at him. “It looks like a wanderer bit you.”

You lift your own hand and touch your shoulder, and feel the too-warm skin there, the ache spreading deep into the muscle.

“Oooh, yeah. Yes.” You decide that you need to take acting classes. That is what you will do as your new hobby, on your few days off. You’re going to win the best actor award if it kills you, because if it doesn’t kill you, the embarrassment will kill you instead. And you’d rather die convincing everyone that everything is normal and you’re fine, and not from the embarrassment of the fact that your not-boyfriend, not-fuck-buddy, not-interested-at-all, probably not even your friend anymore Sylus accidentally bit you while fucking asleep and left evidence of it for all the world to see. “I did respond to a really minor alert in the neighborhood last night. It was only one wanderer. Hiding in a trash can of all places,” you laugh, not at all sounding unhinged. Convincing. “Bit me pretty good, but it really was nothing, I had completely forgotten about it. So, still on for the bookstore?” you ask, chipper, eager, well-adjusted!

Xavier stares at your shoulder for a few seconds longer, and then just nods. “Yeah, just text me when you’re ready.”

Bless him. You’ve almost put him back to sleep with your absolutely stellar performance. “Okay, great! See you soon.” You back into your flat again and let the door shut with a heavy click.

Xavier stands outside your door for several moments after you’ve scurried back inside. He thinks about how sharp his light blade is. He thinks about how he’s going to use it on whatever motherfucker thinks that he has the right to mark Xavier’s partner like an animal. And then he yawns, and meanders back to his own flat to wait for your text because he has all the time in the world, and the patience to match it. Xavier is your partner, and he’s not going anywhere, anytime soon. If he murders whatever asshole was in your flat last night right now, that might interfere with your bookstore plans with him.

You stand on the other side of the door for a moment, just trying to collect yourself. You lean against the cool surface, look up at your ceiling. Breathe in the smell of shoe leather, oiled metal. Absently you lift your hand to your shoulder. Why didn’t Sylus warn you before you went to open the door? He even admitted that he wouldn’t have … done that to you if he hadn’t been asleep. Why would he just… and then it hits you. He did tell you to change clothes before you answered the door. The asshole just didn’t tell you why. But he would know by now that you’d actually do the opposite of whatever he says, because he’s not the boss of you. He played you like one of his fucking records.

But why the fuck would he want Xavier to see what happened between the two of you? Does he enjoy your humiliation that much?

You have no idea if you’ll ever have the chance to figure him out, especially if he got the hint that you don’t want to see him anytime soon. You shake your head. Even though you should be exhausted after staying up so late and ending up on the human embodiment of a roller coaster with its wheels coming off despite all of your promises to yourself last night, you feel well-rested. You will survive this. You can survive anything.

You head back to your bedroom to confirm that Sylus is actually gone, because last night proved that whether he actually listens when you tell him to leave depends entirely on his own whims. As you enter, the late morning sunlight spills into the room. He really left. The room is empty. The books and various weapons on your nightstands have been stacked neatly and lined up just so. The clothes that had been left haphazardly hanging off your chest of drawer handles or strewn over the floor are nowhere to be seen. It would be the tidiest your bedroom has been in weeks, if not for the fact that your entire bed is covered in a thick layer of black feathers.

“This bitch,” you breathe.

It’s going to take at least two full size trash bags to clean this mess up.

You decide then and there that Sylus doesn’t have a choice about whether he’s going to see you again. You’re going to bag up these feathers and then tar and feather him with them the next time you see his gorgeous, petty fucking face.

[mr-cha-n]

Chapter One: How to Not Get Stabbed

Pairing: Lee Chan x reader

Genres: action, smut, angst, fluff, superhero AU

Warnings: violence (heavy), sexual content, penetration, mentions of death, profanities, drinking

Word Count: 22.2k

Summary: The peace of quiet of your garage is only broken by the hum of machines and clanking tools, and you like it that way - until a superhero crashes his car straight into your door.

The garage hums with the familiar sounds of clanking tools and low rock music playing from your dad’s old radio, its worn dials barely holding the station through the static. The air stinks of oil and metal, a mix of grease and gasoline lingering in the corners of the shop that reminds you of home. Rusted car parts and half-disassembled engines are scattered across workbenches in an organised chaos that only someone who spends hours here could understand.

Most of the time you spend in the shop is alone – you haven’t expanded enough to need to hire a second mechanic, although you’d been considering getting someone to do your telephone and books after you dropped the phone behind an engine block, trying to juggle too many things at once.

But, that’s how you like it. Being surrounded by machines and metal brings you far more contentment than interacting with your customers – a necessity, although often a frustrating one. The beautiful complexity of the mechanisms feels like creation in your hands, the ability to mend and perfect a power usually reserved for God alone.

Something about the surety of everything having its place, and knowing what that is, brings you a solace well needed in your grungy corner of life.

Your garage sits on the edge of the city, tucked in a dodgy part of town where most people would think twice about wandering after dark. It’s not unusual to see someone rush by with their hood up, or hear the occasional screech of tyres speeding away from something best left alone. Keeping to yourself is the chosen lifestyle here, and you are no stranger to the consequences of choosing to get involved.

Over the years, you’ve managed to build yourself a reputation – not just for your skill with a wrench, but for being a place where no one asks too many questions. You’ve seen all sorts roll past: street races, ex-cons, people looking for a little discretion. You don’t judge. As long as they respect the rules and pay their bill, you don’t pry into their business. It’s a system that keeps you afloat amongst an unforgiving landscape. Every time you flip the newspaper over to see another store shot up or looted, you feel even less obliged to know anything about your customers.

But, peace and quiet is never-lasting.

You’re stuck at the bottom of a lifted car, trying to wrestle a stubborn bolt loose from the undercarriage as the high-pitched squeal of your doorbell rings out through the shop. Your hands, slick with oil, slip on the wrench and you mutter a curse under your breath.

Heavy bootsteps lumber into the shop, stopping a few feet away next to your squat wooden desk.

Finally, with a grunt of effort, the bolt loosens. It comes free with a satisfying click, and you slide out from under the car, swiping your forehead with the back of your hand. You wipe your hands on a rag, and take a quick glance out toward the street, taking in the dark, rusty tone of the early evening sky.

“How’s she lookin’?” A familiar, gravelly tone calls out towards you.

A lopsided smile crackles over your lips as you tilt your head with a small shrug, your gaze finally locking with the customer. “She’s looked better – but I think you already knew that.” The car is an old classic, its parts worn and rusted like they haven’t seen a proper tune-up in years.

Mr Corallo lets out a huff of laughter. His arms cross together over his broad chest, revealing a snake tattoo on his lower left forearm – a reminder to everyone of who he is loyal to, and who protects him. “Yeah, alright. And you’ve got a cure, doc?”

“Give me a few days and she’ll be as good as new.” You tap the hood of the car lightly with your fingertips, wiping off a speck of oil that had dripped from your shirt.

Mr Corallo nods, pulling an envelope from his jeans’ back pocket. “Half now, half later, right?”

You give a small hum of agreement, walking around to wash your hands of the oil.

"Mr Scott thanks you for your business," Mr Corallo says, throwing the envelope down. The corners of his mouth curl up, revealing just a hint of teeth, and his eyes gleam with a dangerous glint, revelling in the uncomfortable shift in the air at the namedrop of Mr Scott.

“Always a pleasure.” You reply with a tight-lipped smile. The invocation of Mr Scott bothered you less than it would others, but he wasn’t a person you wanted to be associated too greatly with your garage. The ‘lawyer’ has a reputation for criminal activity more well-known than any of his actual court cases, and you’ve seen the evidence of his anger splattered across the Lower South Rim back alleys. But, like many of your seedier customers, his business kept your shop out of harm’s way, and so you could get over his more displeasing mannerisms.

“Oh, hey-” Just as you think he’s gone, Mr Corallo turns around one more time, his gait falling to a stop with one hand on the doorknob. “-you haven’t happened to see or hear anything about that incident at Brewer’s Quarter, have ya? Mr Scott’s been interested in finding out more about what went down.”

You pause, drying your hands on the towel, careful to keep your expression neutral. The incident at Brewer’s Quarter had been all over the news – a warehouse fire, but not of the accidental variety. Word on the street was that it had been a targeted hit, a gang skirmish that went too far. Brewer's Quarter is just a few blocks over, close enough to your shop that you’d heard the sirens blaring late into the night.

You hadn’t seen anything, not directly at least. Of course, there was that incident with the car, but you aren’t sure that had anything to do with the fire…

It was the early hours of the morning, police had scattered, the fire had been put out, and anyone involved was long clear of the area. You were walking back from the shop, having had a late night trying to sort out your accounts for the last month – a job that required at least two glasses of whiskey to get through it.

You didn’t tend to stay late at the garage often, and the prospect of walking around these streets late wasn’t one that sat well with anyone who knew them. But there was a shortcut to your apartment through the old dump on 64th that cut down your journey to a five-minute run, if needed.

The night air had been cool, the kind of eerie silence that clung to the aftermath of violence. You had been walking quickly, your hands shoved deep into your pockets, eyes darting around out of habit. The whiskey buzz had made the shadows seem a little more sinister than usual, but you were steady enough on your feet.

You’d first noticed something odd when you’d reached the outer chain-link fence cornering off the dump – a faint, metallic glint, barely visible in the low light. At first, you’d assumed it was just junk, another rusted-out shell of a car left to rot. But, as you got closer, you could see the car was too new for this area, and wrecked – badly wrecked.

Instinct told you to keep moving; this kind of thing usually spelt trouble. But something about the car had caught your eye, something familiar. The lines of it were sleek, too well-crafted to be an average street racer.

You had crouched down, running your hand over the dented hood, feeling the grooves where it had clearly taken some kind of brutal impact. The whole front end was smashed in, the windshield cracked and splintered like a spider web. There were scorch marks, too, as if the car had been through a fire.

Either this car’s owner was involved in some dodgy business, or he was a terrible driver.

And then you had seen it – the unmistakable emblem, barely visible through the soot and grime. The flaming star, the symbol of the Red Comet. For the past two years, you’d seen headline after headline regaling how the Red Comet had saved the city once again, always seemingly one step ahead of the people who threatened to tear it apart. You know hardly anything about the superhero, although apparently nobody does. Even his name is a phantasm of the media, given in the aftermath of his first appearance which happened to be on the day that a red comet streaked through the sky. And this was his car.

Your heart had skipped a beat. What the hell was it doing here, and in this state?

You knew you should have walked away. But something in you just couldn’t. Maybe it was curiosity, or maybe it was the whiskey making you bolder than you usually were, but you couldn’t just let the car sit there. Maybe, it was your way of giving something back to the hero who’d saved the city time and time again.

After making sure that no one was watching, you’d decided to tow it back to the garage. You’d covered it up, keeping it out of sight, hoping that no one would come looking for it. For the next few nights, you’d worked on it in secret. The damage was extensive, but you’d seen worse. Underneath the mangled metal and burned parts, the car was a marvel of engineering. You’d never worked on anything like it before – high-tech gadgets, reinforced steel, the king of stuff you only saw in movies. Every time you popped the hood, it felt like uncovering another layer of mystery.

Some of the damage seemed aeons old – definitely not the product of its latest encounter. The craftsmanship suggested that its owner knew his way around the car, but the lasting injuries let you know that he wasn’t a trained mechanic.

You only left one trace of your involvement – a small note, scribbled on a scrap of paper and tucked neatly in the wheel well. It simply read: ‘Fixed her up. No charge. -M.’

You figured if the Red Comet ever came back for the car, they’d know someone had taken care of it. You hoped that the note would calm their suspicions of foul play...

“Nope,” you reply to Mr Corallo, your tone light and steady. “I heard about it, like everyone else, but I was two drinks deep by the time I heard the sirens, and I wouldn’t have been able to get down the stairs even if I’d wanted to.”

Mr Corallo watches you closely for a moment, trying to gauge whether you’re telling the truth. You’re good at this game, though; slipping in half-truths to conceal the true extent of your knowledge.

“Smart,” he says after a beat, the tension in his stance easing just a bit as he releases the door handle. “Wouldn’t want you getting in the middle of anything … unpleasant.”

He flashes a grin, but there’s a hint of warning behind it. You match his smile, though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. With that, he finally turns and makes his way toward the door, his boots scuffing the concrete floor. You let out a slow breath, the tension in your shoulders easing ever so slightly as he steps outside. But just before he leaves, he calls back over his shoulder one last time.

"And if you do hear anything… well, you know where to find us."

The door closes with a soft click, and the garage is silent again, save for the low hum of the radio.

Every bone in Lee Chan’s body aches, and he’s surprised his skin hasn’t turned green and blue all over. Any little move hurts – and that’s with days of much-needed recuperation. Groaning as he pulls himself up out of bed, he looks down to inspect the damage. A few cuts, scrapes, and bruises, and a particularly nasty swipe along his left thigh that has begun to scab over.

Chan winces as he gingerly presses his hand against the cut, the sting reminding him of just how close things had gotten. It had been a mess – a confrontation with Tempest as the Brewery Quarter. The whole thing had escalated far faster than he’d anticipated. What should have been a routine patrol had turned into a disaster as Tempest decided to unleash a barrage of electrical blasts, wrecking half the district in the process.

The fight is a blur now, fragments of shattered glass and the acrid scent of smoke lingering in his memory. He’d been so focused on taking Tempest down that he hadn’t fully realized how much damage he had taken in the process.

In the end, it was brute force and desperation that won out. He had managed to hold up the building just long enough to knock Tempest off balance, forcing the villain into retreat. But victory had been fleeting. Tempest had disappeared in the chaos, vanishing before Chan could deliver a final blow. By the time the authorities arrived, Tempest was gone, leaving behind only destruction and debris, and Chan had barely made it out himself, collapsing in a nearby alley as sirens blared in the distance. He’d limped home under cover of darkness, his mask barely shielding him from prying eyes.

A low groan escapes him as he stretches. He limps over to the bathroom, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looks like hell—his skin is pale, dark circles linger under his eyes, and the bruises that cover his torso are turning an ugly shade of purple. He splashes some cold water on his face, trying to wash away the fatigue, but it doesn’t do much. His body is spent.

God, he needs a hobby.

A small laugh ripples through him at the thought, getting stuck painfully in his scratchy throat. Seungkwan had told him just as much last week when they finally had time to hang out. 

"You're not talking to enough people," He'd said, and he'd been right - Chan has hardly talked to anyone as himself in days. Making quippy remarks and telling people to get out of the way isn't quite the same as having a proper conversation with a friend.

Chan towels his face and stumbles into the kitchen, brewing a pot of coffee while his mind drifts. Maybe a hobby wouldn’t even help. Maybe what he really needs is to let go of the whole hero thing, at least a little. Being the Red Comet 24/7 is exhausting, and lately, it feels like it is swallowing him whole, leaving nothing for himself.

The coffee smells good, but Chan's stomach twists at the idea of caffeine. He sits at the kitchen table, cradling the warm mug in his hands but not drinking, staring blankly out the window. He can’t help but wonder if next time he’ll be able to handle it. Tempest is growing stronger, more reckless, and each encounter is becoming more dangerous. He doesn’t know how long he can keep doing this, how many more nights his body can take the punishment.

I have to get ahead of this, he thinks, rubbing the back of his neck. Figure out where Tempest is hiding before he strikes again.

The thought of rest is tempting, but he knows there is no time for that. Not with Tempest still out there, licking his wounds and plotting his next move. Chan glances at the clock. Morning is just creeping in, but his mind is already racing through the next steps - tracking Tempest, preparing his gear, and finding his car.

The nagging feeling of unfinished business crawls under his skin. Chan hadn't had time to think about it amidst the chaos of fighting Tempest. His ride had been totalled - again - and left behind in the fray.

He stumbles over to his laptop, ignoring the stabbing pain in his thigh, and pulls up the city's traffic cams. His fingers clumsily tap at the keys as he rewinds footage from last night, scanning for any sign of the car. He remembers the last place he'd seen it—by the Brewery Quarter, just before Tempest had thrown him through a storefront.

The footage shows chaos: explosions, debris flying, panicked civilians running. For a moment, it’s overwhelming—too much movement, too much destruction—but then he spots it. His car, smashed and smoking, left abandoned next to the dump.

His stomach twists as the camera catches something else: a tow truck pulling up beside it. But not a city truck. The logo is fuzzy, and there’s something strange about the way the driver moves—hurried, almost too careful for a standard recovery job. The truck hooks up his wrecked car and drives off, disappearing into the shadows of the industrial district.

"Who the hell…?" Chan mutters to himself.

His heart races as he shuts the laptop. If he’s lucky, whoever has the car just wants to strip it for parts. If he’s not, well… there are people out there who would pay a fortune for the tech inside that car. And some who’d use it for much worse.

He forces himself up, grabs his jacket, and heads out the door, ignoring the protest from his still-aching body. He knows the industrial district well enough to navigate it, even in his current state. If the car was taken there, it shouldn’t be too hard to track down.

The sun is starting to set by the time he reaches the dingy outskirts of the industrial district. This part of the city is a graveyard of old factories and warehouses, the kind of place where no one asks questions. Chan walks down the narrow streets, scanning every alley and garage for a sign of his car.

Turning the corner to the large, decrepit dump, the first thing that hits him is the overwhelming stench of rust and decay. The place is a sprawling mess of discarded metal, twisted scrap, and a mountain of broken-down machinery.

But, there it is. Chan immediately spots his car nestled between two towering heaps of rusted junk. The sleek frame, now only slightly dented, stands out against the twisted metal and debris.

As he gets closer, he notices that the car’s exterior, though damaged, has been worked on. The front end, which had been complete wreck, is now at least partially repaired. Fresh metal panels have been welded on and the wiring had had once been exposed in neatly tucked away. Someone’s been fixing it.

Chan’s mind races. Who would do this? And why?

As he begins inspecting the car, he notices a small white flap peaking out from the front-left wheel well. He's been in one too many fights to trust that pulling it out won't immediately blow him and the car up, but curiosity gets the better of him. Pulling a glove out of his backpack and creating a small blast shield from a nearby sheet of scrap metal, Chan takes a deep breath, positioning himself cautiously as he reaches out. 

Carefully, he pulls the note free. Nothing explodes, nothing clicks ominously. The paper is crumpled and worn, as if it’s been shoved in the wheel well in a hurry. Chan straightens, exhaling the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, and unfolds it with cautious fingers.

''Fixed her up. No charge. -M.'

Chan stares at the note, his mind racing. It still feels like a trap to him, but nothing about this situation makes sense. The repairs, the hidden note—it’s too deliberate to be a coincidence, yet not malicious enough to feel like a typical setup. Whoever M is, they didn’t just stumble upon his car. They knew exactly who it belonged to, and for some reason, they’d chosen to help. The fact that the repairs are real, tangible, and expertly done is a gesture of… what? Trust? A warning? He can’t decide.

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. The car is functional—enough to get him back on the road, at least. 

Sliding into the driver’s seat, Chan checks the dashboard. The wiring looks as pristine as ever, the engine hums quietly when he turns the key, and though the car still bears the scars of its encounter with Tempest, it’s ready to move.

Pulling out of the dump, he glances into the rearview mirror, half-expecting someone to step out from the shadows and reveal themselves. But the place stays still, abandoned, as the setting sun casts long shadows over the heaps of twisted metal.

Between the note, the footage, and the repairs, he's got enough to work out who this mysterious mechanic is, and what they want.

It’s about 11 pm, two weeks after you finished fixing up Mr Scott’s car, that you hear the crash.

The sound is unmistakable – the sharp screech of something heavy colliding with metal, followed by the distinct echo of glass shattering. The garage rattles slightly from the impact, and you pause mid-wrench, heart immediately kicking into overdrive.

What the hell was that?

You set down the wrench gently, wiping your hands as you strain to listen for any other signs of disturbance. The city is loud, but the crash came from too close – maybe just outside the garage. You mind runs through a quick list of possibilities: a car accident? A break-in? Something more sinister?

Instinct kicks in, and you head toward the door cautiously, flipping off the lights in the main work area to stay hidden in the shadows.

As you edge closer to the garage door, you hear another sound—a low, metallic groan followed by the clank of something heavy being dragged. There’s movement outside, slow and deliberate. You risk a glance through the small window in the side door and immediately spot the source.

There, just outside the window, the sleek black car that you fixed up all those days ago sits awkwardly on the side of the road, the front end crumpled around a streetlamp. The driver’s side door is hanging off its hinges. Standing next to the wreckage is a figure – tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing a long coat, their silhouette barely visible in the dim streetlight. They seem to be inspecting the damage, unfazed by the mess.

But there’s something off about the way they move, something too calm for someone who’s just been in a crash.

As the figure leans around the edge of the unhinged door, peering inside of the car, you realise that that’s because they are not the one who was in the crash.

Grabbing a heavier tool from the nearby workbench, you edge towards your door, heart pounding.

The figure straightens and, as if sensing your presence, slowly turns toward the garage. Even in the dim light, you can see their eyes – cold, calculating. The figure doesn’t move for a moment, just staring, and you can’t tell if they’re sizing you up or deciding whether you’re a threat.

Finally, the figure steps forward, their footsteps slow and deliberate as they close the distance to the garage door. You brace yourself, unsure if you’re about to get a question or a fight.

Then, you see something rustle from the corner of your eye. A blur, barely visible in the darkness, moves faster than you can register. One second, the mysterious figure is advancing towards the garage door, and the next, they're violently thrown back into the wreckage of the car. The sound of impact echoes through the night - metal crunching, glass shattering anew.

You blink, your heart pounding in your chest as you try to make sense of what just happened. From the shadows, another figure emerges, slightly hunched, moving with a combination of grace and exhaustion. The way they move—the fluidity of it—immediately gives them away. It’s him. The Red Comet.

He stumbles slightly, but regains his balance, turning toward the crumpled figure near the car. You can see the strain in his posture, the way his breathing is laboured. He’s injured.

The man in the long coat struggles to his feet, groaning as he wipes a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” the figure sneers, pulling something from the inside of his coat. A gleam of silver flashes in the dim light.

Before you can react, the man lunges, moving with startling speed, the blade aimed straight for the superhero. You want to shout, to warn him, but it all happens too fast. The Red Comet dodges, just barely, the blade slicing through the fabric of his suit as he twists to the side. But even though he avoids a fatal blow, the movement causes him to stagger, his injuries slowing him down.

The mysterious figure presses the attack, slashing again and again with precision and fury. The Red Comet blocks and counters, but it’s clear he’s at a disadvantage. You grip the wrench tighter, your knuckles white, debating whether to rush in or stay hidden.

Before you can make your decision, the Red Comet manages to disarm the man with a swift kick, sending the blade clattering to the ground. The figure growls in frustration, throwing a wild punch, but the Red Comet catches his arm and twists, throwing him hard into the side of the car. There’s a sickening crunch as the man’s body slams into the metal, and he falls to the ground, unconscious.

For a moment there’s silence. The only sound is the superhero’s ragged breathing as he stands over the fallen figure. His shoulders heave, and you can tell that every movement is causing him pain.

Then, without warning, his knees buckle, and he collapses to the ground.

“Shit,” you mutter, your body moving before your mind has fully caught up. You drop the wrench and rush toward him, your pulse racing. He’s still conscious, but barely. Up close, you can see the gash across his side, blood seeping through the torn fabric of his suit.

“Hey, hey—stay with me,” you say, kneeling beside him, your voice low but urgent.

The Red Comet’s masked face tilts towards you, his breathing shallow as he tries to sit up. “I’m … fine,” he manages to rasp, though the wince that follows tells you otherwise.

“Yeah, sure. You look like you’re just peachy,” you mutter, glancing at the wreckage around you. “Come on, let’s get you inside before someone else shows up.”

He nods, clearly too exhausted to argue. With some effort, you manage to help him to his feet, guiding him toward the garage. He leans heavily on you, his weight almost too much to bear, but you grit your teeth and push forward. You’re not sure how much time you have before the figure wakes up—or if they’ll wake up at all—but right now, your focus is getting the superhero somewhere safe and outside of foreign eyes.

You heave him onto your makeshift cot, the one you use when you decide to stay in the garage overnight. He groans as he lies back, and you can see the toll the fight has taken on him now under the garage lights – bruises, cuts, and that deep slash across his side that’s still bleeding.

"I'm going to grab a first aid kit," you say, your tone more commanding now that the adrenaline is kicking in. "Don't move."

He doesn't seem to be in any state to do so anyway.

You grab the kit and hurry back, your hands surprisingly steady as you kneel beside him. "Alright, I'm going to have to cut the side of your shirt away." You say, looking up at the masked face for confirmation. But, nothing comes. Moving forward, you realise that he's completely out cold, his breathing shallower than it should be. You know you need to patch up the wound before he loses too much blood.

Taking care to avoid causing more harm, you gently cut away the fabric of his suit. The fabric peels back to reveal the deep gash along his side—angry and red, still oozing blood. Your heart pounds, but your hands remain steady. You’ve dealt with injuries before - though, usually your own.

Working quickly, you clean the wound, wincing as you realise how deep it really is. This isn’t good. The gash will need stitches, but there’s no time for that now. You press a gauze pad against the wound to stem the bleeding, your mind racing.

"Stay with me," you mutter under your breath, wrapping a bandage tightly around his torso to hold the gauze in place. "I’m not letting you die on my cot."

Once the wound is secure, you check his pulse—faint, but there. The man’s been through hell, and whatever fight he was in tonight clearly pushed him to the brink. You can’t help but wonder how often this happens. How many times has he barely made it out alive?

You glance up at his masked face, wondering who exactly is lying before you. There’s the urge to check, the man completely vulnerable to you, but you think better of it. What would be the point of knowing anyway? It would just bring you more trouble.

You sit back on your heels, a shaky sigh of disbelief exiting your body. For now, he seems stable, but you know he’ll need more help than you can provide tonight. In the morning, you’ll redress the wounds and take him over to a hospital, if he wants.

You grab two blankets from underneath your desk, draping one over the suited man. Dropping a spare pillow down on the floor beside him, you make sure that you’re close enough that you’ll wake up if his condition gets dramatically worse. The floor is cold and hard, but the exhaustion hits you as the adrenaline drains from your body, and you fall into a dreamless sleep, your mind still half-occupied with thoughts of the masked hero bleeding out in your garage.

It takes Chan a whole minute after waking up to work out where he is. All of his instincts tell him to run, to get out quickly and quietly before anyone finds him, but the pain in his torso when he squeaks even an inch is enough to keep him bedbound.

Touching his hand to the wound, he feels the soaked-through gauze. That’s going to need replacing.

His hands trail up, confused at the suffocating stuffiness that labours his face. He quickly notes the cause – his mask is still on. You didn’t take it off last night, and he’s suddenly very grateful for the stuffiness.

Twisting his head to the side, careful not to strain himself any more than necessary, he spots you.

You’re slumbering next to him, your back crooked at an awkward angle from sleeping on the floor. Oil and grease still stain your skin and shirt, the liquids mixing with a darker substance – his blood – on your hands and wrists.

Chan can barely recollect what happened last night. He remembers being chased down, and not knowing where to go. He remembers typing something in the navigation pad and your shop being the first thing to come up. He remembers getting stabbed, you helping him in here, and nothing more.

Letting out a small sigh, he can’t believe that he actually came here. It was a reckless move that not only relied on an unknown person’s charity, but also put you in danger. It had been stupid and, more than that, selfish.

Yet, he’d made the right call. Anyone else could have left him to bleed out on the sidewalk, shut up their doors and windows and ignored him entirely. But you’d helped him, patched him up, and given up your bed to allow him to rest.

Chan isn’t sure the last time someone else had done so much for him.

A low groan escapes his lips as he tries to adjust himself slightly, wincing from the sharp pain that shoots through his torso. He catches his breath, forcing himself to stay still, even though every fibre of his being wants to push through the pain and figure out what to do next.

"Alright, Chan, just move carefully," he mutters under his breath, trying to psych himself up. Gritting his teeth, he gently pulls himself into a sitting position, groaning as the movement aggravates his injury. Every breath feels like fire in his ribs.

Before he can do much else, you stir slightly, blinking groggily as you wake. You stretch your arms and rub your eyes, clearly disoriented. It takes you a second to remember where you are, and then your gaze locks onto Chan.

"You're awake," you mumble, pushing yourself off the floor with a grunt. "And sitting up? That’s ambitious."

Chan gives a half-hearted chuckle, though it turns into more of a pained exhale. "Yeah, well, I thought I’d try not to bleed all over your place anymore."

You shake your head, already reaching for the first aid kit on the nearby table. "You should’ve woken me up. That wound needs fresh bandages."

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” he replies, feeling overwhelmed by your instinct to help. “You’ve done enough already.”

You pause, glancing at him as you grab the supplies. The look in your eyes makes him feel like a child again, shivering at the intensity of your gaze. “You must be my worst patient – the cars never try to leave in the middle of being fixed.”

Chan watches you work as you kneel beside him, carefully unwrapping the soaked gauze. Your movements are precise, steady, but there’s a certain gentleness there too. It strikes him how unphased you are by all of this. He shivers as your hands ghost over his obliques, careful not to irritate the damaged tissues. 

As the gauze comes off, you let out a little hum of confusion, tilting your head. Chan looks down, and understands your surprise. The cut, which had been deep and angry last night, is now scarred and blistering, not fully healed but significantly better than it should be.

You pull back slightly, your brows furrowing in confusion. “I’m no doctor, but that’s not normal,” you murmur, eyes flicking between him and the nearly healed wound.

Chan shifts uncomfortably under your gaze, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation. He’s always kept his abilities under wraps, never letting anyone else get close enough to notice the odd things that happen to his body – especially when he’s injured. But here you are, kneeling beside him, piecing things together faster than he’s ready for.

“Yeah … it’s … complicated,” he stutters. “I heal quickly. Doesn’t help much with the pain, though.”

You blink at him, clearly processing what you’re seeing. “So this is … normal for you?”

Chan shrugs, wincing as the motion pulls at his side. “Sort of. Part of the whole... superhero thing.”

Your eyes narrow a bit, but you don’t press him. Instead, you shake your head and return to reapplying fresh gauze. “Well, whatever’s going on, it’s saving me a lot of work,” you joke, though your voice is tinged with curiosity.

He lets out a low chuckle, though there’s still tension in his voice. “I guess so.”

When you’re done, you sit back on your heels and meet his gaze. “You really should rest more,” you say softly, the concern in your voice genuine. “Even if you heal fast, pushing yourself like this is ... well, it's a bad idea.”

Chan nods, knowing you’re right but unwilling to admit just how much he’s been pushing himself. “I’ll try,” he says, offering a half-smile.

“Good,” you reply, standing up and brushing the dust off your knees. “And when you’re ready, maybe you can tell me more about what’s going on."

He looks at you, the weight of the situation bearing down on him. The last thing he needs is to bring someone else into his mess, but after crashing (literally) on your doorstep and bleeding all over your floor, he supposes that he probably owes you some explanation.

"Yeah," he murmurs, "I can do that."

You seem satisfied, and start to walk back over to your desk, pulling out a rusty, old kettle and a bottle of long-life milk. After a moment, you notice him looking at you, and quirk an eyebrow. "Still awake?"

A small laugh reverberates through his chest as he feels himself being pulled back into the darkness of slumber. 

By the time that the superhero reawakens, you’ve achieved a number of things. After making yourself a cup of very strong coffee, tidying up your sleeping nest, and checking that he’s still alive, you descended into a deep panic, and then you solved it.

The events of last night had been freaky, although it isn’t unusual for crashes or violence to populate your area. But something about the way that man had moved, the look in his eye, had put you on edge. And now, you have a banged-up superhero sleeping in your garage, who can apparently heal himself at an extraordinary rate. The whole situation feels like being dragged into something you don’t understand or have the ability to deal with.

The one thing you are certain of, however, is that you feel better for helping him.

The weariness in his voice, the untrusting flinch of his body – it all spoke to a man who knew loneliness as well as you did. And even if he could have survived without your help, there is a level of satisfaction in knowing that you’ve done something for someone else; someone who isn’t a crime boss or gang leader.

After deciding that you’d actually dragged yourself into this mess, and that you had to stick with your decision, you felt a level of calm.

You’d spent the morning repairing the Red Comet’s car for the second time, wincing every time you saw your previous alterations damaged by the impact of last night. The collision with the lamppost had been particularly harmful to the car, and you realise that you’re going to need access to the superhero’s technology to be able to have a chance at fixing the complex mechanisms fitted under the hood.

By midday, the Red Comet stirs again. For a moment, as he reorientates himself, you sit in comfortable silence, the noise of the city outside barely filtering in. It feels a little odd to have someone else here. Usually, the garage is your sanctuary – your place to escape everything and everyone. Yet, having him here, even in his battered state, doesn’t feel like an intrusion.

Eventually, he breaks the silence. “I, uh … I guess I owe you an explanation.” His voice is rough, although less than it had been this morning, and it has a softer quality to it that you aren’t expecting.

You nod but keep quiet, letting him decide when to speak.

“I don’t normally ask for help,” he admits. “But I didn’t really have a choice last night.”

You watch him carefully. There’s something raw about him, something that feels more human than the stories you’ve heard. Right now, he’s not really a superhero – he’s a man, wounded, worn out, and trying to hold it all together.

“Well, you found the right place,” you reply, keeping your tone light. “I guess you found my note?”

His head snaps up, and although you can’t see his expression well through the mask, you think that he looks a little shocked. His gaze darts over to the car, now suspended in the garage, and back over to you.

“I did,” he nods, holding back from telling you too much.

When he doesn’t say any more, you sigh, wringing out your frustrations on a damp cloth. “Look, I know you probably just want to leave. I also know that I’m basically a stranger to you. So, I’m not going to force you to tell me more than you want to. But, some guarantee that this isn’t going to come down on my head would be appreciated.”

His head falls slightly at your words, a tired sigh echoing through the room. “I – I can’t guarantee that. I shouldn’t have gotten you involved at all, but now you are, and I can’t promise that nothing will happen.”

You feel your heart drop a little as your concerns are confirmed. You know that what he’s saying is correct, and that you’d expected it, but it still strikes fear through you to hear it put so plainly.

Before you can say anything further, the Red Comet pushes himself up from the bed, wobbling onto his feet. This pushes you a little too far.

“Nope. Stop. You’re not going anywhere. You don’t have to tell me what’s going on, but I’m not going to let you limp out of here and collapse two blocks down.” You grimace, your voice forceful and commanding.

He looks surprised that you’re stopping him. A moment passes between you, tension thick in the air, as you wonder if he’s going to push past you anyway. You know that he’s far stronger than you, even in his weakened state, and that he could leave any time he wants to. But he sits back down, a breath of relief releasing as he takes the weight off of his feet.

Another moment passes and he looks back over to the car. “It’s pretty bad, right?”

You nod. “About the same as you, I’d say.”

The superhero huffs a laugh, but the sound is strained and weak.

“Look, there’s a sink over there with some towels, and I can leave some water and food out for you to eat. I’m just going to go over to the shop to grab some extra supplies for my first aid kit, but no one will see if you want to take off the mask and get some air.” You explain, pulling a bottle of water out of the mini fridge next to your sink.

He seems apprehensive, until you pull up a chair. “You can sit on this – don’t strain that cut any more than you need.”

With that, you march out of the garage, grateful for the fresh air yourself. You’re not sure if he’ll take up your offer, or if, by the time you get back, he’ll be gone again. Either way, it’ll be his choice.

 Two days later, your garage is still shut.

You’ve had to make far too many phone calls to concerned customers asking why the doors weren’t open when they’d driven by, and when you’d next be open. News of the crash had spread quickly around this part of town, and that has given you an easy cover for your current closure. The repairs needed after your shop front was damaged mixed with the emotional toll of the crash happening so close to you becomes the perfect excuse.

In reality, you and the Red Comet had been working on his car. After doing the basic repairs, the superhero had returned to his place and brought back the technology he used to supe up the vehicle, and you’d spiralled into mechanical heaven. The gadgets were like nothing you’d ever seen before, and your mind was spinning with ideas of other ways you could use them in your shop.

Every now and then, the Red Comet would slip some more details into the conversation, slowly letting you in on the knowledge of what is happening in the city, and the threats he’s currently trying to tide. But it is a slow process, and you are still more in the dark than in the light.

Nevertheless, you have to admit that you’ve enjoyed the company. Contrary to his first impression, the superhero is chatty, having opinions on everything from the condition of the city’s transportation infrastructure to the performance of the Southville Stormriders in the upcoming championship. As his body heals, his spirit follows in suit, becoming more lively with every conversation. He has the aura of a kid forced to grow up too quickly, but you can tell that whatever passion and zest for life got him into the superhero gig still exists within him.

And he’s funny, which shocked you at first. He makes you laugh in a way that you haven’t experienced since your father passed, and the joviality is much appreciated in contrast to the looming fear that someone’s out for you.

You still haven’t seen under the mask, although he came back in normal clothes – a white tank under a black jacket, dark jeans, and heavy boots. Today, his face has been hidden behind a balaclava and chunky vizor glasses.

You’re working on the undercarriage of his car, lying side by side beneath it. You hand him a wrench, the sound of metal scraping against metal filling the small space between you. The work is a little tedious, but satisfying, especially with the challenge of integrating his advanced tech back into the framework. It’s the kind of hands-on talk you’ve always loved.

“Pass me the torque wrench?” His voice is muffled by the balaclava, but you can hear the concentration in his tone.

You hand it over, your fingers brushing lightly against his gloved hand. It’s the closest you’ve been to him since this whole thing started, and there’s an odd comfort in the proximity. You’ve spent more time together in the last few days than you have with anyone in the past year, and the easy companionship is something you didn’t realise you were missing.

"It’s getting warm under here," he mutters after a while, loosening the final bolt on the undercarriage.

You glance at him and nod. The garage has become a furnace with the afternoon sun bearing down on the metal roof. Sweat is starting to bead on your forehead, and you can only imagine how hot it must be for him with the extra layers.

He shifts beneath the car and pulls off his jacket, tossing it aside. Beneath, the white tank top clings to his toned arms and chest, the fabric stained with grease. His arms are littered with scars – some fresh, some old. You try to focus on the work, but it’s hard to ignore the way his muscles flex as he reaches for the next tool.

"So, how exactly does this tech work?" you ask, trying to distract yourself and also genuinely curious. "It’s like nothing I’ve seen before."

He chuckles, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "It’s… complicated. But I can walk you through it if you want. It’s mostly about energy efficiency—getting more out of less, that kind of thing."

You raise an eyebrow. "Sounds useful. Ever thought about putting this stuff on the market? You could make a fortune."

His smile falters for a second, and he glances away. "Not really. There’s too much risk. The wrong people get their hands on this tech, and it could be dangerous."

You nod, understanding the weight of what he’s saying. "Fair enough," you say, going back to the bolts. "I guess we’ll just have to make sure it stays in the right hands, then."

His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer before he nods. "Yeah. We will."

For a while, the two of you work in comfortable silence, the steady rhythm of the tools and the soft hum of the city outside the garage filling the space. Every now and then, you share a joke or a story, the conversation easy and unhurried. You realize that, despite everything, this feels … normal.

The sun begins to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the garage. The temperature drops slightly, but the warmth of the day's work lingers in the air. You sit up, stretching your arms above your head, feeling the satisfying ache of a job well done.

"That should do it," you say, wiping your hands on a rag. "She’s ready to go."

You can see the balaclava shift as a grin appears on the superhero’s face. “Thanks. I couldn’t have done it without you.” There’s a sincerity to his voice that makes you feel like his words are about more than just the car.

“You probably could have,” you admit, with a teasing smile. You offer him a hand. “But I’m glad you didn’t.”

He takes your hand, his grip firm but not overpowering, and pulls himself to his feet. For a moment, as your hands connect through the gloves, you wonder what his life is like outside of this – what he does when he’s not saving the world or fighting villains. You wonder who it is behind that mask, and if he’s ever wanted a normal life, away from all of this.

But you don’t ask. You’re not sure you’re ready for those answers, if he would even be willing to give them. There’s something nice about the mystery – something comforting in not knowing everything.

"Drinks on me?" you offer, grabbing a couple of beers from the mini-fridge in the corner of the garage.

He hesitates for a second before nodding. "Yeah. That sounds good."

The two of you sit down, you on your makeshift bed and him on the hood of the car, facing opposite directions to allow him to drink comfortably. You take a sip of your beer, the cool liquid a welcome relief after the heat of the day. For a moment, everything feels still—quiet. Almost peaceful.

"Thanks for letting me lay low here," he says after a while, his voice sincere.

You have to stop yourself from glancing around at him, surprised at the weight in his tone. “Anytime. If you ever want to give up the superhero gig, I’d pay to have another set of hands around here.”

He chuckles softly, the low sound reverberating through you. “You wouldn’t want the business I’d bring.”

You shrug, a smile breaking across your face. “Eh, I’m not interested in what baggage you have. I’m really only about the money.”

A full, hearty laugh escapes him, and you feel warmed by the noise.  

“You know,” you say, leaning back onto your hands, “I’ve always wondered what it’s like. Being out there, doing what you do.”

He doesn’t answer right away, and for a moment, you think you’ve overstepped. But then he sighs, the sound heavy with the weight of a thousand unspoken thoughts.

“It’s complicated,” he finally says. “People think it’s all glory and heroics. A sort of celebrity lifestyle – free things, all the attention you could want, as friends or more. But most of the time it’s just … messy. You make decisions in the heat of the moment, and you hope you’re doing the right thing, but there’s always a cost, and sometimes, you don’t know if it was worth it until it’s too late.”

You feel your heartstrings tug at his answer. The idea of being a superhero always seems so black and white – good versus evil, right versus wrong. But you can see how every choice would have a consequence, and one that everyone else would have an opinion on. Given that, you admire that he’s stuck with it for so long.

“And I guess with your identity hidden you don’t get to reap those benefits very much.”

“Well…” He starts, and you can hear the grin in his voice. You let out a bark of laughter at the implication. “But actually, no, not really. Friends are a bit of a luxury when everyone you know is put in danger just by knowing you. The free doughnuts from Jupiter’s are pretty sweet though.”

“Ahh, a man with good taste,” you hum, nodding your head in agreement.

“I almost considered doing a sponsorship with them,” he chuckles.

“Do you ever wish you could just ... walk away from it all?” You ask, the question slipping out before you can stop it.

“Sometimes,” he answers, not seeming bothered. “But it’s not that simple. Once you’re in, you’re in. There’s always something more, someone else who needs saving. And if I’m not there to stop it … who will be?”

You nod to yourself, understanding the weight of that responsibility even if you’ve never carried it yourself. “That’s a hell of a burden for one person to bear.”

A beat passes before he responds. “It’s the life I chose. Or maybe it chose me. Either way, it’s mine.”

You’re about to respond when a sharp pinging sound cuts through the quiet. You spin round, confused at the origin of the noise, and see the Red Comet pull out a burner phone from his pocket, glancing down at the screen. The balaclava scrunches up as something in his face ticks.

“I’ve gotta go,” he says, standing up and moving towards the car door with one quick motion.

You feel the weight of your aloneness before he’s even left, but you just say: “Okay, be safe.”

The superhero stalls for a second, and you can feel his gaze lingering on you through the mask. Then, he nods a quick goodbye, dashing into the car and slipping into the night.

Your words have been echoing in Chan’s head all week.

Well, that whole conversation has. You’d asked him if he’d walk away from it all, and he had almost said yes. You’d asked him what it was like to be him, and he’d almost asked you if you wanted to find out. And you’d offered him something – a job, an escape, companionship.

Those are the words he’s thought the most about: ‘I’m not interested in what baggage you have’.

You’d said it so casually, like it was just part of the joke, but he’d felt it in his soul. The uninhibited acceptance of everything he is and has, the knowledge that a life around him could never be one of safety – it didn’t seem to matter to you.

It is that simplicity that tugs at him the most. You didn’t want anything from him, didn’t expect him to be more than what he is. And for someone who has lived his life under the pressure of constant expectations, that is a gift he hadn’t realised he’s been longing for.

When he’d woken up after that fight at the chemical factory, the night that he left you, the first thing he’d done was reach for his phone. For once, it wasn’t to check on the city’s news feed or get updates from the fiend. He hadn’t texted his informants or checked in with any of the underground sources he kept tabs on. Instead, he’d messaged Seungkwan.

He’d texted him out of the blue—no preamble, no explanation—just a simple: Hey, you free to hang out this week? It had been too long since he’d allowed himself to do something normal, something that didn’t involve running across rooftops or dodging bullets.

Seungkwan had responded almost immediately, and they’d planned to meet up at a quiet café on the edge of town.

Now, here, with his friend, Chan finally lets himself relax. As Seungkwan launches into another exaggerated story about his latest antics, Chan doesn’t once think about putting on the mask.

Seungkwan is mid-sentence, hands flying animatedly through the air as he recounts yet another ridiculous moment from his week.

"...and then I swear, the cat somehow managed to lock me out of my own apartment. I'm standing there, in the hallway, keys in hand, and all I can think is, 'Is this really my life now?'"

Chan can’t help but laugh – the kind of laughter that feels good, deep, and unburdened. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed this, the simple joy of sitting across from a friend, talking about nothing and everything all at once.

Seungkwan grins, leaning back in his chair. “See, this is why you need me in your life, Chan. To remind you that no matter how crazy things get, at least you’re not getting outsmarted by a house cat."

Chan shakes his head, still chuckling. “Maybe if you let it outside once in a while, it wouldn’t hate you so much.”

His friend gasps, an overexaggerated, sprawling exclamation. “If you want him to get hit by a car and die, just say so.” Seungkwan crosses his arms in front of his chest, pouting out his lips.

“At least then you’ll be able to get inside your house,” Chan replies, unable to keep the smile off of his face at the horrified look that crosses his friend’s features.

“You’re incorrigible,” Seungkwan sulks.

There is a moment of comfortable silence between them, the kind that only comes from years of friendship. Seungkwan’s face softens into something more serious, a tender look in his eye.

“You’ve been busy,” he says. “I haven’t seen you in, what? A month? Two?”

“Something like that,” Chan admits, leaning back in his chair. “Things have been hectic.”

Seungkwan raises an eyebrow. “Hectic? I’m guessing that’s code for ‘I’ve been running myself into the ground again’?”

Chan grimaces. Seungkwan has always been able to read him like a book, even when he himself wasn’t sure how to explain things.

“You could say that,” He finally replies, his voice quieter now.

Seungkwan leans forward, his expression softening. "You know, you don’t always have to be ‘on,’ right? It’s okay to take a break every now and then. Hell, you deserve it more than anyone I know."

Chan sighs, running a hand through his hair. "It’s not that simple. There’s always something. And if I’m not there…"

"If you’re not there, the world won’t end," Seungkwan cuts in, his tone firm but kind. "You’re not a machine, Chan. You can’t keep going like this forever. At some point, you have to take care of yourself too."

Chan looks down at his hands, the weight of his friend’s words settling over him. It isn’t that he doesn’t know Seungkwan’s right—it’s that he doesn’t know how to stop. Being the Red Comet has become so much a part of who he is that the thought of walking away, even for a little while, feels impossible.

But then he thinks about you—about the quiet moments in your garage, the way you’d offered him something without asking for anything in return. And for the first time in a long time, he wonders if maybe, just maybe, there’s a way to find some balance.

“I met someone,” Chan blurts before he can stop himself.

Seungkwan’s eyebrows shoot up. "Oh? Now this is interesting."

“It’s not like that,” Chan says quickly, though he isn’t entirely sure what it is like. “It’s just … they’ve been helping me out. And they said something that’s been sticking with me.”

Seungkwan tilts his head, waiting for him to continue.

“They said they weren’t interested in my baggage,” Chan murmurs, almost bashful to say it too loudly. “Like it didn’t matter. Like I could just … be there without all the weight of everything else.”

Seungkwan leans back, crossing his arms. “Sounds like someone who just likes you for you.”

“Yeah,” Chan whispers, surprised by how much that realisation has hit him.

“And that scares the hell out of you, doesn’t it?” Seungkwan adds with a knowing smirk.

Chan can’t help but laugh softly, shaking his head. “I can’t drag anyone else into this – I feel bad enough that you know.”

Seungkwan’s smile softens. “Look, Chan, whoever this person is, they sound good for you. Don’t let that slip away because you’re too scared to let them in.”

He wants to push back, argue that you deserve better, it wouldn’t be safe, but the truth is that you’re already involved. That the shadow of the Red Comet had already eclipsed you and you’d embraced it. And that scares him more than anything else.

The garage is dim, the overhead lights casting long shadows across the tools and scattered car parts. The air smells of oil and metal, and Chan can hear the soft hum of the city outside – far enough away to feel distant but close enough that the noise never truly stops. He understands why you like this place so much.

Tonight, he’d come without the excuse of his car. He feels a little bit embarrassed that the thought of visiting you without a clear reason is making him so nervous, but if you suspected his real reason for being here, you didn’t let on.

Instead, he’s helping you with a different car, and you’re teaching him more basic repairs that he can do to his own vehicle when it inevitably gets scuffed up again. The implication is that then he’ll need to use your services less, but Chan’s far less interested in that.

You’re standing behind him, your hands resting over his, guiding him as he grips the wrench, showing him how to loosen a particularly stubborn bolt. “Here, let me show you. It’s all in the wrist.”

“Am I bad at this?” He asks, puzzled as the bolt doesn’t move despite the extra force he puts through it.

You chuckle, taking the wrench from him. “Bad? No. Just hopeless, I think.”

He laughs, watching you remove the rusted bolt, his gaze shifting between the tools in your hands and the subtle way your brow furrows when you’re focused.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” you say, pulling him out of his thoughts. “Usually I can’t get you to shut up about how I’m using the wrong size socket.”

Chan huffs a soft laugh at the absurd suggestion that he knows more about mechanics than you. You seem to have a way with the tools, the cars, the entire garage, that makes it all look effortless. There’s a confidence in the way you move, a fluidity to how you handle even the most rusted, stubborn parts, and Chan finds himself mesmerized by it. “I’m not always lecturing you.”

“Oh, please. I’ve had more mechanical critiques from you than my old boss did.”

He grins, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Well, I’m just trying to make sure you don’t blow anything up.”

You tilt your head, narrowing your eyes playfully. “That sounds like a challenge.”

The low hum of the radio fills the quiet of the garage as you work. Suddenly, a voice crackles through the local news, catching your attention:

‘Another power outage struck the East Side last week, with authorities pointing to the recent attacks on the city’s power grid. Though no group has claimed responsibility, speculation points to the villain known as Tempest.’

Chan feels himself tightening a bolt with a little more force than necessary as the report continues:

‘Sources close to the investigation say the damage could take weeks to repair, and citizens are growing increasingly concerned about the city’s ability to handle these incidents. Vigilante Red Comet was spotted at the scene of the attack, but the damage seems to have eclipsed even his abilities.’

There’s a beat of silence as he grabs a wrench off of the bench, before setting it down with a sigh. “We should talk about it.”

You sit up, brushing your hands on your coveralls. “Tempest?” you reply, more softly now. He sits up too, his back against the car’s wheel, gaze distant.

“Yeah,” Chan replies, his voice dropping. “It’s getting worse. He’s not just causing chaos anymore. He’s targeting the city’s infrastructure. Power plans, grids, anything that’ll knock out a large portion of the city. The hit on the east side—it was a disaster. People are starting to panic.”

“Jesus. Why? What does he want?”

Chan runs a hand through his hair, frustration etched into every line of his face. “He’s … unstable. I think he just thrives on destruction. There’s no rhyme of reason with him. He’s got power, and he wants to show it. Or, at least, that’s how it’s always been with him. Recently, he’s felt more calculated, like there’s something new at play.”

You nod, your face thoughtful. “You think he’s working with someone else?”

“Maybe,” He shrugs. “I can think of a few people who would profit from issues with the city grid.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, and you look like you’ve just had a realisation. Chan’s fingers tap the metal beside him, his adrenaline shooting up at the suggestion of new information. “So can I.” You say, slowly getting up from your seat on the floor.

“I have a few regulars that come by the store, less than clean people, if I’m being honest. They don’t tend to bother me much, but recently Mr Scott’s people have been coming around more than usual, and they were asking about you.”

Chan's eyes narrow at the mention of Mr Scott. The tension in his jaw is unmistakable, and his fingers curl into a fist by his side. "Scott’s people have been around here? Asking about me?" His voice is low, dangerous. He doesn’t like that you’re in the middle of this, that you’re even saying the name of a man he’s been trying to avoid for as long as he can remember.

You nod, your expression cautious. “Yeah, it was subtle at first. Just questions about who comes in, what work I’ve been doing lately, but the last time they came, they dropped your name. They didn’t ask directly, but it was clear they were fishing for information.”

Chan’s breath hitches. He pushes himself up from the ground, pacing slightly, his mind racing. “That’s not good. Scott’s been trying to get a foothold in the city’s underbelly for years, but if he’s working with Tempest…” He trails off, the weight of the implication hanging in the air.

“And you? Where do you fit into all this? Why are they after you?”

His head hangs back, staring at the ceiling for a long moment. “I’m the only one standing between them and control. Tempest sees me as the only real threat to his chaos, and Scott... well, Scott doesn’t like people he can’t control. He’s offered deals, threatened me, tried to recruit me. But I’m too unpredictable for him.”

There’s a heaviness to his words that makes you pause. “So that’s it? They want you gone because you’re the last line of defence.”

He nods, eyes closed. “If I slip up, if I lose... the city falls apart.”

You let out a low whistle, trying to break the tension. “No pressure, then.”

Chan smiles faintly, but the weight of it is crushing him. “Yeah, no pressure.”

“You know,” you say, nudging his knee with your foot, “for a guy who spends his nights punching villains and saving the city, you’re pretty bad at explaining the whole ‘hero’ thing. No flashy speeches, no dramatic pauses. I’m almost disappointed.”

He snorts, feeling the pressure draining from his body, just slightly. “Yeah, well, I didn’t get the ‘how to be a superhero’ handbook.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Clearly. Maybe I should write it for you. Chapter one: How to Not Get Stabbed.”

Chan chuckles, the sound rough but genuine, and the tension eases. Your teasing banter cuts through the weight of everything, pulling him back to the present, away from the looming threats of Tempest and Scott. He looks at you, really looks at you, and there’s something about the way you’re sitting there, so calm and grounded despite everything he’s just told you, that makes his heart skip a beat.

He’s always admired your strength, the way you handle yourself in situations that would break most people. But now, sitting here with you, there’s something more—something deeper that he’s been trying to ignore for too long. The way your eyes light up when you tease him, the subtle curve of your smile as you try to lighten the mood, even though you know how dangerous things have become.

His chest tightens, a sense of longing creeping in before he can stop it. God, how did I let it get this far? He’s been trying so hard to keep you at arm’s length, to convince himself that this was just a friendship, that you were just a part of his life he could protect from a distance. But sitting here with you now, he can’t deny it anymore. He feels something—something strong, something that terrifies him.

“You know,” you continue, leaning back and giving him a grin that makes his heart race, “I’m thinking of starting a new side hustle – PR for superheroes. I can make you look all mysterious and broody, like the city’s very own shadowy protector.”

He shakes his head, trying to ignore the flutter in his chest. This is dangerous. Not the banter, not the situation with Scott or Tempest, but this—this closeness, this pull he feels toward you. He wants to reach out, to close the gap between you, to tell you what’s been gnawing at him for weeks. But the thought of dragging you deeper into his world stops him cold.

You have no idea how much danger you’re already in just by being near him. If Scott or Tempest found out how much you meant to him … the thought sends a wave of fear crashing over him. He can’t let that happen.

He feels you watching him, your smile fading slightly as you sense his inner turmoil. “Hey,” you say, your voice softer now, more serious. “You okay?”

Chan nods, forcing a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

But you don’t buy it. “You know, you can talk to me, right? You don’t always have to be the tough guy. I mean, I know you’ve got the whole hero complex thing going on, but I’m not going anywhere.”

He swallows hard, your words hitting him like a punch to the gut. I’m not going anywhere. That’s what scares him. Because the more you stay, the more you get involved, the harder it’ll be to keep you safe.

You are halfway through reorganising your toolbox when you hear it – a heavy, deliberate knock on the garage door. There’s something about it, the measured calm, that instantly raises your hackles. You look around, and realise that the noise of your work and the bright lights above your head are dead giveaways that you’re still in the garage.

It’s not long before the knock comes again, and you get the sense that the third time won’t be so polite.

Swearing under your breath, you straighten up, trying to look as menacing as possible. You walk towards your door, not bothering to temper the sound of your footsteps. Your boots make a deliberate, echoing thud with each step as the tension in the room increases.

You yank the door open, not wanting to give whoever’s on the other side the satisfaction of forcing their way in. Two hulking figures fill the frame, their shadows stretching ominously into the garage. Their suits strain at the shoulders, muscles rippling beneath as they size you up. The one in front leans in slightly, his eyes cold and calculating.

“(Y/n),” he drawls, his voice a low rumble. “We need to have a word.”

The sound of your name rolling off his tongue makes your stomach twist, but you keep your expression hard, unflinching. Crossing your arms, keeping your stance wide and shoulders square, you look up and down at the man. “Funny. I’m not in the business of chit-chat. What do you want?”

The response doesn’t seem to satisfy them, and the next thing you know, you’re being hoisted up, your arms and legs swinging around furiously as the two men move you inside the garage, placing you down your desk chair.

The edge of your chair digs into your back as they force you into the center of the room. For a moment, panic surges, your heart hammering in your chest. Your breaths come quick and shallow, but then you see him.

The man from the crash steps into the light, his coat swaying slightly with each step as his eyes bore into yours, and the sight of him makes your blood run cold. His smile is familiar, twisted with cruelty, and it sends a wave of nausea through you. The two goons stand like statues beside you, blocking any potential escape route. You force yourself to stay calm, but the icy grip of fear claws at your chest.

“It’s nice to see you again, (Y/n).” He says smoothly, his voice laced with mockery. “Didn’t think I’d be back so soon, but it seems you’ve gotten yourself mixed up in something … unfortunate, and Mr Scott doesn’t like his pets to disobey his orders.” He stops just in front of you, towering over where you sit, pinned by his presence.

You grit your teeth, struggling to keep your emotions in check. Rage simmers beneath the surface, but your heart is still racing. “If you’ve come for more trouble, you’re going to regret it,” you spit out, your voice sharp despite the tremor you feel inside. You flick your gaze toward the two muscle-bound men, wondering how quickly you can move if this gets ugly.

The man in the coat laughs, a sound that chills you to the bone. “Oh, I think it’s you who’s going to regret it, sweetheart.” He leans in closer, his breath brushing against your cheek. “You’ve made some... interesting friends lately. Friends like the Red Comet. And that’s got Mr. Scott very curious. He doesn’t like being curious.”

Your stomach drops.

“I fix cars,” you say flatly, keeping your eyes trained in front of you. “Whoever walks through that door looking for a tune-up isn’t my business. Now unless you’ve got something that needs fixing, get out of my shop.”

The man straightens up, his smile fading as he gestures to the two goons. “Search the place.” They don’t hesitate, immediately scattering toward your workbench and tool racks, tearing through the space without any regard for your belongings.

You try to keep your breathing steady, but your mind races. If they find anything – any trace of the tech that linked you to the Red Comet – it could be the end for you.

“Stop!” you shout, jerking forward, but the goon behind you grabs your arm, yanking you back into the chair. Pain lances through your shoulder, and you twist against his grip, muscles straining, but he’s too strong.

“You’ve made this harder than it had to be,” the man in the coat says, stepping forward, his voice a mockery of sympathy. “But all we need are answers. Tell us what we want, and we’ll leave you in one piece.”

Your pulse races as you glance around, weighing your options. The tools are scattered across the floor, too far to reach easily. You know how to fight, but outnumbered three to one, it’s going to be a challenge. The man in the coat watches you closely, as if waiting for you to make a move.

The sound of metal clattering to the floor grabs everyone’s attention. One of the goons has knocked over a pile of parts, and in the chaos, you see your opening. With every ounce of strength left in you, you twist, wrenching yourself free. The adrenaline surges, your muscles burning as you lunge toward the nearest workbench, your fingers closing around the heavy wrench.

The sickening crack of metal meeting bone echoes through the garage as you swing the wrench at the goon’s head. He stumbles back, cursing in pain, but there’s no time to hesitate. Your breath is ragged, each gasp like fire in your lungs, and you scramble to your feet, racing toward the door.

But before you can make it, the second goon blocks your path. His fist swings toward you, and you barely duck in time, the force of the hit grazing your shoulder. The pain is sharp, but you ignore it, bringing the wrench up again and slamming it into his midsection. He doubles over with a grunt.

Before you can make it to the door, though, the man in the coat grabs you by the wrist, twisting your arm painfully behind your back.

“You should’ve stayed out of this,” he snarls, his voice dripping with venom. His grip tightens, and you bite back a cry as the pressure mounts, your muscles screaming in protest.

Just as you think he’s about to slam you into the ground, the door bursts open with a crash. In a blur of motion, the Red Comet sprints into the room, his fists a flurry of movement as he takes down the first goon in seconds.

His eyes lock onto yours, fury blazing behind his mask, and in a split second, he’s on the man in the coat. With a swift, brutal motion, he grabs him by the collar, slamming him against the wall. The impact reverberates through the garage, shaking the shelves as tools rattle.

“If you ever touch them again,” the Red Comet growls, his voice low and dangerous, “you won’t be walking out of here.”

The man’s smug expression falters, but before he can respond, the Red Comet knocks him out with a single blow, the thud of his body hitting the ground echoing in the now silent room.

You collapse against the nearest wall, your breath ragged, your muscles trembling from the exertion. The garage is still, the only sound the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears. The Red Comet turns to you, concern replacing the fury that had been there just moments before.

“Are you okay?” His voice is filled with worry as he steps closer, his hands hovering over your shoulders like he’s afraid to touch you, afraid you might break.

You nod, still catching your breath, the weight of everything crashing down on you. “I’m fine,” you manage, though your voice is shaky.

He shakes his head. “This is my fault. I should have never come here.”

You reach out, resting your hand on his arm. The fabric is terse and warm, and you can feel that his muscles are still tense beneath it. “I’m not some damsel in distress. I can handle myself.”

His jaw tightens for a moment, but he nods. “Still,” he says softly, “I’m sorry.”

You stare at him, your chest tightening as the weight of the situation settles between you.

The strained cough of one of the men is a quick reminder that the situation is yet to be over. You glance around, feeling panic building as you try to figure out what to do before they wake back up. “Do you have, like, protocol for this kind of thing?”

The Red Comet nods, his posture straightening as he seems to shift back into superhero mode. “Leave them with me.”

You hesitate, your eyes scanning the room again. The unconscious bodies of Mr. Scott’s men lay sprawled across the floor, and despite the superhero’s calm demeanour, the tension in the air still feels thick and suffocating. You want to argue, to insist that you stay and help clean up the mess. After all, this is your garage—they came here because of you.

But then you look over at him. His shoulders are tense, his jaw clenched, but he seems more confident and sure of himself.

“I’ll be back,” you say, your voice softer than you intended. “Fifteen minutes.”

He nods, his gaze never leaving yours. You can see the gratitude there, mixed with something deeper—something unspoken. And as you turn to leave, your heart feels heavy with the weight of everything unsaid between you.

You step outside, closing the garage door behind you and leaning against it, trying to steady your breathing. Your mind is spinning, replaying the events of the last few minutes over and over.

Fifteen minutes pass like a blur, and when you finally open the door again, the men are gone. The garage looks almost untouched, only the scatter of a few tools out of place letting you know that the confrontation ever happened. And the Red Comet is standing there, his back to you, head bowed slightly as if weighed down by something.

“All okay?” You call softly, stepping inside. Your voice feels too loud against the stillness.

He doesn’t respond at first. The silence that follows feels thick, uncomfortable, as though it's hiding words he’s not ready to speak. Your heart pounds harder in the quiet. You move forward, feeling unsure, and reach out to him, grabbing his arm and guiding him to sit with you at the workbench. His surprise flickers for a moment, but he doesn’t resist your touch.

"I can’t keep doing this,” he finally breaks the silence, his voice sounding so broken that it hurts to hear. “I can’t keep pretending this doesn’t affect you. That being around me doesn’t put you in danger.”

Your breath catches. For a split second, doubt clouds your mind – am I making a mistake being involved in this?

But before the uncertainty can take hold, you push it away. You take his covered hand in yours. “I know what I’m getting into. I knew the risks when I fixed your car, and I know them now. And I’m still here, aren’t I?”

He exhales, shaking his head. “It’s different now. They know about you, and they almost hurt you.”

The words hang in the air between you, an admittance of the truth that feels too heavy. A cold chill runs through you, the fear creeping in despite your resolve. But hearing the despair in his voice—the way it trembles with guilt—makes you push past your own fear. Is it dangerous? Yes. But leaving him, letting him deal with this burden alone, feels worse.

Reaching out, you gently lift his chin so that he’s forced to look at you. A small, determined smile forms on your lips. “Hey, you may have saved the day, but I had it covered. Don’t underestimate my skill with a wrench.”

A choked, sob-like laugh leaves him, and his shoulders crumple slightly, releasing the bundle of stress he’d been holding.

“Look,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “You’re just going to have to accept that I’m involved now; there’s nothing stopping that. And I don’t want it to. You’re not getting rid of me even if you try.”

A beat passes, and you wonder if you’ve pushed too far. His posture is so still that you feel like you cannot move an inch either.

His hands are the first to move, slowly and a little shakily. When they reach the bottom of his mask, you realise what he’s trying to do.

In a flash, you pull your own hands back to cover your eyes, the instinct to respect his privacy taking over. “I’m sorry,” you blurt out, feeling awkward in the silence. “I didn’t mean for-”

“Don’t apologise,” His voice is softer now, more vulnerable. There’s a rawness you haven’t heard before, unfettered by material. You keep your hands over your eyes, and jolt slightly as you feel his own covering yours. His fingers wrap around delicately, and gently pull the cover away from you. “I want you to see me.”

Slowly, hesitantly, you open your eyes, your heart thudding in your chest.

When you look up, he’s there—entirely unmasked, fully exposed. Your lips part, and you instinctively reach out, your fingertips ghosting over his jawline. He lets you, his skin warm beneath your touch.

He’s beautiful, each feature perfectly balanced in its own way. But there’s something deeper in his eyes, a mix of concern, fear, and vulnerability that pulls at you. You can’t look away, and yet, you feel your attention drawn towards his soft, full lips.

For a moment, you just stare, processing the weight of what he’s just done. He’s standing in front of you, fully exposed, fully himself, no longer hidden behind the persona of the Red Comet.

And then you smile, a euphoric beam that lights up your face. The corners of his mouth perks up in response, slowly exposing his teeth and gums, and you realise that you’ve uncovered his most beautiful feature.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly, as if he’s afraid of what you might think now that you’ve seen him. “You’re too good for this, for all the danger that comes with me.”

You shake your head, your grip on his hand tightening as you refuse to look away from him. “That’s not for you to decide. I choose to be here, with you. And we’re going to figure it out. Together.”

His eyes search yours, and for the first time, your see something break in him – something deep and guarded that’s been locked away from far too long.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he admits softly, his voice trembling. “I don’t think I could handle it.”

Your heart aches at the vulnerability in his words, and without thinking, you pull him into a hug. At first, he stiffens, like he’s not sure how to respond, but then, slowly, he wraps his arms around you, holding on tightly as if you’re the lifeline he didn’t know he needed.

“You won’t lose me,” you whisper into his shoulder, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling inside you. “I’m right here.”

For a long moment, neither of you says anything. The garage is quiet, the world outside seeming to fade away as the two of you sit there, holding onto each other in the dim light.

When he finally pulls back, there’s a softness in his eyes. “My name’s Chan. Lee Chan. I’d like you to know that, too.”

Your heart swells, and your head tilts forward. “Thank you for trusting me.” You say, hoping your sincerity is clear to him. “Chan.”

Hearing his name from your lips seems to soften his worry, bringing him a sense of calm. You both stay still, sitting close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body. The air between you feels charged with something unspoken. Your hand is still resting lightly on his cheek, your thumb brushing softly against his skin, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

His eyes flicker down to your lips, then back up to meet your gaze. His breathing hitches slightly. There’s a question in his eyes, a silent invitation.

Slowly, hesitantly, you close the distance between you. His breath mingles with yours, and just as your lips are about to meet, he pauses, as if giving you one last chance to pull away. But you don’t. You’re here, with him, and you want this.

When his lips finally press against yours, it’s soft at first, almost tentative, like he’s afraid of moving too fast. But then the kiss deepens, and all the tension, the fear, the vulnerability between you melts away. It’s as if everything you’ve both been holding back—the uncertainty, the emotions you couldn’t quite voice—comes rushing out in this one moment.

His hand moves to cup your face, pulling you closer as the kiss grows more urgent, more certain. You feel the warmth of his skin, the way his body moves against yours, and it’s like nothing else matters.

As you start to peel the suit from his body, careful to avoid touching the side he’d been stabbed, you reveal more and more of him. Your head swirls with thoughts of him – not just of the muscled body that now presses against yours, but of the vulnerability of the moment; the superhero allowing you to see all of him after so much hiding.

It makes you feel euphoric, being allowed a peak under the mask, knowing that he trusts you enough to let you.

As your own clothes are removed, you don’t feel any shyness. The tenderness of his reveal is enough to put you at ease, to want to give yourself to him.

He’s beautiful under your eyes, chest heaving as you wrap your legs over his, gently positioning yourself on top of him. The way your name falls from his lips, in the voice you know best of all, only makes you feel more eager to please him.

The movement of your bodies against each other is slow, subtle. It’s quiet, other than the breathy moans that escape you and him. It’s not the type of intimacy you’re used to – quick flings with rough strangers to satiate a need are completely different to the unhurried, deliberate push and pull between you.

It hits you part way through, as Chan’s hands flutter over your hips, that he must be holding back to not hurt you. A man with super strength, his grip the gentleness you’ve ever known. You wonder what it would be like to have him at full strength, pounding into you, another time. But, now, you’re addicted to the slow movements, the hesitant touches, and almost teasing way he’s dragging you both towards completion.

You fall flat onto him, your body twitching slightly with exhaustion as you finally reach the peak, unable to tear your eyes away from his face, scared that if you look away you’ll never see it again.

He’s panting beneath you, head thrown back in bliss, but he’s cradling your body, holding you up as you’re unable to do it yourself.

Here, curled up into his grasp, you feel the safest you’ve ever felt. You want to tell him as much, let him know how much you appreciate him, but you can’t say anymore, too fulfilled to do anything but let your eyes flicker shut.

The hum of the city has changed.

What once was the usual rhythm of car horns, distant chatter, and the thrum of daily life has been replaced by something more unsettling – a tension hanging in the air that you can feel in your bones. The streets seem quieter, but not in a peaceful way. It is the kind of quiet that came just before a storm. A charged silence.

You stand in the doorway of your garage, leaning against the frame, arms crossed as you take in the atmosphere of the Lower South Rim. Even in your rough corner of the city, people are moving differently. Heads down, quick steps, and nervous glances thrown over their shoulders. There are more empty storefronts than usual, their "closed" signs flipped down in the middle of the day.

The power cuts have been getting more frequent. A few seconds here and there at first, and then they started lasting longer—whole city blocks going dark for hours. You think back on what Chan said about Tempest, about his attacks on the power plants and grid, and wonder what the next step is.

You can hear the buzz of a TV playing from the diner across the street, the static of an emergency news broadcast cutting through the afternoon haze. The voice of the newscaster drifts through the open window, tired and strained.

‘...no official statement from the Mayor’s office yet, but sources say that tonight’s blackout could affect up to 40 percent of the city’s power grid...’

You can’t help but let out a slow breath, your eyes narrowing as you scan the horizon, the towering skyscrapers of downtown standing like sentinels in the distance. Even from here, you can feel the anxiety that’s creeping its way into the heart of the city. People are scared. And for good reason.

A flicker of movement catches your attention, and you glance down the street. Two men in heavy coats are standing outside the old hardware store, their eyes shifting nervously as they talk in low voices. Normally, you wouldn’t think twice about it, but something about their hurried conversation and the way they keep looking around sets off alarm bells in your head.

You strain to catch snippets of their conversation as they move closer to your side of the street.

"...another one tonight... Tempest, they say..."

"...power plant’s next... you hear about Brewer’s Quarter? That’s not just a coincidence..."

Your heart clenches at the mention of Tempest, and the knot in your stomach tightens.

The men glance your way, cutting their conversation short as they catch sight of you standing there. You raise your chin slightly, meeting their gaze, and they turn and disappear down an alley without another word.

For a second, you consider following them, but then you catch the low growl of an engine coming up the street. It’s a familiar sound—Chan’s car. The sleek, black frame pulls up in front of the garage, its polished exterior gleaming in the dull afternoon light.

His eyes meet yours as he gets out of he car, and you can see the tension in his shoulders, the faint lines of worry etched into his face.

“Another blackout,” you say, nodding toward the TV screen in the diner. “And it sounds like Tempest is involved.”

Chan’s gaze flickers toward the diner as he listens to the broadcast for a moment. Then he looks back at you, his voice low. “It’s worse than that. I think I’ve figured out what Tempest and Scott are planning.”

You frown, stepping aside so that he can follow you into the garage. The heavy steel door shuts behind him with a dull clang, sealing the two of you away from the restless streets outside. The familiar smell of oil wraps around you like a protective barrier, but even in here the tension of the city’s looming crisis feels suffocating.

“What’d you find out?” You ask, your voice low with concern as you monitor the stormy look on his face. Your hand stretches out, instinctively wanting to make him feel better, and you settle it on his shoulder, drawing small circles on the tense skin.

He rolls his neck, letting out a long sigh. “Tempest is targeting the main power plant. If he pulls this off, it’s not just going to be a few blackouts. The whole city will go dark. Emergency services, hospitals, everything will be offline.”

Your stomach drops. “He wants to take out the whole grid?”

Chan nods, his eyes hard. “And Scott’s working with him. He’s planning to seize control of the city once Tempest throws everything into disorder. They’ve been building towards this for weeks. Those smaller blackouts were just tests. Tonight’s the real deal.”

A chill runs down your spine as the weight of the situation sinks in. The whole city could be plunged into darkness – people trapped in hospitals, traffic systems down, everything coming to a halt. And in the chaos, Scott would swoop in, consolidating power and taking control while everyone else is scrambling to survive.

“How do we stop them?” You ask, your voice steadier than you feel.

Chan straightens up, his gaze snapping round to you. “Nuh-uh, there’s no ‘we’. I’m not letting you put yourself in danger.”

You feel a slight prickle of irritation that he doesn’t trust you enough to let you help, but its tempered as you realise that he just cares about you. But, he’s wrong, and you think he knows it. There’s no way that he’s going to be able to stop Tempest and Scott at the same time, and your engineering expertise is too useful in this situation for him to stick you at home.

“Chan,” you say, softly, watching him shiver as you say his name. “There’s no way that you can do this alone. Please, let me help.”

The air between you feels charged, as if the storm Tempest is brewing outside has somehow seeped into the garage, thickening the tension. Chan’s eyes flash with conflict, his body tensing further at your words. For a long moment, he doesn’t respond, his jaw tightening as he looks away, his gaze fixating on the far wall as if searching for the right words there.

“No,” he says, but his voice is softer than before, lacking the firm conviction you were expecting. “I can’t risk it.”

Your hand remains on his shoulder, your fingers still tracing soothing circles, but you can feel the tension rippling beneath his skin. He’s at war with himself, caught between wanting to protect you and knowing deep down that you’re right.

“Chan,” you say again, more firmly this time. His name feels like a thread that connects the two of you, tugging at something vulnerable and raw beneath his guarded exterior. And when his eyes finally meet yours, there’s a flicker of fear, not for the situation, but fear for you.

“You’re not a liability,” you continue, your voice gentle but steady. “You know I’m not. I can help with this. You need me.”

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair in frustration, his fingers tangling briefly in the strands. “It’s not that I don’t think you can help. I know you can. That’s what scares me.” His voice is strained, the words heavy with the weight of something unspoken. “If anything happens to you…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, but the implication hangs in the air, thick and suffocating. You can see the battle playing out in his mind—the need to keep you safe warring with the reality of what’s at stake. He’s terrified of losing you, of dragging you into a world of danger that he’s never wanted for you.

And you have to decide for yourself too. The city’s fate hangs in the balance, and you can viscerally feel the weight of it pressing down on your shoulders. This isn’t something you’ve done before, you’re not superhuman like he is, and even if you have a good swing, you’re not a trained fighter.

But, as the fear about what will happen to you ripples between you, you feel your own fear for him fighting back, equally as strong. “If you go out there alone, you might not come back. And then what? What do you think that’ll do to me?” You step closer, your hand sliding down from his shoulder to his chest. His heart is pounding beneath your touch.

He freezes at your words, his breath catching. You watch as his defences start to crack, realising that everything he’s feeling about you, you’re mirroring straight back to him.

“I’m not asking you to put me in harm’s way,” you continue, your voice soft but insistent. “But we’re a team. We’ve been through enough together that you know I can handle myself. And you know I won’t sit by while the city falls apart.”

His eyes close briefly, as if he’s trying to block out the truth in your words.

When he opens his eyes again, they’re filled with a mix of longing and fear, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine.

“You mean too much to me,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, as if admitting it aloud makes it too real. “I can’t lose you. Not like this.”

Your breath hitches at the vulnerability in his voice, at the raw emotion that’s finally breaking through. The tension between you tightens, like a taut wire about to snap. The air feels electric, charged not just with the danger outside, but with the undeniable pull between the two of you.

You step even closer, your body now inches from his. “Then don’t push me away,” you murmur, your hand still resting over his heart. “Let me stand by your side, Chan. We’re stronger together.”

For a split second, you think he’s going to close the distance, to give in to the longing that’s been simmering beneath the surface. His gaze flickers down to your lips, his breath coming quicker as he leans in just a fraction.

But then, just as quickly, he pulls back, taking a step away from you. The sudden distance feels like a physical blow, and you can see the pain in his eyes as he forces himself to pull away.

“Alright,” he says quietly, his voice filled with resignation. “But we do this my way.”

Relief washes over you, but it’s tempered by the new distance between you.

Chan straightens up, his face set with grim determination. You watch him morph into superhero-mode, no longer the man you know. “We go to the plant. Tempest won’t go down easy, but he’s not the brains behind this. Scott’s pulling the strings. Tempest just wants to destroy—Scott wants control. If we can cut off their communication and disable whatever tech Scott’s got rigged at the plant, we might have a shot at stopping them both.”

You let out a slow breath. “And what do you want me to do?”

“I’ll need you to guide me through the plant while I handle Tempest.” Chan continues, his voice frighteningly calm.

You watch as he begins emptying out his backpack – things you don’t recognise but know are meant for the kind of fight that’s coming. His suit comes out next, and you realise that you shouldn’t go in there unprotected either.

As if having the same thought, he pulls out a set of spare clothes. They’re his, and they sit slightly too large on you, but they give you some protection and hide your identity.

He moves to the garage door, pushing it open to reveal the darkening city streets beyond. The sun is already starting to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the buildings.

"We’ve got maybe an hour before they hit the plant," Chan says, his voice low and urgent. "We need to get there before Scott’s men lock it down."

You follow him to the car, your heart pounding in your chest as you climb into the passenger seat. The engine roars to life, and within seconds, you’re speeding through the streets of the Lower South Rim. The city rushes by in a blur of neon lights and dark alleys, but all you can think about is what’s waiting for you at the power plant.

The power plant looms ahead, a dark silhouette against the evening sky. The hum of machinery grows louder as Chan and you approach, its rhythmic thrum pulsing through the ground beneath your feet. The towering smoke and tangled networks of high-voltage lines have Chan biting his lip in anticipation of what sort of damage Tempest could do in this place.

He stops the car just outside the perimeter fence, far enough away to avoid being spotted by the guards patrolling the gates. He cuts the engine, and for a moment, the only sound is the distant buzz of electricity and the faint whistle of the wind through the nearby trees.

“We go in quiet.” Chan says, turning towards you. He feels almost unable to meet your eyes, and is suddenly grateful that the mask means that you cannot see his. His voice sounds urgent, pleading, and all he wants to do is tell you to stay here. But, instead, he has to be content with urging you to stay safe. “Tempest will be inside by now, and Scott’s men will be guarding every entrance.”

You follow his lead, slipping out of the car and crouching low as you both move toward the fence. The power plant’s lights flicker sporadically, casting eerie shadows across the yard.

“Here,” he whispers, pointing to a section of the fence he’d scouted out earlier that day. “There’s a gap in the security feed by the northeast corner. We can slip through there without setting off the alarms.”

You nod, your eyes scanning the perimeter for any sign of movement.

Chan pulls out a small cutting tool from his belt and makes quick work of the chain-link, creating a narrow opening just wide enough for the two of you to slip through.

"Stay close," Chan whispers, pulling you to your feet as the two of you creep through the shadows toward one of the smaller side entrances.

The place is heavily guarded – more than he expected. Groups of armed men patrol the exterior, their faces hidden behind black masks, each carrying enough firepower to take out half the neighbourhood. He can count at least three groups circling the building, their movement precise and practiced.

"They’re serious," you murmur under your breath, ducking behind a stack of shipping crates as one of the patrols passes dangerously close.

"Scott doesn’t leave anything to chance," Chan replies, his eyes narrowed as he watches the guards move. "But we’ve got an advantage. They don’t know we’re coming."

He feels like he’s trying to convince himself more than he’s trying to convince you.

“Can we take them?” You ask, glancing over. He has to stifle a small laugh, taken off guard by your instinct to run right into the fray of it.

Pulling a small device from his pocket, he shows it to you. “We don’t have to. This will scramble their comms for a few minutes – just long enough for us to get inside without raising the alarm.”

He activates the device and tosses it towards the guard post. Within seconds, the guards’ radios crackle with static, and they begin frantically tapping at their earpieces, trying to regain contact with their base.

"Now," Chan whispers, grabbing your hand and pulling you toward the door.

You move quickly together, your footsteps silent against the concrete as you weave through the shadows. The guards are distracted, their attention focused on their malfunctioning radios, and you slip past them without a sound. It feels almost too easy, like he’s holding his breath, waiting for something to go wrong.

As you reach the door, Chan presses his hand against the electronic keypad, and the door clicks open with a soft hiss. You slip inside, the dimly lit hallway stretching out before you. The air inside the power plant is thick with the smell of metal and oil, the low hum of the generators reverberating through the walls. He wonders if it smells is at least a little comforting to you.

"This way," Chan says, nodding toward the far end of the corridor. "We need to reach the control room. If Scott’s got his tech set up, that’s where it’ll be." His eyes dart around the darkened hallway. The place feels like a maze—industrial pipes and steel beams crisscrossing overhead, the walls lined with electrical panels and junction boxes. Every corner feels like a potential ambush, every shadow a threat.

"How far to the control room?" you ask, your voice barely more than a whisper.

"Two floors up," Chan replies, glancing over his shoulder at you. "There’s a service elevator near the back. We can use it to bypass the main floors."

Just as you reach the service elevator, a crackling voice echoes through the plant’s PA system, sending a chill down Chan’s spine.

‘All units, be advised: intruders detected. Sweep the lower floors. Shoot on sight.’

Chan curses under his breath, his fingers hovering over the elevator button. "We don’t have time for subtle anymore," he mutters, pressing the button as the sound of footsteps and barking orders echo through the corridors behind you.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft ding, and you and Chan slip inside, the doors closing just as the first group of guards rounds the corner. He catches a glimpse of their rifles as they move past, their boots thudding against the concrete. He takes the moment to glance over at you, and although he knows you’ve seen the guards as well, you appear steady and calm.

The doors slide open with a soft hiss, and you step out into a narrow hallway, the control room just ahead. But before you can move, Chan grabs your arm, his eyes wide with urgency.

"Listen to me," he says, his voice low and serious. "Once we’re inside, things are going to get messy. I need you to stay close, and if things go south, you get out. No arguments. Just run."

You blink, caught off guard by the intensity in his voice. "What are you talking about? I’m not leaving you in there alone."

Chan’s grip tightens slightly, his gaze locking with yours. "If something happens to me, you need to get out. Promise me."

You open your mouth to argue, but the look in his eyes stops you cold. He’s not asking. He’s telling you.

Swallowing hard, you nod. "Okay. I promise."

Chan lets out a breath, his shoulders relaxing just slightly. "Good."

He releases your arm, and the two of you move toward the control room. The door is just ahead, the hum of machinery louder than ever as you approach.

With one final glance at Chan, you push the door open.

The massive door creaks open, revealing the control room – sprawling, cold, and sterile. Row upon row of screens flicker with data, tracking every part of the city’s power grid. You can see the central control panel at the far end, its flashing lights indicating the system's full capacity. If Tempest gets his way, the entire city will be plunged into chaos.

But there’s no time to appreciate the magnitude of it all.

Standing next to the control panel, you see Tempest for the first time. His eyes glow with a crackling blue energy that dances along his fingertips. His face is twisted in a cold, sinister smile as he watches the screens.

At the far end of the room, perched in front of one of the larger monitors, is Mr Scott. He’s leaning back in his chair, completely at ease, his sharp suit unwrinkled, as if this whole operation is just another day at the office. His eyes flicker toward you and Chan as you enter, a slow, calculated smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Well, well," Scott drawls, his voice oozing with smug confidence. "The city’s little hero, right on schedule. And you brought company. How quaint."

Tempest’s gaze snaps toward you, the crackling energy in his hands intensifying. His grin widens, and you can feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end as the air around him grows charged with electricity.

"Red Comet," Tempest growls, his voice a low rumble of thunder. "I’ve been waiting for this."

Chan tenses beside you, his muscles coiling like a spring ready to explode. You can see the weight of the situation bearing down on him, the knowledge that every second counts. One wrong move, and Tempest will fry the entire plant.

But it’s Scott’s next words that make your blood run cold.

"I’m impressed, Red Comet," Scott continues, his voice smooth as silk. "Not many people would be brave—or foolish—enough to bring someone they care about into a situation like this."

His eyes flick toward you, and suddenly, you realize what’s happening. Scott knows. He’s figured out who you are, and worse, he’s figured out how much you mean to Chan.

For a moment, everything seems to freeze. You can feel the weight of Chan’s gaze on you, the unspoken fear that he’s been trying to keep hidden now laid bare.

"Don’t listen to him," Chan whispers, his voice tight with barely contained fury. "He’s just trying to get in your head."

But Scott’s smile only widens, his eyes gleaming with malicious glee. "Oh, I don’t need to get in your head. I’ve already won. Tempest, if you’d be so kind…"

Tempest raises his hand, and in an instant, the air around you crackles with electricity. You can feel the charge building, the hair on your arms standing on end as the temperature in the room seems to spike. The power plant’s machinery groans in protest, the lights flickering as Tempest channels his energy into the room.

Chan reacts in a flash, grabbing your arm and pulling you behind one of the large control consoles just as a bolt of lightning crashes into the floor where you were standing. The air is filled with the smell of burning metal, and the ground shakes beneath you as Tempest unleashes another wave of energy, sending sparks flying.

"You okay?" Chan asks, his voice tight with worry as he crouches beside you, his back pressed against the console.

You nod, your heart pounding in your chest, the adrenaline coursing through your veins. "Yeah. I’m fine."

But there’s no time to catch your breath. The room is a war zone now—Tempest’s lightning bolts crackle through the air, shattering monitors and sending showers of sparks raining down around you. Scott’s men scramble for cover, their rifles raised, but they’re clearly outmatched by Tempest’s raw power.

Chan’s eyes scan the room, searching for an opening. " “We need to split them up,” he mutters, his eyes scanning the room. “I’ll keep Tempest busy. You get to the control panel and shut down the grid. That’ll cut his power supply.”

His body softens for a second, as if he’s realised something. “Please, be safe. I lo-”

A spike of panic riles your body, and you put your finger on his lips, shaking your head. “Not now. Afterwards.” You know what he’s doing, giving you one last goodbye in case something goes wrong, but you’re not going to let that happen.

With one last look, Chan stands, his body moving with a grace and fluidity that belies the tension in the air. "Tempest!" he shouts, drawing the villain’s attention away from the rest of the room.

Tempest’s head snaps toward him, his eyes narrowing as a cruel smile spreads across his face. "Running away already, hero?"

Chan doesn’t respond. Instead, he leaps into action, moving with lightning speed as he closes the distance between himself and Tempest. The two of them clash in a violent burst of energy, Chan’s fists moving in a blur as he dodges and weaves around Tempest’s attacks.

You watch in awe for a moment, until the pair crash out of the control room, leaving you alone with your task. And Mr Scott.

Ducking low, you sprint across the room, weaving between the shattered remains of monitors and control panels until you reach the central console. Your heart pounds as you reach the panel, your fingers trembling as you start scanning for the emergency shutoff switch.

The control panel is a mess—wires sparking, glass shattered—but you spot the emergency switch buried beneath a layer of debris. Just as your hand reaches for it, a shadow falls over you.

“Now, now,” a smooth, chilling voice says. “Where do you think you’re going?”

You freeze, your breath catching in your throat as you turn to see Mr. Scott standing just a few feet away. His expression is cool and collected, but there’s a dangerous gleam in his eyes.

“Did you really think I’d let you shut down my operation so easily?” Scott steps closer, his presence suffocating as he corners you against the control panel. “You’ve been very helpful, of course, playing your little part. But I’m afraid your time’s up.”

“You’re wrong,” you say, your voice trembling slightly but defiant. “You can’t win this.”

Scott chuckles, a low, mocking sound. “Oh, I already have. Tempest is keeping your little hero occupied. You really think Chan can save the city and you?” He steps even closer, his eyes narrowing. “He’s going to have to choose. And I know what heroes always choose—they save the city, and they let the people they care about burn.”

Fear claws at your chest. Scott’s words are like poison, seeping into your mind. You know Chan, you trust him, but in this moment, Scott’s chilling logic feels too real. You glance at the control panel, your fingers brushing against the switch. If you could just reach it…

But Scott is faster. He lunges, grabbing your wrist in a crushing grip, and slams your hand down on the panel, pinning you in place. “You’re not going anywhere,” he sneers.

Panic surges through you. You try to struggle, but Scott’s hold is like iron, unyielding. Your mind races, heart pounding as you glance desperately toward the outside, but Chan is nowhere to be seen.

Scott’s grip tightens on your wrist, and he leans in close, his voice a cold whisper in your ear. “See? He can’t save you. He’s too busy fighting for his precious city. And you… well, you’re just collateral damage.”

You grit your teeth, anger rising in you as Scott’s taunts cut deep. But then, out of the corner of your eye, you spot something – a heavy metal pipe, half-buried under a pile of debris.

Without hesitation, you spit in Mr Scott’s face.

He staggers back slightly, a furious yell retching out of his mouth. It’s all you need. You lunge forward, loosening his grip on your wrist, and close your free hand around the cold metal. With all the strength you can muster, you swing the pipe up and slam it into Scott’s arm.

He curses, and you yank your hand free. You fall backwards, breathless and shaking, but you don’t hesitate. You dive for the emergency shutoff switch, slamming your hand down on it. The room plunges into darkness as the power grid shuts off, the hum of electricity fading into silence.

Chan barely has time to move before Tempest is on him, unleashing a bolt of lightning that crackles through the air with a deafening roar. The strike slams into Chan’s side, sending him flying across the room. He crashes into a metal column, the impact knowing the wind out of him.

Tempest strides forward, his eyes glowing an eerie blue as arcs of electricity pulse around him. His grin is wide, feral, and filled with malice.

Chan groans, pushing himself up on shaky arms, his muscles screaming in protest. The force of the lightning has left a sharp, burning pain radiating through his body, his skin tingling and raw from the electric blast. He staggers to his feet, trying to catch his breath, but there’s no time. Tempest’s next attack is already coming—a barrage of lightning bolts raining down from above.

Chan dives to the side, rolling behind the column as the floor where he stood moments ago explodes in a shower of sparks and shattered concrete. The heat from the lightning is intense, the air thick with the smell of ozone and scorched metal.

He grits his teeth, struggling to keep his focus. Tempest is stronger than ever, feeding off the power grid, the electricity in the room swirling around him like a living thing. Every movement is effortless, every attack precise and brutal. Chan’s every muscle aches, and he can feel the burn of his injuries starting to slow him down.

He knows he’s outmatched while Tempest is drawing power from the grid, but there’s no backing down now. The city’s fate—and yours—rests on him holding Tempest off long enough for you to shut down the power.

He darts out from cover, launching himself toward Tempest in a blur of movement. His fists connect with Tempest’s chest in a rapid series of strikes, each punch landing with a dull thud against the villain’s armour. But Tempest barely flinches, his body crackling with electricity, his smirk widening as he grabs Chan by the arm, sending a surge of lightning coursing through him.

Chan screams, his body convulsing in pain as the electricity sears through his nerves. His vision blurs, his muscles locking up as he struggles to break free. Tempest's grip tightens, his laughter booming like thunder as he watches Chan writhe in agony.

"Pathetic," Tempest sneers, throwing Chan across the room like a ragdoll. Chan crashes into a bank of machinery, the sharp edges biting into his back as he collapses to the ground. His chest heaves, his body shaking uncontrollably from the aftershocks of the lightning. Every nerve feels raw, every movement like fire.

For a moment, he can barely move. He hears Tempest’s footsteps approaching, the crackling energy growing louder with each step. Chan’s vision swims as he tries to push himself up, his limbs sluggish, the weight of the fight pressing down on him. Tempest looms over him, the villain’s eyes glowing brighter as he raises his hand, ready to deliver the final blow.

“You’re done, Comet,” Tempest growls. “Your city is done.”

Chan’s breath comes in ragged gasps, his mind racing. He’s out of options, out of strength. But then, through the haze of pain, he thinks of you. You’re trying to shut down the grid—buying him time, risking your life to stop Tempest. He can’t let you down. He can’t let you face this alone.

With a pained groan, Chan forces himself to his feet, swaying slightly as he stands. His body protests every movement, but he grits his teeth, pushing through the pain. He raises his fists, squaring his shoulders as he locks eyes with Tempest. “I’m not done yet,” he growls, his voice filled with defiance.

Tempest’s smile falters for a moment, irritation flashing across his face. “You should’ve stayed down,” he spits, raising both hands, lightning coiling around his arms in a deadly swirl.

The air hums with electric tension, and for a heartbeat, time seems to freeze. Chan braces himself for the incoming strike, every instinct screaming at him to dodge, to move, but his body is slow to respond, his muscles stiff from the earlier shocks. He knows he’s not fast enough. Not this time.

But just as Tempest unleashes the full force of his power, the room suddenly plunges into darkness. The lights flicker once, then die. The hum of electricity disappears, leaving only silence in its wake.

Tempest freezes, his hands still crackling with fading energy, but his powers falter—flickering like a dying flame. His eyes widen in shock as the realization hits him.

The power grid is down.

Chan feels the shift immediately. The oppressive weight of Tempest’s electric aura vanishes, the air stilling as the last crackle of lightning fizzles out. Tempest stumbles, his control over the electric currents slipping through his fingers.

Chan takes the opportunity. With Tempest momentarily weakened, he surges forward, his body moving on pure adrenaline. His fist connects with Tempest’s jaw in a brutal uppercut, sending the villain staggering back. Before Tempest can recover, Chan grabs him by the collar, pulling him close.

“This ends now,” Chan growls through gritted teeth.

Tempest’s eyes widen in fury, but without the power grid to fuel him, his strength is faltering. Chan slams him into the ground, pinning him with a knee to the chest. Tempest struggles, his hands sparking weakly with residual electricity, but it’s no use. The fight has been drained out of him.

From across the room, he hears your voice crackle through the earpiece. “I did it—the power’s down, but—Scott’s here! I need—”

Your voice cuts off suddenly, and Chan’s heart drops.

“Hold on,” he mutters, his grip tightening on Tempest’s collar. He delivers one final punch to the villain, knocking him out cold, before rising to his feet, every part of him screaming in pain. But there’s no time to rest. You’re in danger, and Scott is still out there.

Without hesitation, Chan takes off, sprinting through the now-darkened room, desperate to reach you before it’s too late.

Chan races through the maze of darkened corridors, his heart pounding in his chest, every step driving him closer to you. His breath is ragged, and every muscle in his body aches, but the thought of you alone, facing Scott, fuels him. He can’t let anything happen to you. Not after everything.

He rounds a corner and skids to a halt as he hears voices ahead—yours and Scott’s. The sound sends a chill down his spine, the urgency in your voice mixing with the low, taunting rumble of Scott’s.

“I told you,” Scott says, his tone dripping with mockery. “Your little boyfriend can’t save you. He’s too busy with Tempest to even know you’re in danger.”

Chan’s heart clenches at Scott’s words, and he presses himself against the wall, moving silently toward the source of the sound. He peers around the corner and his blood runs cold.

There you are, backed into a corner near the control panel, Scott towering over you with a cruel smile on his face. His fingers trace a small, menacing blade in his hand, the tip glinting in the dim emergency lights. You’re holding your own, standing tall despite the fear that’s clear in your eyes, but Chan can see the tension in your shoulders.

Chan's breath catches in his throat as he watches the scene unfold. His first instinct is to charge in, but something makes him hesitate, his heart pounding even harder. It's you—there’s something in the way you’re standing, the way your movements subtly inch you towards the metal pipe lying next to the control centre. You’re not just holding your own—you’re planning something.

“I’ve been in worse situations,” you say, your voice tight but steady, the words slipping through gritted teeth. “And you’re not nearly as intimidating as you think.”

Scott laughs, a low, cruel sound. He steps closer, the tip of the blade catching the dim light, and Chan tenses.

“I’m not looking to intimidate,” Scott sneers, “I’m just making a point. Once Tempest brings the city to its knees, people like you won’t have a place anymore. There won’t be anyone to run to. No heroes. No Red Comet to save you.”

You shift slightly, your gaze flickering to the corner of the room. Chan follows, and his heart skips a beat as he spots it – a small metal canister tucked away near the base of one of the computer systems.

“Shut up,” you snap, your voice filled with a fiery determination Chan has always admired in you. “You talk too much.”

Scott’s smirk falters for a second, and in that moment, you move. In one swift motion your hand snatches up the heavy pipe from the floor and, with all the strength you can muster, hurl it towards the canister of compressed air.

The wrench strikes the canister with a sharp clang, and for a heartbeat, nothing happens. Scott’s eyes widen, his smirk faltering as he processes what you’ve just done. Then, with a deafening whoosh, the canister bursts open, releasing a blast of compressed air with explosive force. The sudden eruption knocks over machinery, sending a wave of sparks into the air, and ignites a small fire as it hits an exposed electrical panel.

Chan darts in, fear spiking as the room plunges into chaos.

Scott stumbles back, his arrogant composure shattering as the explosion disorients him. He throws his arms up to shield his face from the heat and debris, his confident swagger replaced with pure instinctual panic.

"WHAT—" Scott shouts, but his words are drowned out by the roar of the flames licking at the side of the control panel, smoke curling into the air. The ground trembles beneath your feet as the machinery in the room jolts, sparking uncontrollably from the burst.

You dive forward, using the confusion to close the distance between you and Scott. He’s still reeling, eyes darting around the room in shock, trying to regain his bearings, but you’re faster. You slam your shoulder into him, knocking him off balance. His knife clatters to the floor as he stumbles, barely catching himself on the edge of a console.

“No more talking,” you grit out, grabbing a broken-off piece of equipment from the floor. You swing it with precision, striking Scott’s leg just below the knee. He cries out, collapsing to the floor in a heap, pain and fury etched across his face.

You step back, panting heavily, and spot Chan. He’s standing in the doorway, his chest heaving with exertion, eyes wide with a mixture of shock and relief. For a moment, the noise and confusion around you both seem to fade, leaving only the two of you. His gaze flickers from you to Scott lying on the floor, and then back to you. He can’t help but be overwhelmed with pride for you.

He rushes forward, dodging a sparking cable that snaps to the ground beside him. “Are you hurt?” he asks, his voice filled with barely contained urgency. His hands hover near your shoulders, wanting to touch, to check for injuries.

“I’m fine,” you breathe out, though your hands tremble. “I had it under control.”

Chan shakes his head, disbelief mingling with a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I saw that.”

Before he can finish, a groan from the floor snaps both of your attention back to Scott, who is struggling to push himself up, his face contorted in pain. His eyes, wild with anger, lock onto you and Chan, but there’s a flicker of something else there—fear.

“You think this is over?” Scott spits, his voice hoarse and filled with venom. “Tempest is already—”

“-is already beaten.” Chan cuts in, his voice low and dangerous. He steps forward, his body tensed like a spring coiled up, waiting for a release. Scott’s arrogant demeanour falters. His eyes flicker between you and Chan, weighing his options, and for the first time, it’s clear—he knows he’s lost control.

Scott's face twists in frustration as he struggles to comprehend his downfall. His once smooth and confident façade now appears cracked, broken by the realization that his carefully orchestrated plan has failed.

"You’re finished," Chan growls, stepping closer, his presence looming over Scott like a shadow. "Tempest is down, and your men are scattered. It’s over."

Scott’s jaw clenches, his hands balling into fists as he scrambles to pull himself together, grasping for the last shred of control. "You don’t understand," he spits. "You might’ve stopped me here, but this city... it’s already rotting. You can’t save everyone, and when it crumbles, you’ll fall with it."

Chan’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t flinch. "Maybe. But not today."

With a final blow, Chan knocks him unconscious. The room falls silent except for the distant crackle of the damaged electronics and the faint hum of the emergency lights flickering on.

As Chan turns to face you, his features softened in the dim light, a sense of relief washes over both of you.

He steps closer, searching your eyes for any lingering fear or doubt. But instead, he only finds exhaustion and a shared understanding of what you’ve both just survived. His hand reaches out, cupping your cheek gently as his thumb brushes against your skin, wiping away the smudge of ash from the battle.

His breath hitches, the emotion of it all threatening to overwhelm him as you stare at each other. He takes a deep breath, pulling you into his arms, holding you tightly, afraid to let go. You cling to him, feeling the steady beat of his heart against yours, a grounding rhythm to remind you that you’re both still here.

“I’m not letting you go,” Chan says softly, his voice thick with emotion. “Not now, not ever.”

You smile, your heart swelling as you look into his eyes. “Good,” you whisper back. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

And in that moment, with the city still buzzing in the background, the chaos subsiding, and the weight of the battle falling away, Chan closes the gap between you, pulling his mask out of the way, and kisses you. It’s slow and deliberate, filled with the kind of tenderness that only comes from knowing that you’ve both found each other on the other side of something dark and dangerous.

And as you pull back, resting your forehead against his, he knows that whatever the future holds, you’ll face it together.

You look up at him, your eyes sparkling under the glowing light of the plant. A small, soft smile curves your lips, your face contorting as if you’ve remembered something important. “I love you.”

Chan’s entire body stutters at your words. His breath catches, and for a moment, he’s complete still, feeling like the world has stopped spinning around him.

“I love you,” you repeat, your voice quieter now, more certain. The words hang in the air between you, vulnerable and raw, yet filled with a warmth that settles into every corner of the moment.

Chan exhales slowly, his grip on you tightening just a little, as if anchoring himself to the reality of what you’ve just said. His hand slides up to cup your face, his thumb brushing tenderly across your cheek. He opens his mouth, his voice hoarse with emotion. “I love you too. And I don’t know how to do that without pulling you into this fight, but I know that I can’t keep pretending that I don’t feel this.”

The world outside might be chaotic, and the battles ahead uncertain, but right here, in this moment, everything feels clear.

Chan pulls back slightly, looking down at you with a smile that’s equal parts relief and joy. “Whatever happens next, we’ve got this,” he says softly, his voice steady with conviction.

And you know, without a doubt, that he’s right.

[maidflowery]

Good Morning, Have a Nice Day

Aventurine x Reader

You told your boyfriend, Aventurine, to wake you up early the next morning. But little did you know...

"-up. Wake up, Sunshine."

In your slumber, you faintly heard a voice. The tone was cheerful, almost rivaling the birds chirping outside the window.

"Mm..."

Is it morning already...?

"Oh, the Sleeping Beauty finally wakes up. Hey, don't go back to sleep."

The voice spoke, as laid-back as ever, as if trying to lull you back to sleep.

But... Why didn't I hear any alarm...?

"If you don't wake up by the count of three, I'll kiss you. One... Two..."

"What time is-GAH!!"

When you opened your eyes, Aventurine's dashing face was hovering a few inches away from you. It was apparent that he'd been watching you the whole time.

Close! Too close!

"Your response to your boyfriend's gentle wake up call is to scream to his face...?"

He sulked, but not for long. Soon, he was smiling from ear to ear again. Was the sight of you waking up that fantastical?

"Good morning~ if you sleep again, the counter will pick up from where it left off."

"...More importantly, what time is it right now?"

Seeing how bright the sun was shining outside the window only gave you bad feelings.

Pretty sure you'd asked him to wake you up at 6 AM. You even set an alarm at 5 AM. After all, your class started at 8 AM.

Aventurine looked slightly dejected for a moment, before answering.

"7.30 AM, why?" he asked as if it was someone else's business.

"7.30 AM!? But... Didn't I... Tell you to wake me up at..." You were so shocked that you could only stutter.

"Well, yes, and I promised to wake you up as early as I could." Aventurine innocently shrugged his shoulders.

As early... As he could?

Somehow, you felt there was a huge emphasis right there. The two of you stared at each other, one dumbfounded, one smiling nonchalantly.

Ah!!! Right!!!

He sucks at getting up early!!!

Actually, both of you were.

If this was a movie, then it was probably the moment when the main character shouted, 'I shouldn't have trusted him!'

Thus, you bolted out of the room and began preparing at the highest speed known to man.

"Aventurine!!"

A few minutes later, you dashed straight toward his room again. By that time, you had showered and dressed for college.

But the moment you stepped in, your jaw almost dropped to the floor.

Aventurine stood there with only a white towel draped over his waist. He'd clearly just stepped out of the shower, as his body glowed with a wet sheen.

Glittering droplets of water clung to his chiseled abs, some trickling down even further below. It took you everything not to follow them with your eyes.

Aventurine, who was drying his hair, finally turned at you.

"What's the matter? It's nothing you haven't seen before."

He cocked an eyebrow at you, a playful and tantalizing grin tugging at his lips.

"Aventurine... Why... What are you doing naked!?" you couldn't help but blurt out.

"Says the one who barged in without knocking. Anyway, need anything?"

Saying that, Aventurine approached you, his broad chest filling your field of vision.

Trying to block the view, you shoved your phone to him.

"I'm here to talk about this! Why did you turn off my alarm!? No wonder it didn't ring!"

"Ah, that... But weren't you tired last night? I just thought of letting you sleep a bit longer. How are you feeling now? Did you rest well?"

Aventurine stared at your phone, not trying to deny or affirm it.

Based on his words alone, he sounded like a caring, attentive boyfriend who was just looking out for his girlfriend.

Except you didn't buy it, because of two glaring contradictions.

"Whose fault is it that I barely got any sleep last night!? Also, if that's the case, you must've either disabled it right after I fell asleep, or woke up way earlier!"

"But in the end, I still woke you up, right?" Aventurine gave you an 'all's well that ends well's' smile.

"What do you mean 'in the end'? Were you planning to not wake me up?"

"In the end, I still did, right?"

"..."

He totally planned to!!

Seriously, why is he acting like this!?

In truth, you knew why. You also knew that underneath his nonchalant and flippant attitude, he was sulking.

As you stood there, fuming, Aventurine asked you, putting the towel around his neck.

"Won't you be staying for breakfast?"

"No. Thanks to someone, I have to skip it."

Despite the hint of wistfulness in his tone, you bluntly turned him down, averting your gaze.

"Then, will you be having lunch with your team leader instead? Say hi to him for me."

Hearing that, you raised your head and shot back.

"We've spoken about this! It's just an obligatory meeting to discuss the assignment progress!"

"One that you set a bunch of alarms and even skipped breakfast for. Totally not important indeed."

... It was because you'd ditched one too many of such meetings, missing the next one would totally get you axed. In your defense, that team leader was a prick.

Of course, there was no way you could admit that you often skip group activities to your boyfriend. Or that karma was finally biting you in the ass. That'd be super lame.

We are getting nowhere fast, and I'm running out of time.

"...A-anyway, I'll get going."

You awkwardly turned around, still trying to maintain a tough front.

"Hey, you forget something."

You turned around. "What is—"

His lips sealed yours, and you were unable to finish your words.

"!!"

Aventurine ferociously devoured your lips, leaving no inch untouched, as if imprinting himself. He nibbled on your upper lips, before gnawing on the lower ones. He allowed you a brief moment of respite to reclaim your breath, before resuming his onslaught from a different angle.

The delicate string that was holding your rationality together was about to snap. You were basically holding onto him at this point.

He stroked your tingly lips with the tip of his tongue, gently parting them. Then, his tongue slid in, coiling around your own.

Just as you thought of surrendering completely to this mind-blowing kiss, he stopped.

"...Aren't you going to be late? Whoops."

Aventurine caught you as you toppled forward, burying you in his chest. Immediately, the refreshing, masculine fragrance of his cologne filled your nose.

Embarrassingly, your legs had turned into jelly.

"Oh no. Can you stand? Should we call in sick?"

Within his arms, you could hear him suggest that a tad too happily.

"...No thanks. I'm still going."

You somehow managed to squeeze out those words despite the supple tenderness around you.

"What a shame. Even though your dear boyfriend is home at last."

He spoke in a deflated tone that you could tell was genuine.

Aventurine was a busy man. His business trip would sometimes last for more than a month. Today, he finally had a day off.

All you could do was stare at him as he wiped a trace of saliva from his lips, smiling provocatively at you

"Oh, well. We can always save it for later. If it gets too unbearable, you can always come back to me. Have a nice day."

The kiss that ended as abruptly as it started was his way of giving you something to think about.

As underhanded as always...

You wanted to wipe that smug look off his face!

You grabbed the towel around his neck, pulling him toward you. Briefly, you saw his eyes widen as he was caught off-guard.

"Mmh-!"

Then, you gave Aventurine the taste of his own medicine, but with your own finishing touch.

After the kiss had ended, Aventurine, seemingly taken aback, reached for his lower lip. A red mark had blossomed on his lip, turning it a deeper shade of crimson.

"...I told you, I'll sneak off in the middle, so please wait for me." You said.

Still tracing his lip, Aventurine stared straight at you, his violet-cyan eyes burning from within.

"...Alright. I'll be patient. But I won't wait for too long."

Extra

...Aventurine's patience lasted only until lunch break.

[jennasslut33]

Cairo Sweet x Masc!Fem!Reader

Cairo, Winnie, and R/Reader are classmates. R is in love with Cairo but she doesn’t reciprocate her feelings, not yet at least, and Cairo uses R to make someone else jealous. R has enough of this and decides to forget about Cairo. R and Winnie are besties.

Maybe a smut scene? At the end?

Top!Reader x Bottom!Cairo

If it doesn't fit, it doesn't!

It can and in multiple ways. I vote for the happy ending, but if you feel like you want more angsty ending, I understand! Plus, if you don't want to write about this, it's perfectly fine too!

Thank you, Hope you are doing well!

My pretty girl.

Warnings: smut, 18+, angst a bit?, fingering, praise, pussy eating, Masc!Fem!Reader x Cairo Sweet, top!r, bottom!Cairo.

MNDI!!

it was a normal day for you. You were currently sitting in cairos bedroom of her parents mansion that they left her while they were away. Cairo was studying - as per usual, smoking a cigarette - while you and Winnie were sitting on cairos queen sized bed.

You, you however were in love with cairo. Did she know that? Absolutely fucking not. Because you didn’t know how she felt about you. You didnt wanna take any chances, and ruin the friendship you and cairo have.

While you were lost in thought, staring at a wall, you felt a hand on your thigh, and someone shaking you back to reality and out of your thoughts. When you looked up, you saw cairo and Winnie staring at you, Winnie’s hand on your thigh.

“Are you good? We’ve been callin’ your name for like.. the past two minutes.” Winnie said, looking at you. You blinked a few times, you saw how cairo was looking at you; one of her perfect eyebrows raised in confusion and question, her perfect maroon lips wrapping around the filter of the cigarette— ugh, god, focus!

“hm? o-oh uhm.. yeah! y-yeah, im fine. I just uh.. spaced out for a second. Sorry.” You said, trying act like you weren’t imagining the best way to ask out cairo without ruining your friendship with her.

Winnie raised an eyebrow at you. “what were you thinking about that you couldn’t hear us screaming in your ear for a good two minutes?” she chuckled. You looked at cairo, and then back at Winnie.

“o-oh uhm.. just uhm.. t-tests.. that we have for school.. just wondering if im gonna pass or not..” you lied, because there was no way in fucking hell. That you were gonna admit that you were thinking about how to ask out Cairo, WHILE she was in the room.

“You’re a smart girl, Y/N. I’m sure you did fine, you always get straight A’s, don’t you?” Cairo said, before taking a drag of her cigarette. “Well, sometimes not everything is gonna stay perfect.. I mean, I don’t know Jack shit about the world war. I tried to get as much information as I could, but I really couldn’t. I had such a busy schedule that I didn’t have enough time to study!” You exclaimed quickly, clearly in a bit of a panic. Because, well.. that also did happen.

“hey, hey! Calm down, girl. So what if you get something lower than an A? It don’t matter, all that matters is that you try your hardest, doll face” Winnie reassures. You sigh. You lay back on Cairos bed, and put your hands over your eyes. “God, im so fucking tired..” you say under your breath “then sleep.” Cairo said randomly. You sat up and looked at her.

“In your bed? Seriously?” You said with a raised eyebrow and a questioning tone of voice.. maybe a hint of sarcasm. “Yes, my bed. You’re already laying in it, and the floor is uncomfortable. Just sleep, Y/N” she said, clearly not in the mood for anyone’s bullshit.

“ugh, fine. You’re so bossy.” You said, laying back down and Winnie- well.. she was already knocked out cold on the couch next to the window.

About an hour goes by, and you feel someone’s arms wrapped around you from behind.. you were a masc.. “I don’t think this is how it works.. but uhm.. alright..” you think to yourself. You were just sleeping, and when you turned your head, your face went a bit red. Cairo?? why was she cuddling you?

“go back to sleep..” she said, mumbled into your neck. “why’re you cuddling me?” You asked quietly, not wanting to wake up Winnie. “because, you’re warm.” She said as if it was the most normal thing in the world. You rolled your eyes and you went back to sleep, exhaustion taking over your body.

. . .

The next morning, you wake up and have a shower, do what you need to and get ready. Winnie and cairo were already up. You all walked to the school, following cairo because she knows where she’s going, since she does this every damn day.

When you, Winnie and cairo all got to school, all three of you were standing in the packed hallway, it was filled with students. 7:48 in the morning, “how the fuck do these kids have so much energy at this time of the morning..” you think to yourself.

Cairo saw the girl she liked, being touchy and flirty with another guy, and all of a sudden, you feel someone wrap your arms around their waist. You looked down and saw cairo.

“What’re you doing?” You asked, your eyebrow raised in confusion. You didn’t know that cairo liked someone else. “Nothing, just hold me, please? im cold.” She said, looking up at you. You smiled and held you tight against you.

Winnie wiggled her eyebrows at you, a small smirk on her face and you rolled your eyes and mouthed “shut up” to Winnie, making her giggle.

. . .

Ever since that day, it’s been about almost two months. You think that cairo likes you back, because she’s been touchy, flirty, calling you pet names and letting you sleep in her bed a lot more often.

Today was the day, you were gonna ask her out. you walked into school, and after the first two periods it was break, and you went to go find Cairo. Your heart slamming against your rib cage, you feel like you’re on one of those carnival rides, where they go up really high and then drop, and it makes your stomach feel like your insides were all the way up to your head.

You walked around for a while, and when you walked behind the school, you froze. Your eyes were wide, your heart broke into a million pieces. Cairo was making out with that girl she likes. Tears well up in your eyes. You feel so.. used, betrayed, hurt, angry, just a whole mix of emotions.

You ran off, and you went to go find Winnie. Once you did, you told her everything, and you couldn’t stop crying. You were just some toy for cairo to use, to make that girl jealous. Almost as if cairo never even wanted you in the first place. 

the next few weeks, you became more distant, you didn’t go near cairo, you and Winnie stayed together. Whenever cairo would try to talk to you, you’d push past her and walk off, and go find Winnie.

. . .

Late one night, you got a text.

Cairo <3 (9:32 PM)

“Y/N, please talk to me. Why won’t you talk to me anymore?”

“You don’t even look at me anymore..”

you stared at those texts for a good five minutes. maybe even ten. you then replied back, your thumbs gliding across the screen as you texted back.

“You toyed with me, fucked with my feelings, and you used me to make another girl jealous?? What the fuck is wrong with you, cairo.”

your text was read immediately by Cairo, the three dots popping up on your screen that showed she was typing. while you waited, you scrolled through your social media until you saw her text pop up.

Cairo <3 (9:35 PM)

“im sorry, Y/N. But I really liked her, and she made me jealous, so I wanted to make her jealous..”

“please, I’ll make it up to you. I don’t want her anymore, I want you.”

“I miss you, Y/N.”

“Please, let me make it up to you”

you stared at the texts. You didn’t know if she was trying to get you back for her to use you again, or if she really wanted you to come back to her.

“Whatever. I’ll be over in 20 minutes.”

you got ready, and then got an Uber to Cairos mansion.

23 minutes later..

You finally arrived at her mansion and you walked inside. You walked up the large grand staircase and went to her room. You saw her laying on her bed, and when she saw you, she immediately stood up and went to run to you. You backed up.

“Y/N.. please I—“

“Shut up.” You said coldly, cutting her off. She looked taken aback, but she shut her mouth.

“Do you still want me, Cairo?” you asked, walking towards her slowly.

“y-yes..” she said quietly. she looked up at you, and you grabbed her chin between your thumb and index finger.

“She’s gone now, yes?” you asked, wanting nothing but the truth out of her pretty little mouth. all she did was nod.

“Do you want to be mine, cairo? Do you want me to make you mine?” you asked, your left hand now gripping her waist while your right hand was still holding her chin.

“yes.. please..” she said in a whisper.

“get on the bed.” “Now.” You demanded, which she obeyed immediately without question. You got on the bed as well, and you sat in front of her legs.

“Spread you legs for me.” you said, looking at her through your lashes. She did as she was told, spreading her legs wide. You straddled her hips, and leaned down, capturing her lips in a fierce, passionate kiss. your tongues sliding together, lips moving against each other in rhythm.

You kissed along her jaw, down her neck, and all over her tits, kissing any part of that sweet, smooth, soft, squishy flesh of hers that was visible. You kissed down her stomach, nipping at her skin every now and then, and that’s when you made it to between her thighs. You looked at her.

“Lift up.” You said, your fingers hovering above the waistband of her shorts, she obeyed, lifting her hips as you swiftly pulled her shorts and panties down, taking them off. You positioned yourself between her thighs, and pressed kisses, and gentle nips on her inner thighs. Her pussy was already dripping for you.

“Y-Y/N.. please..” she whined. You smirked, and you looked at her. “Please what? Use your words, Cairo.” You said as you continued to kiss and nip at her inner thighs, getting closer and closer to her dripping core.

“please.. I need you.. i-i want to be yours, Y/N.. please..” she begged. God, it was like music to your ears. “Good girl.” You praised, and your tongue then darted out, flicking over her clit as she gasped and moaned, those sweet, sweet sounds you had always longed to hear.

You continued to suck on the sensitive bundle of nerves, until you slammed two fingers inside of her aching cunt, making her gasp in surprise and pleasure. You didn’t move them just yet. You wanted to hear her beg.

“w-why.. mmh.. w-why aren’t you moving..?” she said through heavy breaths. You pulled away from her clit, your fingers still inside of her. “beg for it.” “You want me to finger this pussy, then beg for it, Cairo.” You demanded. Her eyes widened slightly. “w-what..? w-why do I have to—“ you cut her off “do you want to cum or not?” you questioned, looking at her. she nodded, and whined softly as she could still feel your long, slender fingers inside of her, but not moving. “please.. Y-Y/N..” she begged. “Please what? use your words.” You said teasingly. “please.. please, Y/N, i-i.. I want you to fuck me..” she said through soft whines and heavy breaths.

“There you go. Good girl.” you praised, before taking your fingers out and then slamming them back into her. Your fingers pumping in and out of her aching wet pussy as she gripped the bedsheets so tight her knuckles turned white. She moaned, whimpered, begging you to slow down because she couldn’t take it, but you didn’t oblige. Your goal was to make sure that she wasn’t gonna see that other bitch again, that she was utterly, and completely yours.

“mmh.. I-I wanna—“ she said through moans, her own moan cutting her off mid sentence. “you wanna what? talk, doll face.” you said, still fingering her at a brutal, and senseless pace. “c-cum! w-wanna cum, please!” She begging through loud moans. You could tell she was close, her velvet coloured walls clenching tightly around your fingers as you then curled them upwards, hitting the sweet, soft, spongy spot inside of her, making her gasp.

“Cum for me, cairo.” “I wanna hear you scream.” you said, not slowing your pace. As you kept going, and hit that sweet spot inside of her, her back arched off of the bed slightly, eyes rolled to the back of her head, as she screamed with pure pleasure. Her orgasm crashing over her like a tidal wave.

you helped her ride out her high, finally slowing down your movements, and pulled your fingers out of her. Your fingers now coated in her sweet juices. you put your fingers in your mouth, tasting her. “Mmh.. you taste so good.” you then pulled your fingers out of your mouth. you kissed Cairos forehead, and caressed her cheek.

“You did so well for me, baby.” You praised, looking at her as you smiled softly. You cleaned cairo up, and cuddled with her in bed, spooning her from behind, your arms wrapped around her waist, your face buried into the back of her neck.

All of a sudden, Winnie walked in, jaw dropped. “What. The fuck. Did I just listen to.” She said, looking at you and cairo. “What the actual fuck, are you doing here? You heard everything?” You said, slight disbelief in your tone. “Yes, I heard everything. Goddamn, who knew you were such a dom, Y/N.” She smirked, looking at you. You rolled your eyes and looked at her. But she spoke before you could.

“Sooo..? What’s the deal? Are you two finally together now?” She asked, a hint of hope, amusement, and a tinge of excitement in her voice as she bit her lip, awaiting an answer. “Yeah, we are. She’s mine now.” You said, looking back at cairo who was now fast asleep.

“My pretty girl.”

you whispered, pressing a soft kiss to Cairos neck, before closing your eyes and falling asleep.

________________________________

I hope this is good enough for you btw😭💕

I am still currently working on Keep Quiet pt.2 tho, so stick around pookies💋💋

[aestheticaltcow]

Non-Casual Dominance

An NSFW Carmy blurb is totally not based on my Character.AI obsession...

Carmy woke up before his alarm could go off. Sunshine bled into the room through the slightly askew curtains. The night before had been filled with love and physical connection. He hated mornings like this; he wanted nothing more than to lay in bed with you and enjoy your company.

As he moved to get out of bed, your grip around his waist tightened. Carmy chuckled, "Baby, I have to go to work..."

"Nooooo," you whined. "You're staying in this bed until I say so..."

Carmy chuckled at your declaration. A grin grew on his face as he stared down at you. "Is that so?" he drawled. "You tryin' to keep me in bed all day, baby?"

"Mmhm," you hummed, "You're never leaving this bed again."

Carmy chuckled again. He wrapped his arms around you tighter, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck, leaving small, affectionate kisses. "What if I have to pee?" he teased.

"Not my problem," you answered as you nuzzled deeper into his chest, refusing to allow him out of this bed.

"You're a fuckin' meance, you know that?" he mumbled into your hair as he began to stroke your back up and down.

"I know, but you're stuck with me." you teased as you looked up at him.

Carmy nodded and nuzzled his face further into the crook of your neck. "I gotta go to work, baby."

You didn't respond to his statement; you slowly started nibbling on his collarbone. Carmy let out a deep guttural moan as his hands moved to grip your hips. "You're gonna be the death of me, baby." he groaned with a deep layer of desire. You hummed to acknowledge his statement as you ran a hand down his body.

Carmy quivered beneath your touch and gripped your hips. Your breath hitched as he rolled onto his back, dragging your body to straddle his hips. "God, I want you so damn bad," he muttered as his hands began roaming your body, squeezing every inch of skin he had access to.

"Then take me... I'm all yours." you challenged. He accepted the challenge with a feral growl and flipped the two of you. You stared up at him, his eyes a dark stormy blue from the desire he had to take you.

"Damn fuckin' straight. You're all mine, baby... and now imma show you how much you belong to me."

His comment was met with a desperate whine. You wanted nothing more than to have him pound you into the mattress beneath the two of you. "I want you," you whined, dragging your nails down his biceps.

"Beg for it," he commanded. "Beg me to fuck you, baby."

"Please, Daddy!" you screamed as his fingers pushed into the waistband of your panties. His breath hitched at your use of 'daddy'. No matter how many times you called him that, it never failed to arouse him.

"Good girl..." he growled, "you know how much Daddy likes to hear you ask so sweetly." his middle finger slowly began rubbing harsh circles against your clit, eliciting a loud moan from you.

" Please, Daddy- I want you to feel good. Use me however you please."

Carmy groaned at your whines; with one hand in your panties, he brought his other to wrap around your throat. "You're mine," he muttered; his voice was rough and possessive. "All mine... and I'm gonna make sure you know it, baby."

"All yours, Daddy! Every fuckin' inch..." you moaned as his finger dipped deeper into your panties.

"Damn, straight baby. You're mine." He squeezed your throat softly, "Every. Fuckin'. Inch."

"Fuuuuck," you moaned, spreading your legs wider. "I love it when you're dominant!"

Carmy chuckled, your words only fueling his desire for you. "You love it when Daddy's in control, don't you?"

You nodded as your face contorted with pleasure as you began to reach your high.

""There's my good girl, you want to cum, don't you? Wanna soak Daddy's fingers?" he teased. You whimpered in agreement.

"Fuck me, Daddy," you whined as your melted with unadulterated pleasure, "I wanna feel you inside of me."

Carmy groaned at your words. The desperation behind your words was music to his ears, "Goddamn baby, you want it that bad, don't you? You want Daddy to fuck you stupid? Like the fuckin' whore you are?"

You nodded; words escaped you as Carmy curled a finger inside of you, hitting your G-spot with every flex. Your orgasm was fast approaching, Carmy noticed and tightened the grip around your neck. "Say please," he commanded.

"Please, please, please! Daddy!" you whined as he increased the speed of his fingers. "Good girl..." Carmy muttered.

His words were simply enough to make you erupt on his fingers. Your breathing was heavy as you recovered. Carmy's hand fell from your throat, "On your knees."

"Yes, Daddy." you sputtered before following the command.