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kira-dofc · 2 months ago

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Rich Fanboy! Nanami x Cosplayer! Male Reader

Notes: I'VE BEEN GONE FOR TOO LONG SO I HOPE THE WAIT IS NOT LONG ENOUGH!!! This was in my drafts but never really made anything new... I don't know what to write, any suggestions will be appreciated!!!!

Word Count: 3000

Warnings: Smut! Size kink, unprotected sex, crossdressing, feminization, mirror sex, slight out of character (?) Nanami, Manipulation sex, breeding kink,

Kento Nanami. A name known far and wide, especially among the wealthy. To most people, he seemed like the perfect man. He was mature, kind, and deeply respected. He had the kind of money others could only dream about. Everything about him seemed flawless, from the way he dressed to the calm way he spoke. People believed he had everything. Money, manners, and a quiet charm that made him very likable. Among the rich, he was the richest. His life was full of luxury, comfort, and things most people would never have.

He lived in a mansion that was the biggest and most beautiful in the whole area. It looked like something from a movie or a fairy tale. The garden around the house was full of flowers, trees, and perfectly trimmed bushes. Every flowerbed looked like it had been painted by a master artist. A team of gardeners worked every day to make sure everything looked perfect. Inside, his house was just as beautiful. Servants kept everything clean and running smoothly. They were always present but never in the way. Everything worked like clockwork.

But even with all of this, Nanami felt something was missing. He had no family. He had never fallen in love. Romance had never made its way into his life, even though people often tried to get close to him. He also had a hard time talking to children. Their loud voices and quick energy didn’t match his slow and thoughtful way of living. Because of this, he often felt alone. He lived in a house made for many people, yet he walked its halls by himself. He was surrounded by beauty, but his life lacked real connection.

Most people believed Nanami was perfect. They thought someone with his lifestyle couldn’t possibly have any problems. But that wasn’t true. Behind his calm face and perfect life was a secret. A secret so dark that if anyone found out, it would destroy the image the world had of him. It was something only he knew. It followed him wherever he went, like a shadow that never left his side. This secret made him feel trapped. He often stared out of his mansion windows, wondering how long he could keep living this lie.

Each day started exactly the same. At 8:00 a.m. sharp, Nanami would wake up. The sunlight came in softly through the tall windows of his bedroom, making the walls glow gold. He opened his eyes slowly, groaning quietly as he stretched his arms. His bedroom was clean and modern. Everything was black, grey, and white, creating a quiet, serious feel. His bed was large, with soft pillows and perfect sheets that looked untouched. Even in sleep, he stayed neat.

The room was silent. Not even the sound of birds could be heard through the thick windows. He got out of bed and walked across the cool marble floor. Each step made a soft sound that echoed through the quiet room. The floor was shiny and smooth, reflecting the morning light. He walked down the grand staircase with slow, even steps. Every part of his routine was carefully planned and followed.

He entered the kitchen, which was full of stainless steel counters and high-end appliances. It was spotless, like something out of a design magazine. Nanami cooked his own breakfast, as he liked the calm it brought. The smell of bacon and eggs filled the air as he moved around the kitchen with ease. He toasted a slice of bread until it turned a perfect golden color. His breakfast was simple but delicious. Sitting alone at a long mahogany table, he ate slowly. The quietness around him made the meal feel peaceful but also a little sad.

After breakfast, he went back upstairs to shower. His bathroom looked like something from a luxury spa. The walls were marble, and the glass shower let warm water fall like rain. The hot water helped him feel more awake, washing away the last bits of sleep. He dried off and put on one of his many suits. Each one was tailored perfectly to fit him. He tied his silk tie and looked in the mirror. The man staring back looked strong and sure of himself. But even in the mirror, Nanami could see something missing in his eyes.

He left the mansion and went about his usual duties. Meetings, events, and quiet drives in the city filled the day. He moved through everything with a calm and steady presence. People nodded at him with respect. Some smiled in admiration. Others watched him with envy. But none of them really knew him.

As the sun began to set, painting the sky with soft shades of orange and pink, Nanami returned home. His car, sleek and black, pulled up to the grand gates of his estate. The iron gates opened slowly, and the car rolled along the cobblestone driveway. The mansion stood tall at the end, glowing in the warm light of the evening.

He parked in front of the large entrance and stepped out. His suit still looked perfect, even after a long day. He walked into the house, and the quiet met him like an old friend. Servants greeted him with soft bows. He nodded back, barely noticing them. He was tired. All he wanted was to lie down and rest.

He walked up the stairs, each step echoing softly in the empty hall. When he reached his bedroom, he opened the door and was greeted by soft, golden lighting. The room looked just as he had left it. Calm and neat. He took off his shoes and slipped out of his blazer. Then he unbuttoned his shirt halfway, showing his chest. He dropped onto the bed, the soft mattress hugging him gently. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to relax.

Then, his phone pinged.

The screen lit up with a notification.

It was an Instagram Live.

He blinked, surprised. His heart skipped a beat when he saw who it was.

You.

One of the most famous cosplayers in the world. A person he admired for a long time. Nanami didn’t usually watch livestreams. But this time, he tapped the notification without a second thought. The screen loaded, and there you were.

You were wearing a costume. A pair of cat ears on your head. A cat tail. And, strangely enough, a maid outfit. You smiled brightly at the camera and waved. “Hi everyone!” you said in a cheerful voice.

Nanami stared.

Your smile lit up the screen. It felt warm and real. The kind of smile that could make anyone feel seen. It made his chest feel tight.

Your face was beautiful. Not in the usual, polished way celebrities looked. But in a softer, more honest way. Your eyes were bright and full of life. Your lips curled into a smile that made his heart race. Your cheeks had a soft pink glow. Your hair was dark and shiny, falling gently around your face.

Nanami felt himself blush. He knew he shouldn’t stare. But he couldn’t look away.

To him, you were perfect.

There was something about you that felt different from the people he usually met. Maybe it was how real you were. Or how your energy felt so alive, even through a screen. You weren’t rich like him. But you had something he didn’t. Joy. Passion. A connection to people.

He wanted to talk to you. To get to know you. To be near you. The thought was strange. Nanami had never felt this kind of interest in someone before. Not like this. Not so fast. But he couldn’t deny it.

He wanted you to be his.

He watched quietly as you laughed and answered comments. You seemed so happy. So full of light. As if the world had never hurt you. As if everything was still fresh and exciting. He envied that. But more than anything, he wanted to be part of it.

Even if just for a moment.

As the livestream continued, Nanami laid there, eyes locked on the screen. For the first time in a long time, his heart didn’t feel so heavy. Something inside him stirred. A tiny spark in the dark. He didn’t know where it would lead. He didn’t know if he would ever meet you.But one thing was clear. His life of quiet routine and cold perfection had just been shaken by something simple. A smile. And it had changed everything.

He then felt his shaft grew in length.It was tenting on his pants. It's his first time to feel this, especially because he felt this for you. He was ecstatic to see this charming, boy wearing ridiculous costumes in front of a camera for views, maybe even money. This unnerving feeling made him want to do something, something he never knew he wanted; needed to do. "Shit, what is this..." some words slipped out of his mouth, breathing heavily as the dent grew larger, it became very uncomfortable at this point. He finally gave in, he released the zipper for a thick, long shaft to come out, twitching every time his heart skip a beat. He looked at it, tense whether he should do something about it or not. "Fuck it," He whispered to himself, soon warming his cock with his hands, and start to move up, then down repeatedly as you speak across the screen. To his eyes, it felt like he was facing you physically, something that he wanted, needed just for him to feed on. His continued motion caused him to finally finish, cum spurting to his face.

He tensed up again, and sighed, not cause of relief, but because of something else. He thought of something, and that something included you. He wanted you. So after that very thought, he immediately picked up his phone again, and called some of his "friends".

"Yes, sir?" the other guy on the line spoke, Nanami straightened his back, "This person named Y/n, search him up and find his details, call me immediately afterwards," he kindly spoke the the other, hinting something. "Noted, sir. I'll immediately report as soon as we find out." The line ended, Nanami sighed and leaned back to his chair, "I need you, Y/n"

The very next day your information was given to him. Your phone number, full legal name, age, location, everything. He wanted to call you for a "business proposal" of some sorts. He held the paper your number was written on. He was very hesitant at first, thinking you would feel weird talking to him. But at the end of the day, he dialed in your number, and pressed the call button. The ringing tensed him up, the continuous ringing gave him an unsettling feeling. The ringing soon came to a stop, for a warm voice to come up after, "Hello?" You said, seemingly confused of a sudden call of an unknown number. "Greetings, my name is Nanami Kento," Nanami spoke up, "This talk should be conducted physically, though I do not have the power to do that. Anyway, I'm here to propose a business proposal." He waited for a response, you were shocked that you were talking to the most richest business man in all of Japan, but you were unsure as to why he would ask you, a cosplayer, for a business proposal? "I-i'm sorry sir, but i'm afraid i'll have to-" "300 million yen, nothing more, nothing less." You of course is shocked, what is this job that could pay you almost 2 million dollars? And why does it have to be you? You were pretty tight on the budget, considering you used all of your money for costumes, "O....k?" you muttered slowly, unsure of your answer, before you could talk back, "Good, then that is settled, I will provide you my location, make sure to be there at exactly 7 p.m." The call soon ended. You're still in shock, what the hell is this guy thinking? Well, at this point, you don't have any choice but to go... I guess.

6:30, you arrived early before the expected time. You waited outside a grand, luxurious looking hotel. Was it a hotel, or one of his buildings? You shrugged off the question and waited. your peac was soon interrupted by two men in black, shades planted to their face. "Are you, Y/n L/n? Please come with us." The one spoke, you silently followed them across the wide lobby to an elevator. The ride was taking too long, "wait is this a penthouse?" you thought to yourself. And yes it was, what did you expect from the richest man to have? a rented motel? The elevators shifted open to reveal a modern looking room. A piano to the side, a fountain, and the biggest windows you have ever seen. Your eyes glowed with the sight you were seeing. Your sight seeing was soon cut off short by a tall man walking towards you, "Ah, your here. You two, leave." His voice was commanding, he sounded chilling. He patted you back, seemingly acted out to follow him.

He led you to a room, the smell of sandarwood filled your lungs. But what caught your eye was a costume, a bikini along with a semi-transparent babydoll dress. You didn't question it, but just decided to still follow him inside. He soon walked up to a piece of paper, along with a pen, "Just sign this contract, don't mind reading it all," You obliged and followed, signing it; what's there to lose? He then spoke up again, "I never told you this "business proposal", but it'll pay you a lot, doubt that you'll decline at this point," he muttered, slowly taking off his watch, walked near you and leaned in, "I want to fuck you." The words slipped out his voice made you flinch. Why would he want that? Would you just sell your body for money? "I-I..." you stuttered, "You have no choice anyway, you signed the contract." You sighed, but you also wanted it at this time. You blushed, and gave him a silent nod. That nod meant a lot to him, he chuckled caressing your jawline slowly. "I gave you a gift," He looked over to the lingerie, "Wear it for me," He whispered closely to your ears, this sent a shiver down your spine, but it made you crave him even more. You went up to it and walked towards the bathroom. Nanami sat down on a chair, "No, strip in front of me." You noticed the large mirror covering the entire wall behind Nanami. You followed, and took of your clothes piece by piece, and showed your hard dick. It was small, but Nanami liked that even more. Your blush made him feel a lot more tense.

A lot more hungry.

As soon you wore it, he rushed into you and kissed you. It wasn't soft, it was rough, leaving you no space and time to breath. He held your face, and you held his hand. This intense kissing session made you fall to the bed, with his arms grazing your figure. He kissed your neck to your collarbone. He took off the dress along with the bra, playing with your nipples as he kissed your body. Your moans made him become hard even more. You touched his hair, it was hard with the gel still intact and the sharp loose ends at every side of his head. You never knew you would end up this way, slutting over a rich man that's happening to be fucking you this very moment. His groan vibrated to your body.

His kissing soon came to a stop, and reached up to you, "Suck me" He commanded, his hand over your head. His musky scent made you fall into a trance-like state, something you must follow, something you cannot control. So you fully gave in, pusehd him down the bed, and zipped down his pants. You saw his enlarged dick spring out, precum spilling, matching the beat to his heavy breathing. You leaned in, and sucked. Your tongue was a professional at this, you never knew you could do such acts. You sucked in and out, circling around dick as the musk scent of his pubes covering his penis. You rammed your face to his dick, you don't care if you looked like a whore at this state, all you wanted was to taste him fully.

He held your head tightly, "Stop, I want to save my babies for your pussy," He smirked, lifting your head to face him. He carried you up, off the bed as you two stood in front of the massive mirror. He took off the rest of his clothes, touching your body like pottery, following your shape, your size, your curves, you. "You look so beautiful, darling," He continued touching you. Without any hesitation, he came inside of you. It was slow, but it felt painful to you. You didn't flinch, you wanted to feel him fully. You held in your pain, holding his chin down for him to look at you. Every thrust made you feel different, with his face looking at you every thrust. You looked at yourself in the mirror, you looked in deeply to your eyes, you looked different, you don't look the same. You wanted him, but do you really want this?

Thrusts soon turn into pushes, you leaned in to the mirror as Nanami held your body close to him. Hi thrusts grew stronger, more than you could handle. Your moans turned into screams, yells, but you liked it either way. Each thrust made you feel different emotions, sadness, happiness, anything. One last thrust, you felt something warm and wet come inside you. Your eyes felt like popping out. His chin rested against your bare shoulders, "You'l be living with me from now on. Don't worry about your life, I'll make it better, if you give in to me." You faced him, and rested your arms to his shoulders, "One question though,"

"Why me?"

722 notes · View notes

cloudtransprncy · 5 months ago

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Desk

IVE Gaeul x Male reader | 4647 words Part 1 of ? Tags: Oral Fixation, Bratty GF, Teasing, Semi-Public Risk, Deepthroating, Spit Play, Messy, dirty, head.

You're locked into a late-night Valorant grind with the boys, but Gaeul has other plans. With teasing glances, a knowing smirk, and a slow descent under the desk, she dares you to stay focused—except she knows you never win against her.

The monitor’s light spills into the dimly lit bedroom, merging with the deep purple glow from the LED strips running along the ceiling.

The rhythmic clicking of the keyboard mixes with the muffled voices from Discord, filling the room with an ambient hum.

You’re leaned back in your gaming chair, its ergonomic shape supporting you as you shift slightly, adjusting your position. Loose shirt draping over your frame, fingers moving fluidly across the keys, you call out plays with the boys.

The faint scent of fresh linen from your undone sheets lingers in the air, the bed tidy but lived-in, a slight contrast to the sleek, modern aesthetic of the rest of your space.

The game’s reflection flickers across the sleek, minimal art on your walls—fractured neon streaks from a custom Vandal skin shifting with the movement on-screen. Sleek frames devoid of any band posters enhance the modern aesthetic, while a small collection of Funko Pops stands neatly on a floating shelf, their colorful forms a playful contrast to the room’s sharp design.

The match is tense, but the banter is casual—friendly jabs, loud reactions, the usual chaos of a night grinding Valorant.

“Bro, how’d you miss that?!” one of the homies shouts, half-laughing.

“Relax, I got this,” you mutter, adjusting your aim. Your screen flickers with movement, and you line up the perfect shot. “Headshot. Easy.”

The boys erupt in a mix of cheers and mock complaints, but before you can ride the high of the play, the door creaks open, the soft sound barely cutting through the steady hum of your PC fans.

Instinctively, your fingers flick over the keyboard, hitting the hotkey that mutes your mic—just in case.

Gaeul steps in.

Your eyes flick to her, and for a second, your brain lags like a bad connection, your pulse stuttering as if your body is catching up to what your eyes are seeing.

A flush of warmth spreads through your chest, your grip tightening on the mouse as your mind scrambles to register the sudden shift in atmosphere. She’s stealing your breath before you even realize it.

Her black cropped tank top clings to her, spaghetti straps exposing her toned shoulders, the smooth curve of her collarbone, and just enough of her creamy, flawless abdomen to make your throat dry. Her skin glows under the purple LED light, soft and inviting, each inch begging to be touched.

The shorts she wears showcase her long, silky legs, every movement making the light catch the supple smoothness of her thighs, leaving little to the imagination. A pair of simple socks cover only her feet, emphasizing the bare elegance of her form. Her hair is tied up, loose strands falling around her face in a messy yet intentional way, the wisps framing her delicate features. Her full lips slightly parted, painted with a soft hue that catches the dim lighting.

The contrast between the sharpness of her jawline and the smoothness of her skin is striking, making her look effortlessly stunning even in the simplest setting.

She doesn’t say anything at first. She lingers in the doorway, her gaze flickering over you, lips pressing into a playful pout. Then, with a slow, deliberate sigh, she finally flops onto your bed dramatically, stretching like a cat, her arms extending above her head. The motion makes the fabric of her tank top shift slightly, hinting at the tautness of her stomach.

Her movements are relaxed, nonchalant, as if she isn’t trying to draw attention to herself. She rolls onto her stomach, kicking her feet behind her lazily, her cute rear forming soft, tempting hills under her shorts. Her fingers idly scroll over her phone screen, her expression neutral, almost detached. She shifts slightly, her toned legs flexing as she shifts position, before finally speaking up.

“Babe.”

You hum in response, still locked onto the screen.

“I’m horny.”

Your grip on the mouse tightens, but you force a chuckle. “Yeah? Sucks to be you. I’m with the homies right now.”

She groans dramatically, causing you to glance over, and the sight nearly makes you miss your next shot. She's biting her finger absentmindedly, her gaze fixed on her phone, but it’s the way her tank top strap has slipped off her shoulder that catches you.

The loosened fabric barely clings to her, revealing just a teasing glimpse of her collarbone and the soft swell of her cleavage. Her lips part slightly, her teeth grazing the tip of her finger as if lost in thought, though you know better—she knows exactly what she’s doing.

She sighs, getting up from the bed, the movement slow, deliberate. Her sock-covered feet shuffle lightly against the carpeted floor as she makes her way towards you, her presence growing impossibly closer. She drags a hand down her stomach lazily, adjusting her tank top as if unaware of your eyes on her, though you know better.

As she reaches your left side, she leans in, and the familiar, clean scent of cherry drifts over you—subtle yet distinct, a fragrance that clings to her skin, comforting in its familiarity. It mixes with the warmth of her body, the closeness making your breath hitch as she presses just slightly into your space, her presence wrapping around you effortlessly.

“Come on,” she murmurs, reaching up to gently tug your headset back, just enough to expose your ear. She nuzzles against your neck, her lips hovering close, her breath warm as she inhales softly, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine.

You swallow hard, your focus slipping.

She moves fluidly, settling just behind you, her arms draping lazily over your shoulders. One hand trails across your chest, her fingers tracing slow, feather-light patterns, while the other lingers at the edge of your headset, still tilted from her tug. She tilts her head slightly, pretending to check something on her phone again, the glow reflecting on her smooth skin.

You almost think she’s given up—until she suddenly shifts closer, her fingers ghosting over your wrist before she reaches for your headset, her lips curving into a knowing smirk before she glances at you through her lashes, biting her lower lip absentmindedly.

Then, with deliberate ease, she shifts her hips subtly, pressing against you just enough to make you notice. Her lips hover just beside your ear, her voice smooth, teasing, sinking into your skin like warm honey.

“I don’t need much,” she breathes, her voice dropping to a near-whisper, but just before the words slip into your ear, she pulls back slightly, letting the moment hang between you.

Then, suddenly, she leans in closer again, her lips brushing just faintly against your skin as she whispers the last word, the sensation sending a deep shiver down your spine, as if she’s already won.

You inhale sharply, fingers hovering over the keys, willing yourself to stay focused. It’s just Gaeul being Gaeul, you tell yourself. She loves to mess with you. But the warmth of her breath, the way she moves without even trying—it’s getting harder to pretend you’re unaffected. Your fingers hesitate on the keys. Just for a second.

She sees it.

The smile she gives you is soft—knowing, smug, just a little bit spoiled.

Her hands drift down, playing with the hem of your shirt, her nails grazing your stomach lightly, sending a wave of heat coursing through your veins. A sharp exhale escapes you before you can stop it, your muscles tensing under her touch. The sensation is maddening—just enough to tease, to remind you of how easily she can unravel you. Your mind races, fighting between keeping your cool and giving in to the way she’s setting every nerve in your body on fire. The feeling sends an involuntary shiver up your spine.

You try to focus, try to keep your cursor steady, but she’s right there—warm, teasing, a living distraction you can’t ignore. You know exactly where this is going. And you should stop her. You should. But when have you ever been able to tell Gaeul no?

Your character moves erratically on-screen, and one of the guys on Discord notices.

“Yo, what was that flick?”

You clear your throat and adjust your mic. “Slipped.”

Gaeul giggles, her warm breath ghosting over your skin. She nuzzles against your neck briefly, then tilts her head, her lips brushing softly against your cheek instead, a fleeting yet deliberate touch that lingers just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Come on,” she whispers. “I promise I won’t be a bother.”

She shifts slightly, fingers trailing down your chest before gripping the edge of your shirt. ‘Maybe I should just sit here instead,’ she muses, voice laced with amusement. You brace yourself, already anticipating the warmth of her weight on your lap, but she smirks.

You exhale through your nose, but you don’t object.

That’s all she needed —and sinks to her knees instead.

And just like that, she disappears under the desk.

Your heart kicks up a notch.

The second she disappears under the desk, your heart rate spikes. She shifts beneath you, adjusting herself before pausing. No touch, no teasing—just the warmth of her presence lingering between your legs. The lack of contact makes it worse. Your pulse thrums in your ears, waiting, expecting. The seconds stretch unbearably. Then, finally, her fingertips graze your thigh, featherlight, sending a ripple of heat straight to your core. Your breath comes just a little faster, anticipation creeping into every inch of your body. You sit up a little straighter, adjusting in your chair as if that will somehow help you keep your composure.

Her hands, warm and soft, brush along your thighs, fingertips featherlight at first before pressing in with teasing intent. She’s taking her time, letting you feel every little touch, every stroke of her nails against your sweats. Your grip on the mouse tightens as you glance at the screen, trying—failing—to focus on the game.

She palms you slowly, deliberately, the heat of her hand pressing through the fabric in lazy, teasing strokes. It’s maddening. The kind of slow torture only she could get away with. Your jaw clenches, but you force yourself to stay still, barely shifting in your seat as you adjust your headset.

The boys on Discord are still talking, oblivious to the way your body tenses under her touch. One of them cracks a joke, and you let out a forced chuckle, hoping no one hears the slight waver in your voice.

Then, Gaeul pauses, dragging it out. She blows warm air over you first, waiting, making sure you feel the anticipation crawling under your skin. A quiet hum leaves her lips as she rests her cheek against your thigh, her breath steady, unhurried. You feel her smile against you before she finally moves.

With a slow, deliberate motion, she hooks her fingers into your waistband and tugs down—not too fast, not too slow, just enough to make you lose your breath.

Cool air rushes over you for all of a second, and the relief is immediate—skin stretching, blood thrumming as your hardness finally breaks free from its constraint. The sensation is dizzying, your cock pulsing as it fully unfurls, heat rushing straight to your core. Before she does anything else, she pauses, taking in the sight of you—her breath hitching slightly, her fingers ghosting over your length in reverence.

She nuzzles against it, pressing soft, lingering kisses along the side, her warm breath sending another shudder through you. She’s told you many times before how much she loves sucking your cock, but whenever she’s actually doing it, it feels like more than that—like she’s worshiping you, indulging in something she can’t get enough of. She’s savoring every inch before she even begins. A soft hum escapes her, as if just having you like this is enough to satisfy her. Only then do her lips part, and she finally takes you in.

Wet. Warm. Hot.

The first flick of her tongue sends a sharp jolt of pleasure up your spine. Her lips wrap around you, slow and firm, dragging along your length with teasing precision. The suction is just right, enough to make your fingers twitch over the keyboard. It starts clean, controlled, but soon the warmth of her mouth deepens, her spit coating every inch. You glance down between ragged breaths, watching as she slowly drags her tongue from the base to the tip, only to scoop up the slickness pooling at your crotch, bringing it back to the top with a slow, deliberate stroke.

Your hand flies to the mute button.

The first few slow, obscene strokes of her tongue make your head tip back slightly, your fingers gripping the edge of the desk. It’s wet, so wet, messy from the start.

She doesn’t hold back. Not today.

Her tongue glides firmly along the underside, tracing every vein, her movements deliberate as she circles the tip before enveloping you again, her lips stretching around your girth with practiced ease. The lewd sound of her lips smacking around you is barely muffled under the desk, but it’s enough to make your stomach tighten.

You will yourself to stay composed, to not give anything away, but it’s a losing battle.

She’s relentless—her mouth hot and soft, taking you deeper each time, her spit slicking every inch of you. She bobs her head with a slow, steady rhythm, a mix of suction and slippery, messy tongue work that makes your breath stutter.

You will yourself to focus, force your fingers to keep moving on the keyboard, but it’s useless. You tell yourself to think about the match, about the callouts, about anything but the heat pooling in your stomach. But then her breath ghosts over you again, and it's like a wire short-circuiting in your brain.

Your grip tightens on the mouse, but the effort is futile—your body betrays you, drawn irresistibly to the way she moves, to the slow, maddening rhythm she’s building beneath you. The second her lips ghost over the fabric, you’re gone. The game, the boys on Discord, the match—it all fades. Your only reality is her, beneath the desk, and the slow, maddening heat pooling in your stomach. Your breathing grows heavier, and it doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Yo, you good?” one of your friends asks.

You clear your throat, forcing a neutral tone. “Yeah, just—uh, adjusting my seat.”

Beneath the desk, Gaeul giggles, and the vibration of it alone makes your stomach clench. Then, she spits, warm and thick, letting it drip down your length before she spreads it with her tongue. A wet, filthy glide.

A sharp inhale rushes through your nose. Your free hand tightens on your thigh. God.

She deepens her rhythm, her mouth molding around you, her cheeks hollowing as she sucks with more urgency, a wet, obscene symphony filling the space beneath the desk. The slick sounds grow louder, more obscene, as spit pools and dribbles from the corners of her mouth, coating your length in a messy sheen.

A soft gag stutters in her throat, and when she pulls back slightly, her breath is ragged, chest rising and falling as she pants through the high. For a brief second, her eyes roll back, dazed, before she collects herself with a quiet, needy hum.

Then, she spits again, slow and deliberate, watching the saliva trail down before she gathers it with her tongue and takes you in once more. Some of it drips onto the chair, smearing across the leather, but you don’t care—your mind too fogged with pleasure to register anything beyond the mess she’s making of you.

Sloppy. Wet. No hesitation.

Her throat clenches around you before she pulls back, eyes fluttering as a garbled moan escapes her, her breath labored. She lets another thick strand of spit fall, her fingers smoothing it down as she strokes you with both hands, her grip greedy, insatiable. Then she goes back in, her nails digging lightly into your thigh, like she’s steadying herself, like she’s getting lost in it.

Your cursor drifts aimlessly on-screen, and the boys notice.

“Bro, what are you even doing? We’re losing.”

You blink rapidly, forcing yourself to refocus. “Shut up, I got this.”

But you don’t. Not when she’s like this. Not when she’s ruining you beneath the desk, her tongue flicking, her lips tightening, her throat swallowing around you just enough to make your vision blur.

Your next move is purely instinct. Your hand finds the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair as you press her down just a little more. She hums in approval, her lips glistening, strands of spit clinging between them as she lets her drool drip deliberately onto your skin, smearing the mess with slow, deliberate kisses. Then, her throat tightens as you push just a bit deeper, the tip hitting the back of her throat, making her gag around you.

The air around you is thick, tainted with the intoxicating mix of her hot breath, her saliva, and the lingering scent of her cherry perfume. It clings to your skin, seeps into the fabric of your chair, wrapping the space in something primal, something undeniably filthy. It’s overwhelming, making your head swim, as if the very atmosphere is charged with the evidence of everything she’s done to you.

You bite down on your lip, head tipping forward as pleasure crashes through you. Then she pulls back with a lewd, messy gasp, a wet pop breaking the tension as she stares at you, her composure long gone. What started as slow, deliberate control has unraveled into something raw and desperate. Her breath comes in ragged gasps, her lips swollen and slick, spit clinging to her chin and trickling down her throat. She blinks, dazed, before a quiet whimper escapes her, her body shivering like she’s addicted to the taste of you. Her eyes roll back slightly, lids fluttering as if she’s dazed, drunk on the feeling of having you in her mouth. She pants softly, her breath ragged as she collects herself, a cough slipping out before she snorts, shaking her head slightly like she’s high off it.

A hum of satisfaction vibrates in her throat before she spits on you again, her hand wrapping around your slick length. She strokes you slow, loud, and proud, her fingers working you with a deliberate pace. Looking up at you from under the desk, she looks utterly wrecked—lips swollen and slick, spit trailing down her chin, her eyes glassy and dark with hunger. Drops of saliva dot her chest, some clinging to her collarbone, dampening the fabric of her top. She pants softly, her breath shaky, as both hands work you with slow, messy strokes, her fingers coated in the evidence of her own devotion.

Muted again.

She’s winning. And she knows it.

Your thighs tremble as Gaeul keeps stroking, her grip firm, fingers gliding over your slick length with a slow, almost lazy confidence. Her breath is uneven, hot, little moans slipping past her lips as if she’s lost in the act itself, dazed by the sensation of having you in her hands. Her spit coats every inch, her palm twisting just right as she drags it up and down. Her eyes stay locked on yours, her smirk hidden behind the mess she’s made of you.

She doesn’t just stop there.

Gaeul lets your cock rest against her tongue for a moment, her eyes locked onto yours, dark and hazy with need.

She holds it there, savoring the weight of you, before spitting thickly onto it, her lips parting just slightly as if mesmerized by the sight.

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, she slaps it against her wet muscle, the obscene sound cutting through the heavy silence between you. The sound is obscene, sticky and loud in the quiet room. She giggles, flicking her gaze up at you from under her lashes, her fingers still stroking steadily as she tilts her head slightly, as if daring you to break.

And then she goes lower. All the way down.

Her lips trail to your base, kissing, licking, before her tongue glides further—dragging along your balls, her breath warm and heavy against your sensitive skin. She pauses for a moment, savoring, letting her lips graze over them before she sucks one into her mouth with a messy, drawn-out slurp. A deep, muffled moan vibrates through you, the sensation sparking along your spine.

You shudder, thighs flexing, your fingers tightening involuntarily as she hums against you, relishing every second, her tongue swirling, teasing. Her eyes flutter closed as if she’s lost in it, indulging herself, her own pleasure evident in the way she sucks greedily, releasing with a wet pop before shifting to the other.

She breathes out a small laugh, breathless, her lips slick as she licks back up, dragging her tongue purposefully before kissing back down, making sure every inch of you is drenched in attention. She doesn’t stop stroking, her grip tightening as she jerks you in slow, deliberate motions, the slick warmth of her saliva spreading over every inch. Her palm glides with a perfect mix of pressure and indulgence, squeezing just enough to make your thighs tense.

The wetness pools, smearing between her fingers, dripping down in messy trails, but she doesn’t slow—if anything, she seems to revel in it. Every stroke makes an obscene sound, every twist of her wrist drawing you closer to losing it.

She releases you with a pop, licking up the entire length before wrapping her lips around you again. This time, she doesn’t tease. She dives in.

Your body tenses as her throat tightens around you, her free hand rolling your balls in her palm as she bobs up and down with an unrelenting pace.

It’s overwhelming.

Her movements are fast, ruthless, each descent pushing you deeper into her throat. She takes you over and over, no hesitation, no mercy. Her moans turn breathier, more frantic, as if she’s unraveling with every greedy suck, every eager, wet drag of her lips, lost in the heady rhythm of it all.

Her thighs squeeze together involuntarily, a faint tremor running through, completely lost in it. Her fingers twitch slightly, gripping your thigh tighter for balance, her breathing faltering between moans, her body responding instinctively, greedily, to the act itself.

Her tongue presses against the underside, rubbing against that sensitive spot as her lips stretch around your girth. Tears prick the corners of her eyes, spit dripping from her chin, but she doesn’t stop.

She can feel it. You’re right there. Your thighs twitch, seizing in tight, instinctive pulses, the tension sparking through you like an exposed wire.

A hushed moan slips past your lips, unbidden, as your breathing catches. Her nails dig into your thigh, her body shuddering, her eyes rolling back for a brief second as she gags around you, spit bubbling at the corners of her lips. It’s filthy, it’s intoxicating, and she looks like she never wants to stop.

She grips your thigh, steadies herself, and swallows you whole, her throat convulsing around you in quick, desperate gulps. The wet heat, the tight pressure, the sound of her gagging and moaning all at once—it shatters you.

Your head tips back, mouth falling open in a silent cry as your hips jerk forward involuntarily. Pleasure crashes over you like a tidal wave, blinding, unstoppable. Your muscles go taut, your grip tightening on the desk as your breath catches, lost in the sheer intensity of the moment.

Thoughts scatter, dissolve into nothing but the heat of her mouth, the desperate pull of her throat, the way your body surrenders completely to her. The first pulse erupts deep inside her, and she moans around you, swallowing greedily as if she’s desperate for every last drop. The thick warmth shoots down her throat, and she takes it all effortlessly, her lips sealed tight, sucking you through every wave. Her body trembles, her exhale shuddering slightly as she savors the taste, the sensation.

A blissed-out hum escapes her, reverberating through you, her eyes fluttering in a heady trance, completely overtaken by the moment. Even after you’re drained, she stays there, swallowing once more, her lips still wrapped around you as if reluctant to let go. Finally, she pulls back, her tongue flicking out to clean up anything left behind, her lashes heavy, her gaze hazy with satisfaction. Only then do you finally look down, watching her beneath the desk.

She’s on her knees, her body slumped slightly, as if she’s been completely overtaken by the moment. Her hair is a mess, strands clinging to the damp sheen on her flushed skin. Her tank top is a disaster, the thin fabric darkened in places, speckled with spit, barely hanging onto her frame. She looks utterly ruined—stunning in her disarray, a vision of chaos and need, her lips still slick, slightly parted as she catches her breath.

There’s something almost innocent in the way she gazes up at you, juxtaposed with the depravity of what she’s just done. And yet, she’s still hungry, still savoring the taste of you, a soft, breathy hum leaving her lips as she drags her fingers over your oversensitive skin, enjoying how you twitch under her touch.

Your fingers grip the desk like a lifeline, chest heaving, body wrecked.

And when she finally pulls away, a string of spit still connects her lips to your spent length, her expression smug as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

The boys are still talking. The match is still going.

You don’t even know who’s winning anymore.

Your hand is still gripping the mouse, your fingers twitching slightly as you struggle to recover. The warmth of her breath still lingers on your skin, her presence under the desk unmistakable.

Your legs feel like jelly. Your entire body is still pulsing from the aftershocks, and you barely process the sound of your friends in your headset. When you finally force your fingers to move, they don’t feel like your own

You clear your throat, exhaling hard through your nose before unmuting. “Yeah, I’m here.”

“Bro, you disappeared for a sec,” one of your friends laughs. “What happened?”

Gaeul leans forward, resting her chin on your thigh, her fingers tracing light patterns against your oversensitive skin. She looks up at you, amused, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Just… needed a breather,” you manage, voice hoarse.

A chuckle from your homies, some light teasing, but they move on, diving back into the game.

Gaeul, however, doesn’t budge. Her eyes remain locked on you, heavy-lidded, her lips still slick and parted as if savoring the moment. A satisfied smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth, but there’s something else there too—an insatiable hunger, a quiet challenge lingering in her gaze, like she’s not quite done with you yet.

You exhale, still reeling, and finally push your chair back slightly, giving her space. Gaeul stretches out lazily, her body still humming from everything she’s just done, then crawls out from under the desk with slow, unsteady movements.

Her tank top clings to her skin, damp, wrinkled, barely hanging onto her shoulders. With a small, bratty huff, she tugs it back into place, though it does little to fix the absolute mess she’s become.

Before you can react, she leans up and presses a kiss to your cheek, soft and fleeting, but the smirk tugging at her lips betrays the false innocence of it. "Next time, I’m riding you," she murmurs, voice still thick, breathless, her words dripping with amusement. "Let’s see how well you mute then."

Your fingers tighten on the mouse.

Game over.

AN: I was gone and stopped writing and thinking of shit, had some changes in my life, but im back to writing again. Keep an eye out I got some more ready to go

#smut #gaeul #ive #malereader #kpop smut #kpop fic #kpop fanfic #ive smut

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hometoursandotherstuff · 5 months ago

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I'm intrigued by this renovated 1920 home in Los Angeles, CA. 2bds, 3ba, 2,220 sq ft, $2.795m. It may be small by Los Angeles standards, but it certainly has the hefty price tag. Here's what a simple 2bd ranch for $2.8m in LA looks like.

There is no grand entrance, just a modestly tailored center room.

The focal point of the living room is a lovely fireplace surrounded by built-in mirror-lined shelving with one large mirror in the middle. Reflected in the mirror is a magnificent chandelier.

It's a nice room done in a relaxing green tone.

The plain dining room opens to a terrace.

Love the blue cabinetry, which is probably the old cabinets, that were painted, and dark granite. My 5yr. old apt. has dark granite, and it looks dated, so I hope that darker granite is becoming more popular.

Popular fish pattern designer wallpaper in the powder accented with a porthole mirror.

The primary bedroom wallpapered in gold wallpaper that gives off a glow. A window wall opens to the patio and pool.

The ensuite features a cement counter and matching shower bench.

Bedroom #2 is done completely in matching blue patterned wallpaper and fabric.

The ensuite has poured cement counters and matching, but plainer, blue wallpaper.

This is unusual- the ranch style house has a patio that surrounds a deeply sunken pool area.

Look at these trees along the wall trimmed straight across as one piece.

Another lovely garden on the side of the house. 8,062 sq ft lot

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/1737-N-Vista-St-Los-Angeles-CA-90046/20794131_zpid/

#modern architecture #ranch style homes #houses #house tours #home tour

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luckyroll3 · 2 months ago

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Thank You, Daddy Chapter 3

Masterlist and Summary

Previous Chapter

Warnings: This work of fiction is intended for 18+ audiences only. Includes explicit sexual content, graphic language, sex work, power dynamics, daddy kink, possessive behavior, etc. Author chooses to not extensively tag in order to preserve some elements of storytelling.

Word Count: 9,032

The eastern wing of Christopher's mansion stretches before you like a luxury hotel suite you've somehow scored permanently; it’s all cream marble, soft lighting, and that particular stillness that only comes with obscene wealth. You trail your fingers along the wall as you walk, feeling the textured wallpaper that probably cost more per square foot than your first apartment's monthly rent. This is home now, at least for the duration of this arrangement, and something between anxiety and excitement flutters in your stomach as you push open the door to your designated bedroom.

Tuesday had arrived too quickly. Christopher asked you to meet him at the property in the early morning hours. He left for work before dawn, pressing a kiss to your lips that lingered somewhere between possession and tenderness. He'd given you a carabiner with a set of keys and a keycard, security codes, and instructions for the staff, all delivered with that clinical precision that makes you wonder if he's ever done anything spontaneously in his life.

You returned home to finish cleaning your penthouse and grab your bags. Christopher’s driver picked you up a few hours later to return you to the mansion in the early afternoon.

The bedroom is ridiculous. Not just large, palatial. The room is painted a warm yellow that reminds you of sunshine. A California king bed sits centered against one wall, draped in linens so white and pristine they make you nervous to even approach. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame a view of manicured gardens that stretch toward the horizon, deliberately designed to make you feel like you're floating above the world.

"Well, shit," you mutter to the empty room, your voice bouncing off high ceilings.

You roll your suitcases, the expensive ones you bought after your first month of high-end escorting, into the center of the room, then drop your backpack beside an upholstered bench. The sound feels like sacrilege in this cathedral of luxury. Christopher's text this morning was simple.

Christopher:

Make yourself at home. The eastern wing is yours.

As if anyone could feel ‘at home’ in a space designed to remind you of your place in the hierarchy.

The en-suite bathroom gleams with marble and gold fixtures, a roomy shower and a tub that could double as a small pool. You catch sight of yourself in the oversized mirror, hair pulled back in a neat bun, simple travel clothes that pass for casual luxury, eyes sharp and assessing. The woman staring back at you doesn't look overwhelmed.

Good.

But it's the walk-in closet that stops you in your tracks. Sliding open the heavy door reveals a space larger than your first apartment. Half of it stands empty, waiting for your possessions. The other half...

Your breath catches slightly as you run your fingers over fabrics that feel like liquid wealth. Dresses, skirts, blouses, slacks—all in your size, all with tags that make your escort fees seem like pocket change. Shoes line one wall, handbags another. You recognize the silhouettes of designers whose pieces you've admired but never purchased, even with your considerable income, too frugal to waste your earnings on such extravagances. Each item curated to Christopher's exacting taste, yet somehow aligned with your own aesthetic.

"Arrival gifts," you whisper, recalling the term from your contract negotiations. The casual ownership in the gesture should irritate you, but there's something unnervingly thoughtful in the selections. He's been paying attention to what you wear. Noticing.

Unpacking takes less time than expected. Your life fits neatly into the empty spaces, though your wardrobe looks almost comically modest next to Christopher's ‘gifts.’ When everything is put away, you crawl onto the bed, sinking into a mattress that somehow knows exactly how to support your body.

You pull out your phone, opening the AuVel app. The notification badge shows double-digit messages, all received since you posted your official "out of office" status three days ago: Taking a sabbatical for an exclusive arrangement. Not accepting scheduling requests or new clients at this time.

You scroll through the messages, ignoring the disappointed regulars, the generous counteroffers that didn’t even come close to matching what she was earning from Christopher, the barely disguised pleas. One message stops your thumb. Jisung, still in Singapore according to his location.

Jisung:

Exclusive? That doesn't sound like you, Noelle. Everything okay?

A smile tugs at your lips. Only Jisung would check on your well being first, business second. And only Jisung would use your alias in a private messaging app when he knows your real name. You type out a response.

Noelle:

All good. Just a temporary arrangement with very favorable terms. Tell me about Singapore.

His response is immediate; a video call request. You smooth your hair quickly before accepting, and Jisung's boyish face fills your screen, backdropped by what appears to be a hotel suite with the Singaporean skyline glittering behind him.

"There she is!" His grin is infectious. "Looking well-rested. Exclusive arrangements must agree with you."

"Don't start," you warn, but you're smiling too. "I've been here all of six hours."

"And already lounging in what looks like..." he squints playfully at the screen, "...at least a fifteen million dollar property? Twenty?"

"I haven't asked for the property value statement yet, but I'll put it on my to-do list."

He laughs, then his expression shifts to something more serious. "So, who's the lucky person who managed to convince you to take yourself off the market? You've turned down exclusivity offers before."

"Christopher Bahng," you say, watching his reaction carefully.

Jisung's eyebrows shoot up. "Christopher Bahng? Finance Christopher Bahng? The human embodiment of a steel trap Christopher Bahng?"

"That would be the one."

He whistles low. "Well, that explains the mansion. Man's worth billions. Literal billions." He tilts his head, studying you. "Didn't think he was your type though."

"He's a client, not a boyfriend," you remind him, though the words feel strangely hollow. "There’s not a ‘type’ when it comes to clients. And the financial package was... persuasive."

"I bet it was. So how exclusive is ‘exclusive’?" he asks with a raised eyebrow.

“I’m legally not allowed to fuck anyone but him for the next six months under the terms of our arrangement,” you say casually.

“Well that’s a fucking bummer.” Jisung pouts adorably.

“Guess you’ll have to get that girlfriend now,” you tease with a laugh.

“Not funny,” he says, but you can tell his serious tone is for show. Jisung shifts, the camera angle changing to show more of his hotel room. "Singapore's been good to me. Closed two deals and found this amazing hole-in-the-wall that serves the best chili crab I've ever had. I'll take you sometime, you know, after this contract of yours is over."

For the next forty minutes, you let Jisung's animated stories wash over you: his business meetings, the night markets, the club where he almost got into a fight defending a woman's honor. It's comfortable, this friendship that exists within the boundaries of your professional life but somehow transcends it too.

"So," he says finally, after a lull in conversation. "Bahng, huh? I've met him at a few industry events. He's..." Jisung seems to search for the right words, "intense. Brilliant, but there's something almost mechanical about him. And that friend of his—"

"Hyunjin," you supply.

"Yeah, Hyunjin Hwang. Family owns half of Seoul's luxury real estate and that only contributes to about just over a quarter of their estimated worth. He's Christopher's fixer, the charming face that smooths things over when Christopher steamrolls someone. He’s also been known to be quite effective at making problems… disappear, from what I’ve heard." Jisung's expression grows more serious. "You sure about this arrangement? Bahng doesn't strike me as someone who understands the word 'temporary.'"

You appreciate his concern, genuine and without judgment. "The terms are clear. Six months, exclusive access, very generous compensation. I've done this before."

"Not with someone like him," Jisung counters gently. "Someone who is used to controlling every single aspect of his world. Just... be careful. Guys like Bahng see people as assets or liabilities, nothing in between."

"I know how to handle controlling men," you assure him, though Christopher's intensity has already proven different from anything you've encountered before.

Jisung's smile returns, softer now. "I know you do. Just checking. And hey, if you need anything, call me. I'll be back from Singapore next week."

"Thanks, Ji. I will."

"Promise me?"

"Promise."

After you hang up, you stare at the ceiling, processing Jisung's words. Christopher does seem to collect people like assets—but there have been moments with him, flashes of something almost human beneath the carefully controlled exterior. Moments where his touch lingered not like a man enjoying his purchase, but like someone discovering something unexpected.

Your phone buzzes with a text.

Christopher:

Dinner at 7. Wear the brown LV with the gold accents. No underwear. I'll be home by 6.

Short. Direct. Leaving no room for negotiation. Yet the flutter in your stomach isn't annoyance, it's anticipation.

You roll off the bed, looking at your watch and calculating the time needed to prepare. The shower first, then hair, makeup, the dress he's specified. You move with practiced efficiency, the ritual familiar even in these unfamiliar surroundings. This is just another job, you remind yourself. An exceptionally well-paying job with unusually comfortable accommodations.

But as you step into the shower, letting hot water cascade over your skin, you can't quite shake the feeling that you're lying to yourself.

****

Crystal catches light like trapped stars across Christopher's dining room. You sit at a table long enough to host a corporate board meeting, watching him arrange himself at the head with the practiced precision of someone who's spent his life controlling rooms. The silverware gleams in perfect symmetry, each piece aligned with mathematical exactness. It's a performance of wealth, yes, but more importantly, of control. Christopher smooths his napkin across his lap, his eyes never leaving yours, and you recognize this dinner for what it really is; not a meal, but the laying of boundaries.

"The Louis Vuitton suits you," he says, voice cool but approving. "I knew it would."

"Thank you, daddy" you reply, feeling the absence of underwear acutely as the fabric shifts against your skin. "You have good taste."

His lips quirk. "In all things."

The staff, two middle-aged women with the professional blankness of people paid very well to see and hear nothing, glide around you, pouring wine and setting the first course. A delicate soup, something French and subtle. Christopher waits until they've retreated to the kitchen before speaking again.

"Now that you've settled in, we should discuss the household rules," he says, lifting his spoon with surgical precision. "Some will be obvious, others less so."

You take a sip of wine, a Bordeaux that probably costs over a thousand, and meet his gaze. "I'm listening."

"The eastern wing is yours, as I mentioned. Your privacy there will be absolute. The staff won't enter without permission except to clean on Tuesdays and Fridays between ten and noon." He pauses, watching you taste the soup. "The rest of the house is shared space, with the exception of my office on the first floor. That remains locked and private. Hyunjin also has an office and bedroom here that he uses every so often. You should also consider his spaces off limits unless he tells you otherwise."

"Understood." You sip another spoonful of soup as you wonder how common it is for someone like him to have a dedicated space in his house for his best friend and partner, or whether Hyunjin has a room for him at his place as well.

He continues methodically, outlining your arrangement with the detachment of someone reviewing a corporate merger.

The staff has been informed you're a ‘houseguest’ with no specified departure date. You'll have access to the cars in the garage, though his driver can be available with notice if you prefer. Your financial allowance will be deposited weekly into the account you specified. The chef will accommodate any dietary preferences. You're welcome to have visitors, with advance notice.

The main course arrives, perfectly cooked beef with vegetables arranged like abstract art. The staff disappears again.

"Regarding intimacy," Christopher says, cutting his meat with mathematical precision, "I had my tests done yesterday. All negative, as expected." He reaches into his jacket, produces a sealed envelope, and slides it across to you. "You can verify yourself."

You take the envelope but don't open it. "I sent mine to your secure email this morning. Also all negative."

"I know. I checked before leaving the office." Something flickers in his eyes. "Which means we can proceed without barriers, as discussed."

The clinical phrasing should kill any hint of arousal, but there's something in the way his voice drops slightly, the way his eyes darken, that sends a current of anticipation through you.

"And regarding my... availability," you say carefully.

"You'll be exclusively mine for the contract period." It's not a request. "I expect you to be available when I want you, but I'm not unreasonable. Your time is valuable and important. I respect that." He takes a sip of wine, eyes never leaving yours. "However, I don't share what's mine. Not even temporarily."

There's the possessiveness Hyunjin and Jisung warned about. But instead of feeling trapped, you feel a strange thrill at being desired so completely.

"I understand, Daddy," you say, your voice dropping to a deliberate whisper.

His fork pauses halfway to his mouth, then continues. The only sign your words affected him is a slight tightening around his eyes, a barely perceptible quickening of breath. Power shifts momentarily in your direction, and you tuck that knowledge away carefully.

"Is there anything else you need clarified?" he asks, voice steady again.

You lean forward slightly, the movement causing the dress to shift against your bare skin underneath. "I think we understand each other perfectly."

The conversation shifts then, becoming almost casual. Christopher asks about your day, your impression of the house. You inquire about his work. It's a strange dance, formal yet intimate, like strangers who somehow know each other's secrets. The wine loosens something in both of you, not quite walls coming down but windows opening slightly.

You're halfway through dessert, a chocolate creation that borders on architectural, when a new voice breaks the careful rhythm you've established.

"Started dessert without me? I'm wounded, Chris."

Hyunjin leans against the dining room doorframe with the casual confidence of someone who knows he can get away with anything. He's dressed in all black, the clothes expensive but with an effortlessness Christopher's tailored precision lacks.

"Hyunjin." Christopher doesn't look surprised, merely resigned. "I wasn't expecting you tonight."

Hyunjin pushes off the doorframe and approaches, stopping beside the chair opposite from you. "Clearly. You'd have ordered extra dessert." His eyes move to you, assessing but not unkind, as they move down your body and back up to your face. "So Noelle’s the reason my best friend has been ignoring my calls tonight."

Before you can respond, Christopher interjects, "Hyunjin—"

"I know, I know," Hyunjin cuts in smoothly. "First night with your newest acquisition." There's something in his eyes; amusement, curiosity, and something else you can't quite name. "You know, I’m the voice of reason in Chris’ life,” he says to you, “though he rarely listens."

You chuckle softly.

Christopher clears his throat. "Did you need something specific, or are you just here to interrupt my dinner and annoy the fuck out of me?"

Hyunjin grins, dropping into the chair beside Christopher with the ease of someone who's done so countless times. "The Hong Kong deal. Park wants to renegotiate terms." He reaches over to grasp Christopher’s spoon and steals a scoop of his dessert with casual disregard for personal boundaries. "He's panicking about the regulatory changes."

"Park always panics," Christopher says dismissively. "The terms stand."

"That's what I told him, but he's insisting on a call with you tomorrow." Hyunjin takes another bite. "This is fucking good! Compliments to your chef."

You watch the exchange with fascination. Where Christopher is all rigid lines and careful control, Hyunjin flows like water, breaking rules without consequence. More interesting is how Christopher allows it; there's annoyance in his expression, but also something like fondness.

"Fine. Schedule it for 10 AM." Christopher pushes the bowl with the remainder of his dessert toward Hyunjin, who accepts it without fanfare, continuing to eat like it was his all along. "Anything else, or can I get back to my evening?"

Hyunjin glances between you and Christopher as he scrapes up what’s left of the dessert from around the edges of the bowl, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "No, that's all. Don't let me keep you from your... negotiations." He brings the spoon to his mouth, carefully sucking off any remnants of chocolate as he pulls it slowly between his lips, then rests it on the table. He rises with fluid grace, nodding to you. "Bye Noelle. Christopher's toys usually don't last long, but something tells me you might be different."

"Jin," Christopher warns, voice dropping.

Hyunjin holds up his hands in mock surrender, complete with a devastating grin. "Just making conversation, brah." He backs toward the door. "No need to stand,” although Christopher had made no attempt to move from his seat, “I'll let myself out. Don't do anything I wouldn't do." His gaze slides to you again, and there's genuine amusement there. "Though that doesn't rule out much." He gives you a playful wink.

After he's gone, silence stretches between you and Christopher. The staff returns to clear dessert plates, then Christopher dismisses them for the evening with a curt, "That will be all."

When the last footsteps fade, something in the air changes. The formal, business dinner atmosphere dissolves like sugar in hot water, leaving behind something thicker, headier.

"Hyunjin is interesting," you say, taking a final sip of wine. “Like how he always calls you ‘Chris’.”

"Hyunjin is a law unto himself," Christopher replies, his voice lower now, rougher at the edges. "He's also the only person who gets away with calling me Chris."

"I'll remember that," you say with a smirk, a small challenge in your voice.

Christopher's eyes darken as he rises from his chair, moving toward you with deliberate steps. "No, you won't. Because you won't be calling me Chris." He stops beside your chair, one hand coming to rest on the back of it, the other reaching down to tilt your chin up. "What will you call me?"

The air between you vibrates with tension, with possibility. You hold his gaze, letting the moment stretch until you can see his control fraying just slightly at the edges.

"Daddy," you whisper, and it's both surrender and challenge. The word draws a smirk from his lips before they press against yours.

His kiss is nothing like the careful, controlled way he's conducted himself all evening. It's hungry, almost desperate, as if he's been holding himself back all through dinner, through the rules and boundaries and practical discussions. His hand slides into your hair, gripping tightly enough to send sparks of pleasure and pain down your spine.

You're barely aware of standing, of his hands guiding you, until your back meets the hard edge of the dining table. Christopher's breathing is ragged against your neck as he lifts you effortlessly, setting you on top, your dress riding up your thighs.

"No underwear," he murmurs against your skin, hands confirming what he already knew. "Good girl."

His approval shouldn't affect you, this is business after all, but heat pools between your legs at his words. His fingers find you already wet, and his sharp intake of breath is a victory you savor.

"Spread your legs wider," he commands, and you comply, the cool air a shock against your heated skin.

Christopher remains fully clothed, his suit not even wrinkled, as he positions himself between your thighs. The contrast—you exposed, him contained—heightens everything. When he unbuckles his belt, the sound of metal on metal ringing through the quiet dining room is like a promise. You look down, biting your bottom lip as he slides his beautiful, hard cock out.

The first push of him inside you, bare for the first time, draws gasps from both of you. The sensation is overwhelming, heat and fullness and the shocking intimacy of nothing between you. You can count the number of times you’ve gone bareback with anyone, much less a client, on one hand. Given your profession, it’s just not something you do without careful consideration (or a hefty fee). But you always relish the feeling.

Christopher's hands grip your hips with bruising intensity, holding you exactly where he wants you as he begins to move.

"I can’t believe you’re here, all mine," he growls against your ear, the words, each accompanied by their own thrusts, torn from somewhere primal and possessive.

You gasp again, not entirely acting. In this moment, with him filling you completely, the line between performance and reality blurs dangerously. Then again, you’ve never really had to act with him.

The dining table groans beneath you, fine china rattling with each thrust. Christopher's control slips further, his rhythm becoming more erratic, more desperate. One hand slides to your throat, applying just enough pressure to make you light-headed, to remind you who's in charge.

"Look at me," he demands. "I want to see your eyes when you cum for me."

You obey, locking eyes with him as tension coils tighter and tighter within you. There's something in his gaze beyond lust, beyond possession, something almost vulnerable in its intensity. It's that unexpected glimpse of humanity that sends you over the edge, crying out as pleasure shatters through you.

Christopher follows moments later, his grip on your neck tightening almost painfully as he spills inside you with a hoarse shout. For several heartbeats, the only sound is your mingled breathing, harsh in the dining room's perfect stillness.

When he finally pulls away, you see it, a crack in his perfect composure, a glimpse of something raw before he tucks it carefully away again with his dick. He helps you off the table with surprisingly gentle hands, smoothing your dress back into place with methodical care that contrasts sharply with the fever of moments before.

"That," he says, voice returning to its usual controlled cadence, "was worth the wait."

You straighten your shoulders, finding your equilibrium. "I aim to please, Daddy."

His eyes flash at the title, and you file away another small victory.

Christopher's hand curves possessively around your lower back as he guides you up the sweeping staircase. Your body still tingles from the dining table, nerves electric and oversensitive. Neither of you speaks; words seem superfluous after what just transpired downstairs. The mansion is silent now, staff dismissed, Hyunjin gone, leaving only the sound of your footsteps on marble and the rhythm of your still-syncing heartbeats.

He leads you not toward the eastern wing where your room awaits, but deeper into his private quarters. You've not been here before; this wasn't part of the house tour and your professional instincts kick in, cataloging details, noting exits, assessing the man whose bed you'll be sharing tonight. Christopher's shoulders remain straight, his gait measured, but there's a new looseness to his movements, as if the dining room encounter has released something tightly wound within him.

The master suite unfolds like a revelation, spacious yet surprisingly warm, with dark woods offsetting cream walls, abstract art in muted colors, and a bed that dominates the space without apology. But it's the doorway beyond that captures your attention as Christopher guides you through it.

The bathroom is palatial. Gleaming marble extends in all directions, the ceiling vaulted like a cathedral to wealth and indulgence. A shower enclosure large enough for a small gathering stands in one corner, all glass and brushed metal. But it's the tub that stops your breath; it’s a massive marble basin sunken into a raised platform, already filled with steaming water that catches the light from recessed fixtures overhead. The surface shimmers with essential oils, and the scent of eucalyptus, mint, and something citrusy fills the humid air.

"You had this prepared," you say, the words half question, half realization. "During dinner?"

Christopher's hand slides up your spine, coming to rest at the nape of your neck. "I know what I want," he says simply, fingers playing with the zipper of your dress. "I always do."

The presumption should irritate you, the assumption that you'd end up here, in his bathroom, after dinner. But there's something disarming about his certainty, about the care evident in the prepared bath, the perfect temperature, the scents chosen.

His fingers find your zipper, drawing it down with deliberate slowness. The dress loosens around you, and you feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch as he eases the dress off your shoulders. The fabric slithers down your body in a whisper of luxury, pooling at your feet in a puddle of brown and gold. You stand before him naked and watch his eyes darken as they travel over you.

"Perfect," he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

Christopher steps back, his own clothes coming off with efficient movements. His body is a study in controlled power, all lean muscle, broad shoulders, narrow hips. Not the bulky showiness of men who spend hours in gyms to impress, but the functional strength of someone who views their body as another tool to be honed for success. A few scars mark his skin—a thin line across his ribs, another on his left shoulder—stories you don't yet know.

He takes your hand, helping you step into the tub. The water envelops you like a warm embrace, hot enough to redden your skin but not scald. You sink down with a sigh that's entirely unrehearsed, entirely real. The exhaustion of moving, of navigating this new arrangement, melts away in the perfumed water.

Christopher slides in behind you, your back pressing against his chest as he pulls you between his legs. The intimacy of the position strikes you. This is not how clients usually behave. Sex is expected; cuddling in bathwater is not. You tense slightly, professional boundaries reasserting themselves, but his hands on your shoulders begin kneading gently, finding knots of tension you didn't know existed.

"Relax," he says, his voice a rumble you feel against your spine. "You're thinking too much."

You allow yourself to lean back against him, telling yourself it's part of the job. "Thinking is what keeps me safe."

His hands pause momentarily, then resume their gentle massage. "You're safe here with me. I hope you know that."

Something in his tone makes you believe him, which is perhaps the most dangerous thing of all.

The next few minutes pass in silence as Christopher reaches for a sea sponge and liquid soap, working it into a lather between his hands. When he begins washing you, the act feels almost ceremonial—careful, thorough, attentive to every inch of skin. He lifts your arm, cleaning along sensitive inner flesh, down to your fingertips. Then the other arm, each finger given the same deliberate attention.

Your chest next, the sponge circling your breasts with a precision that sends shivers across your skin. Your nipples harden under his attention, and you hear his breathing change, deepen.

"You respond so beautifully," he murmurs against your ear.

You want to remind him that you're a professional, that responding to touch is what you're paid for. But the words die in your throat because in this moment, your body's reactions aren't calculated. They're genuine, involuntary; you don’t want him to know he has this much power over you already.

He washes lower, across your stomach, his touch careful but thorough. The sponge dips between your legs, and you gasp as it brushes sensitive flesh still swollen from your earlier encounter. The sensation is both soothing and arousing, the warm water and his sure touch combining into something that makes your breath catch.

"Spread your legs," he directs, his voice low but commanding, echoing his directive from when you were sitting on the dining table earlier.

You comply, knees parting, water lapping at the edge of the tub with the movement. The sponge disappears, replaced by his fingers. One hand is splayed across your lower abdomen, holding you in place, the other exploring between your thighs. His touch is different now, no longer about cleansing but about pleasure.

One finger circles your entrance, then pushes inside with devastating slowness. Steam rises around you, droplets of condensation sliding down marble walls like voyeurs. A second finger joins the first, curling upward with precise knowledge of female anatomy. His thumb finds your clit, applying pressure in measured circles that have you arching back against him.

"That's it," he encourages, lips against your neck. "Let go for me."

The water sloshes as your hips begin to move, seeking more pressure, more friction. Christopher's arousal presses hard against your lower back, but he makes no move to satisfy himself, all his attention focused on your pleasure. The hand on your abdomen slides up to cup your breast, pinching your nipple with calculated pressure that sends a jolt straight to your core.

You're close, trembling on the edge, when Christopher's teeth graze your earlobe. "Cum for me, baby girl," he whispers, the pet name slipping out unplanned, intimate in a way that contracts something in your chest.

Your second orgasm for the night washes over you in waves, your body clenching around his fingers as water spills over the edge of the tub. Christopher holds you through it, his movements gentling but not stopping until you're boneless against him, breathing hard in the steam-filled air.

When you finally catch your breath, you reach behind you, seeking to reciprocate, but he catches your wrist gently.

"Later," he says, pressing a kiss to your temple. "This was for you."

This is not how clients usually behave, you repeat to yourself, his actions throwing you off.

The bath continues, Christopher washing your back, your legs, even your feet with the same careful attention. When the water begins to cool, he helps you stand, wrapping you in a towel so plush it feels like being embraced by a cloud. He dries you with the same methodical thoroughness with which he bathed you, leaving no inch of skin damp or neglected.

You watch him dry himself, noting the still-evident hard-on he seems content to ignore for now. Another departure from your usual experiences—clients who put your pleasure before their own are vanishingly rare.

Naked, you follow him back to the bedroom. Christopher pulls back the covers, sheets so high in thread count they feel like liquid against your skin, and guides you in before sliding in behind you. His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you back against his chest in a mirror of your position in the bath. His erection presses against you, but he makes no move to act on it, merely settling you more comfortably against him.

"I know you negotiated for your own room, but I’d like for you to sleep with me tonight,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your neck. “And you can sleep in here whenever you want." You nod in acknowledgement.

You should feel trapped in his embrace, should be calculating how to extricate yourself and return to your room. That would be the professional thing to do; to maintain boundaries, keep emotional distance. Instead, you find yourself relaxing into his hold, your eyes growing heavy as his breathing steadies behind you.

The last thing you register before sleep claims you is the strange realization that you do feel safe here, in the arms of a man who collects people like assets. The contradiction follows you into dreams.

Morning arrives in strips of light through partially closed curtains, painting Christopher's bedroom in bars of gold and shadow. You wake to find yourself still entwined with him, his arm heavy across your waist, his face softened in sleep. Without the intensity of his conscious gaze, he looks younger, almost vulnerable. A complexity you hadn't expected when you signed the contract.

You take the rare opportunity to study him unobserved: the slight furrow between his brows even in sleep, the sharp line of his jaw, the fullness of his lips.

As if sensing your scrutiny, Christopher's eyes open, instantly alert in a way that speaks of a lifetime of discipline. His gaze meets yours, and for a moment neither of you speaks, suspended in the strange intimacy of morning light and warm sheets.

"Hi," you say finally, your voice morning-rough and unexpectedly shy.

His lips curve slightly. "Hi yourself." His hand, still at your waist, begins a slow exploration upward, tracing the curve of your ribs, the swell of your breast. "Sleep well?"

"Yes," you admit, surprised by the truth of it. You've never slept well with clients before, always maintaining a level of alertness, of separation. "Your bed is very comfortable."

"Our bed," he corrects, the possessiveness returning to his voice. "For the next six months, at least."

The reminder of the arrangement's temporary nature should be reassuring, an endpoint, a return to normal, but something twists uncomfortably in your chest. You push the feeling aside, focusing instead on the physical as Christopher's hand continues its lazy exploration of your body.

When he rolls you onto your back, settling himself between your legs, there's none of the frantic urgency of the dining room. His movements are deliberate, unhurried, as if savoring each moment of contact. The morning light catches in his hair as he lowers his head to your breast, tongue circling your nipple with focused attention that draws a gasp from your lips.

His mouth travels lower, tasting the salt of your skin, the lingering scent of the bath oils. When he settles between your thighs, his breath hot against your center, his eyes find yours over the landscape of your body. The eye contact is unnervingly intimate as his tongue makes the first exploratory stroke through your folds.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, not guiding, just needing something to anchor you as pleasure builds slow and inexorable under his skilled mouth. He takes his time, learning what makes you gasp, what makes your thighs tremble against his shoulders. It's thorough, methodical, like everything else about him, but there's also an undercurrent of genuine enjoyment in the way he hums against you, in the grip of his hands on your thighs.

When you cum against his mouth, it's with a broken cry that echoes in the high-ceilinged bedroom. Christopher rises above you, his expression a mixture of satisfaction and hunger. He enters you with one smooth thrust, filling you completely, and you both gasp at the sensation of being joined again.

"Feel how perfectly you take me," he murmurs, his voice strained with the effort of restraint. "Like you were made for my cock." Talk like this usually makes you want to roll your eyes, but not this time, and you’re not sure why.

The pace he sets is unhurried but deep, each thrust deliberate, angled to hit exactly where you need it most. Your hands find his shoulders, nails digging into muscle as pleasure builds again, impossibly soon after your first orgasm of the morning. Christopher watches your face with an intensity that should feel invasive but somehow doesn't, as if your pleasure is a puzzle he's determined to solve completely.

When your second climax approaches, he leans down, forehead pressing gently against yours, creating a strange bubble of intimacy as your breathing mingles. "Look at me," he commands softly, like he had the night before.

Your eyes lock with his as the wave crests and breaks, and for a suspended moment something passes between you, something unplanned, unscripted, dangerously real. His rhythm falters, control finally slipping as he follows you over the edge, your name—your real name, not your professional alias—falling from his lips like a revelation. Hearing it makes you feel warm inside.

Afterward, he doesn't immediately withdraw, instead remaining connected, his weight supported on his forearms as he studies your face with an expression you can't quite decipher. There's a question in his eyes, one neither of you is ready to articulate.

Finally, he presses a kiss to your forehead, oddly chaste after what you've just shared, and rolls to the side, one arm still draped across your waist in casual possession.

"I have meetings this morning," he says, his voice returning to its usual measured tone. "But I'll be home for dinner."

Just like that, the spell breaks, reality reasserting itself. This is an arrangement, a transaction. The intimacy of the bath, of the shared night, of slow morning sex is all part of what he's paying for. You nod, finding your professional demeanor again like slipping on a familiar coat.

"I'll be here," you reply, and if there's a note in your voice that wasn't there before, a softness you hadn't intended, neither of you acknowledges it.

****

A couple days later, Christopher has a car pick you up in the middle of the day and drop you off at the building where he works. As you ride the elevator up, you adjust the straps of the black sundress he requested, feeling the chill of the air-conditioning against your bare skin beneath the fabric. His instructions were clear: no underwear and your dark brown strappy wedges.

The elevator dings, and you step out on the fifty-second floor, wedges clicking on polished tile. You don’t hesitate. You walk past the reception area, ignoring curious glances from Christopher’s employees. The hustle of men and women in suits swirls around you, eyes glancing your way but quickly darting back to their phones, tablets, and laptops, too busy to stare too long. Cool, confident, you pass Hyunjin’s office. He looks up from his computer and gives you a knowing smile, probably aware of exactly what you’re here for. You give him a nod.

When you get to Christopher’s office a couple doors down, you’re stopped by the 50-something year old woman seated at the desk outside. She looks like she takes no shit as she gives you a once over before she addresses you.

“Can I help you?”

“Good afternoon. Are you Martha?” She nods curtly. “So nice to meet you, I’m Noelle.” You give her a bright smile as you extend your hand to her.

Martha takes a beat before she accepts your hand and shakes firmly. She seems like the perfect personality to work with someone like Christopher. “Ah, Ms. Noelle. Great to meet you officially. Christopher mentioned you would be stopping by. You can go right on in sweetie.”

“Thank you.”

You knock softly at Christopher’s door, but you’re already turning the handle and slipping inside before he can answer. He glances up from his desk, eyes darkening when he sees you. Into the phone he says, “I’ll have to call you back. My next appointment just arrived.” The second his phone hits the cradle and the door closes shut behind you, his pent up need is unleashed on you.

His need is like a living thing. He moves with purpose, crossing the room in long, quick strides, eyes devouring you. He doesn’t bother with small talk or foreplay, just backs you into the wall, kissing you hard as his hands pull at your dress. The straps slide down your arms, and he yanks it down to your waist, exposing your breasts. His mouth travels down to suck your nipples, teeth grazing them as you gasp and arch against him. His hands are everywhere; your hips, your ass, tangling in your hair. There's just raw hunger as he spins you around, your breasts pressed against the cool wall.

His hands skim up your thighs, pushing your dress up with them, and you feel the heat of his body as he presses against you from behind. He’s hard, already out of his pants, and you brace yourself for his rough, unforgiving thrust. You’re wet, ready, your body anticipating the way he takes you when his lust is barely contained.

He fucks you roughly, fiercely, with no pretense of gentleness against the wall. You bite your lip to keep from crying out loud enough for the whole floor to hear as he pushes into you, as he fucks you mercilessly, like he can’t get enough.

Your breath comes in ragged gasps, and you can feel his desperation, his pent-up need, in every frenzied motion of his hips. He grips your waist, fingers digging into your flesh as he pounds into you. The intense rhythm sends you spiraling, the risk of being discovered, of someone hearing, making it even hotter. His thumb presses against your clit, and you nearly lose it, nearly scream his name. You turn your head, trying to kiss him, but he’s feral.

As your fucking reaches a fever pitch, he bites down hard on your shoulder, and you cum with his teeth still sunk into your skin. It makes the orgasm rip through you even more violently. He follows, the tension leaving his body in a shuddering release, flooding into you, hot and thick.

Your legs barely hold you up as he lets go of your hips, leaving marks that will probably bruise. You turn to face him, then slide down the wall with a chuckle, dress bunched inelegantly at your waist, and he watches you with a glint of satisfaction in his eyes as he zips himself up. You breathe heavily, slowly regaining some sense of composure, and he moves to help you to your feet. He doesn't bother with words; he just lifts the straps of your dress back up with hands that are much more tender than they were a moment ago. He kisses the bite mark on your neck before kissing you on the lips.

You lock your hands behind his neck and hold his head in place to kiss him deeply. When he pulls away, there’s a grin on his face.

“Please tell me there’s a bathroom in here. I don’t feel like doing a walk of shame through your office.”

Christopher laughs. “There is.” He takes your hand and guides you to a door in the corner.

“Thanks. Give me a minute.” You walk in and close the door behind you. You grab one off the washcloths rolled up on the counter and wet it before using it to clean in between your legs. Then you take the time to run your fingers through your hair and reapply your now smudged lipstick. You inspect the bite on your shoulder before grabbing a pressed powder compact from your purse. “Fucking Christopher,” you whisper to yourself as you attempt to cover the mark.

When you emerge from the bathroom, Christopher is seated at the small table in the corner. “I had lunch ordered for us,” he says, motioning for you to join him. “Martha said it should be here in five minutes.” He pours two glasses of water and watches as you settle in the chair beside him, his gaze still heated from your earlier encounter. “I wasn’t sure how long you’d need to freshen up. Should I have given you more time?”

You laugh. “Do you always fuck your appointments that hard?”

“Only the ones I really like.” He leans back, a satisfied look in his eyes.

“Generous of you to feed them too,” you say with a smirk.

There’s a playful lightness to the banter, an easy comfort that’s settling into your dynamic. You’re about to ask what’s on the lunch menu when there’s a knock at the door, and Martha enters, pushing a cart with covered plates. Hyunjin follows closely behind her.

“I figured you’d be here,” Christopher says, a touch of annoyance blending with amusement.

Hyunjin smiles. “I follow the food. And it’s always a pleasure to see Noelle.”

You roll your eyes. “Are you trying to flirt with me, Hyunjin?”

He chuckles. “I know better. But I’m really here to check on Christopher’s work.” He stretches casually. “Though I have no idea how you manage it with all these... distractions.” He nods at Christopher.

This time Christopher rolls his eyes. “Whatever, Jin.”

Martha arranges the food with efficient precision, and soon the table is full of fragrant dishes: salads, grilled fish, fresh fruit. “Thanks, Martha. That’ll be all,” Christopher says, dismissing her with a nod.

“Thank you Martha,” you add.

“Enjoy, sweetie,” she says to you as she leaves, closing the door behind her.

Hyunjin pulls a chair over and makes himself at home, straightening his shirt before reaching for a glass of water. You watch him, amused at his boldness, while savoring the strange normalcy of it all. There’s unspoken amusement in Christopher’s eyes as his best friend crashes what was supposed to be a private lunch. You’re struck by the easy, relaxed vibe, so removed from the original terms of your arrangement, and even further from what just happened on the other side of the room. It’s almost like the three of you are more than just...

Business associates? Friends?

You’re not sure. But as far as office threesomes go, it’s not bad. Not bad at all.

Camaraderie builds as the meal stretches on, the hum of conversation blending with the clatter of forks and plates. The food is delicious, light and elegant, and the three of you dig in with the kind of casual hunger that comes from being comfortable with each other. As Hyunjin jokes and talks shop, you notice how easily he and Christopher fall into rhythm, as if they’ve been doing this dance since the beginning of time.

You let their voices drift over you, pretending to be more interested in the grilled fish and salad than the business strategy they’re discussing, though you do catch bits of the conversation. Hyunjin talks about the big picture, while Christopher grounds it with details. “The numbers are up,” Hyunjin says as he slices into his fruit, “but we’ll need to make some adjustments to maintain the growth.”

Half the time, you play at being oblivious, pretending you’re too engrossed in your meal to notice how seamlessly Christopher and Hyunjin navigate their world. But really, you’re soaking it up, every word, every glance. Especially the way Christopher finds ways to invite you into the conversation, like you're more than just a guest.

"Your thoughts?" he asks. "On the business, not the fish?"

You set your fork down, catching the glint of curiosity in his eyes. “Growth like that isn't sustainable,” you say, wiping your mouth with a linen napkin. “You’ll have to change something, or you risk crashing hard.”

Hyunjin arches an eyebrow. “She's smart.”

“Don’t sound so shocked,” you laugh. “I'm not just a pretty face and hot body."

Christopher’s smile is warm, almost tender. "That much is clear. Are you sure you’re not wasting that brain in your current field."

You widen your eyes, feigning offense. "Says the man currently paying me more than his top executives. Definitely not wasted." You give him a wink.

Hyunjin grins, holding up his hands in defeat. "Ouch."

"You should come to the next board meeting," Christopher says, his tone only half-joking. "Might learn what I actually do for a living."

You raise an eyebrow. "Please, Daddy. I already know what you do for a living."

Hyunjin can't hold back his laugh. "Careful, Chris. Looks like she's onto you."

Christopher's smile widens, providing a glimpse of both dimples. "As long as you’re available to keep him out of trouble while I’m out of town at the end of the week," he says, "I'll let the cheekiness slide."

"Out of town?" You try to hide the disappointment in your voice. "Where are you going?"

"New York," Hyunjin answers, eyeing the last piece of fish. "But only for two days. You’ll barely have time to notice he’s gone. Unless he’s already got you so whipped you can’t function.” He reaches out to snatch the fish, but you beat him to it, spearing it with your fork.

"See? Functioning just fine," you say, popping it into your mouth.

Hyunjin leans back with a chuckle, extending his long legs and resting his hands behind his head. “Guess I’ll just have to keep you entertained.”

Christopher stands, gathering the remains of your lunch and Hyunjin’s on his tray. “I’m sure he’ll keep you entertained,” he says with a sideways glance at Hyunjin. “Especially now that we know where his talents really lie.”

“You have talents Hyunjin? Ooh, do tell,” you say with a smirk.

“I am a man of many skills,” Hyunjin says in defense.

Christopher laughs before leaning down to kiss you. “I have to run to a meeting downtown. I’ll see you at home later.”

“Should I expect to be manhandled again as soon as you walk through the door?” you ask, a wicked grin curling your lips.

Christopher smirks. “Only if you’re lucky.”

“Bring your appetite,” Hyunjin calls after him as Christopher heads for the door. “For her and dinner!” Christopher leaves the office, but not before rolling his eyes at Hyunjin. Hyunjin turns his attention back to you. “So,” he says, pulling his chair closer to you, “I know it’s barely been a week, but how’s life in the gilded cage?”

You feign innocence. “Gilded cage? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He shakes his head, amused. “You know exactly what I mean, Noelle.”

There’s something in his tone, a knowing quality that’s hard to decipher. You meet his gaze, holding it steady. “I know what I agreed to.”

“And?” His voice is easy, but his eyes are sharp, searching.

“And... it’s going well.” You pause, letting him see your certainty. “Better than I thought it would.”

“Well, well,” he says, a sliver of surprise in his voice. “Maybe you are different after all. Not many can put up with Christopher’s particular… tastes.”

“Maybe.” You study him, curious. “Aren’t you the least bit concerned though?”

“About?”

“About what happens,” you say, “if I’m not different?”

Hyunjin leans back, thoughtful. “Chris always gets what he wants,” he says, “one way or another. If it’s not you, it’ll be someone else.”

You nod, pretending his words don’t sting, pretending you believe him. “Yeah,” you say, with a casualness that goes against the sudden jolt of insecurity Hyunjin's comment sparks within you. “I know.”

You reach for the fruit, keeping your focus anywhere but his face. You can’t let him see how unsure you feel, how that small reminder of your particular arrangement shakes you more than you’d like. It’s a truth you’ve always known, that men like Christopher have their pick, have options, but you hadn’t realized just how much you didn’t want to be just an option until Hyunjin made it clear that you were. Not this time.

“But,” Hyunjin continues, “he’s gonna have a hell of a time replacing you. I have a feeling he won’t even try.” There’s a glint in his eye, a hint of sympathy laced with challenge, as if he knows how much you want to believe him but how unwilling you are to show it. He stands, stretching his arms above his head, revealing a peek at his exceptionally toned torso. “Speaking of,” he says, ruffling his hair back into place, “I’d better get back to work before he replaces me too.”

You watch him leave, tipping his head in playful acknowledgement as he goes. Alone, you sit back and trace the rim of your glass with a finger, letting Hyunjin’s words sink in. Chris always gets what he wants, one way or another. If it’s not you, it’ll be someone else. The words won’t let you go, lingering like a dare; you always knew it might end like this, you just hadn't expected it to matter. Especially this soon.

You don’t even realize how long you’ve been sitting there, staring into space, until Martha pops her head in. “Need anything else, Ms. Noelle?”

The sound of your alias pulls you back, and you smile, shaking your head. “No, thanks. I’m heading out now.” You smooth your dress, take one last sip of water, and grab your things. “Thanks so much for taking care of lunch for us.”

“You’re very welcome,” Martha says with a soft smile. “You know, you’re different from the others.” When you raise an eyebrow in confusion she adds, “The other women he’s dated.”

“Should I take that as a compliment?” you ask with a small laugh as you exit the office.

“You should.” Martha retakes her seat at her desk. “Huge compliment.”

“That’s sweet. Thank you.” As you turn to head for the elevator, you push thoughts of replacement out of your mind, determined to play this game by your rules.

While Christopher is in New York a few days later, you tell yourself that you’re glad for the space, that it gives you a chance to breathe. But you’re surprised by how much you miss him, by how much you crave the intensity he brings into your life. The nights are the hardest. You force yourself to sleep at your penthouse to avoid sleeping in his bed, wrapped in his sheets, surrounded by the smell and feel of him. You feel a bit pathetic that you’re already at this point and it hasn’t even been two weeks.

When Christopher finally returns, there’s a feverishness to your reunion, a wordless insistence in the way he pulls you to him. He kisses you before you can even say hello, lips hungry and demanding, erasing every doubt you had while he was away. You lose track of time, lose track of everything but the feel of his hands and the heat of his skin against yours. He makes good on his promise to manhandle you the minute he walks through the door, and then again on nearly every surface of the house all night long. By the time he’s finished with you, you’re breathless, dazed, and giddy.

A/N: Yeah... she's in trouble. 😂 Thoughts?

119 notes · View notes

illuminatedquill · 2 months ago

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Story Summary: Ursa Wren faces a dilemma: since her daughter, Sabine, is now of age, several high-ranking clans now seek to win the favor of Clan Wren by offering her potential suitors. With the political pressure mounting, Ursa has no choice but to acquiesce to the invocation of an ancient rite that will determine which of the suitors will have Sabine's hand in marriage. It's a risky game: turning any of the clans down has the potential to create new enemies that Clan Wren can scarcely afford as they continue to wage war against the Empire. To win this game, Ursa will need to rig it in Sabine's favor and choose a candidate of her own. But this candidate will need to have more than luck on their side . . . which is why she summons a certain plucky young Jedi named Ezra Bridger to Krownest.

Part 1 of 4

Mandalorians were taught since birth to only use beskar for armor and weaponry. That has always been the way. To use it for anything else, according to custom, was to waste it. But one person did not see it that way. They saw beyond, to what it could be. What did they see, you ask? Beauty. And so, they fashioned rings of beskar. The first of their kind. Who would be crazy enough to do such a thing? To go against established Mandalorian custom and change something considered immutable and derive a different purpose? You guessed it. It was a Jedi. - From the personal diary of Countess Ursa Wren

"To be seen is to be loved." - Unknown

~ the call ~

Fenn Rau rapped three times on the heavy wooden door and waited, taking a few moments to marvel at the craftsmanship in its design. Most Mandalorian clans loved to imbue their castles or fortresses with the latest tech to showcase how impregnable their stronghold was to guests. But not Clan Wren - here they still stood on tradition and the old ways but not in a manner that stifled innovation. It had been some time now since he had arrived on Krownest in service to their matriarch and it felt more like a home than anything else he could remember in his life.

"Enter." The commanding voice of his benefactor, Countess Ursa Wren, recognizable even through the thick wood, still full of authority and steel even at this late hour.

With a grunt of effort, he pushed the door open and entered Ursa Wren's bedroom.

Fenn Rau would never confess out loud, but he did harbor a curiosity regarding Clan Wren's matriarch - especially considering Sabine's strained relationship with her. But after meeting the woman himself, he immediately understood where the younger Wren got her fiery resolve from. Both of them were more alike than either were willing to admit - an observation that Fenn Rau decided was wise to keep to himself after witnessing one of their arguments.

Glancing around the matriarch's bedroom, the veteran warrior noted that it seemed to match the woman's personality: it was spartan, utilitarian, with no room given for personal effects that would reveal anything about Ursa herself. The walls were painted a light, neutral green shade that seemed to be an attempt at instilling calmness or serenity in the room's occupant, but Fenn Rau instead found it somewhat nauseating to look at for too long.

Pressed up against the wall to his right was a simple bed with plain grey bedsheets, accompanied by a single lonely pillow that had been flattened due to years of use. To his surprise, the bed was unmade - the only sign of life in the otherwise sterile feeling room. It seems the Countess really was human after all, he thought, feeling amused.

Other than the bed there was a large arch window that overlooked Castle Wren's grounds; a bookcase filled with thick, leather-bound books with the titles written in ancient Mando'a worn away on the spines; a medium sized wooden closet that presumably held Ursa's armor and other sets of clothing; and the only other piece of furniture in the room - a small, round table that had a tiny, delicate vase containing a red rose sitting upon it. It was an oddly personal touch of beauty that immediately suggested to him that it was not placed there by Ursa's hand. Perhaps Sabine, he wondered.

Next to the table, sitting in a wide-backed chair with one leg crossed over the other was the Countess. Ursa wore casual sleep wear: a simple, form-fitting long sleeve shirt and pants that were the same slightly nauseating green as the bedroom's walls, complete with comfortable house shoes. Her hair still remained tied in a tight, professional bun, but she was casually scrolling through a data-pad, her sharp, intelligent eyes raking over the information being shown.

Fenn Rau waited for her to acknowledge him. Finally, after a few seconds of silence, she sighed and tossed the data-pad gently onto the table next to her. With a weariness rarely seen by him, Ursa hunched over and massaged at her temples, eyes closed in deep thought.

"Countess," he said, concerned. "Are you alright?"

Ursa straightened herself with a wince and fixed him (Fenn Rau charitably ignored the faint popping noises that emitted from her back as she did so) with a grim stare.

(Pictured above: Ursa Wren contemplates her next move.)

Fenn Rau forced himself to stand upright against the weight of that intimidating stare.

A few tense seconds passed before Ursa finally relented, a small smile flickering over her face. "At ease, Rau," she said. "Just feeling the weight of my years."

"You're younger than me, Countess," he replied.

The smile grew. "Flatterer," she said.

"It's the truth."

She sighed. "Perhaps so," she said. "I suppose it's more to do with the mileage, rather than the actual number of years."

He nodded in understanding. Fenn Rau had his fair share of wear and tear from the long, hard years of life but by all accounts, Ursa Wren was far more accomplished and battle-worn in her early adulthood than he had ever been at that age.

And that was before she had become the leader of her clan. The stories he had heard about Ursa Wren over the years . . . well, it was enough to chill the blood of any Mandalorian.

"Is there anything I can do to assist you this evening?" he asked. "You did call for me."

"Yes," she answered. He suddenly caught a gleam of mischief in the woman's eyes that sent a spike of anxiety coursing through him.

"Fix my daughter's love life."

Out of all the requests she had ever given him, this was by far the craziest one yet.

Feeling somewhat unsteady on his feet, Fenn Rau asked, injecting a calm that he did not feel into his voice, "I beg your pardon, Countess?"

She gestured at the data-pad laying on the table. "More offers continue to come for my daughter's hand in marriage."

"Ah," he said. "I take it she's responding to them in her usual manner."

Ursa snorted. "Brief and colorful, as always. I'm somewhat proud."

Rau frowned. "You don't wish to see her married?"

"I wish to see her married, yes. Securing Clan Wren's future, especially in these precarious times, is among my top priorities."

"Then why - "

"Because," the Countess interrupted, "I would see her married to a suitable partner of her own choice."

He raised an eyebrow. "Wasn't your own marriage arranged, Countess?"

Ursa grinned. "Yes. By me. My parents threw a fit, of course, over my choice of Alrich. They had to save face somehow, insisting to the wider Mandalorian hierarchy that it was their doing."

Rau laughed. The Wren matriarch frowned at him. "What's so funny?"

"It's very . . . you, Countess."

"It should be," she responded. "I don't know how to be anyone else."

The data-pad suddenly chimed, indicating a new message. Ursa glanced at it and let out a soft groan.

"Another offer, I take it," observed Rau.

"Worse," muttered Ursa. "An invocation from three of the more insistent clans. They are demanding to invoke a Rite."

"Which clans?"

She checked the data-pad, eyes scanning the message. "Clan Eagan, Clan Cobel, and Clan Reghabi."

Fenn Rau grimaced. He had heard of these three - they were sharks in the water, smelling blood. They were ambitious, competent, and looking to claw their way up to the upper echelon of Mandalorian clan hierarchy. Outside of the larger war against the Empire, these three clans had been on the rampage, absorbing smaller clans under their respective umbrellas through back-door negotiations - or by force.

An invocation was a way for the smaller, less powerful families of Mandalore to force a response from the higher, elite clans. There always had to be at least three of them, Rau remembered.

Politically speaking, Ursa was in a bind. Yes, she could turn down the invocation, but it would weaken Clan Wren's stature in the eyes of Mandalorian society. Even during wartime, it could be a death knell. They were spread thin enough as it was and with the continued absence of Alrich - itself a weakening blow to the clan's political stature - their alliances were shaky at best.

It was only due to Ursa Wren's steely resolve that Clan Wren stayed ahead of their rivals, her efforts bolstered by her daughter's timely arrival with the legendary Darksaber.

However, there was a catch . . .

"You can still choose the Rite, if I remember correctly," he said. In the interests of fairness, the clan challenged could choose the manner of challenge.

"Yes," Ursa said, smugly. "And that is how I will settle this matter, once and for all."

His stomach sank. "You intend to go through with this?"

She shook her head. "I have no choice. Clan Wren can ill afford new enemies during this time. Desperate times, Rau."

Rau pursed his lips, thinking. Ursa eyed him. "Speak your mind," she prompted.

"You're playing games with your daughter's life, Countess," he pointed out - gently. "It's unlike you."

"Am I?" she asked, her voice whisper soft. A smile appeared on the matriarch's face - a surprisingly evil one, in fact.

He studied her, feeling the anxiety spike through him again. "I'm assuming you have plan for these games."

"Obviously," she replied. "I never would play games with my daughter's life."

Rau asked, "How do you intend to win?"

"How do you assure victory in anything?" she asked. "You rig it in your favor."

He considered Ursa's words. "That depends on the rite you choose. Which one will it be, Countess? The rite of woe, frolic, malice - or dread, perhaps?"

The evil smile grew wider. "I was thinking the Rite of Hearts."

He frowned. "I don't quite remember that one."

"I pose a question to the suitors," she answered. "How they answer will prove the winner of Sabine's hand in marriage."

He arched an incredulous eyebrow. "I remember now. It's not that simple. Isn't there a vote by each of the clans to declare the winner?"

The Countess laughed. "I don't intend to make it simple. You'll be helping me in that matter, Fenn Rau."

"I see." He really didn't but assumed that Ursa would explain later.

At least he hoped so. In her own way, the Wren matriarch was as unpredictable as her daughter.

"How do you intend to rig this in your favor?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Each of the clans will choose their suitor," Ursa explained. "I am allowed a choice, as well."

"Seems odd," he replied. "Regardless of the outcome, each of the clans will only vote for their own suitor."

"Unless they can be swayed to vote outside their own choice," Ursa corrected. "It can happen."

"I've never heard of it happening," he said. "Not in my lifetime."

She shrugged. "Depends on the candidate."

"Your candidate, you mean," he said. "Who would be brave enough to go along with this?"

She eyed him, the evil smile returning in full force.

A horrible thought occurred to him then: the image of a young man, piercing blue eyes, a scarred cheek, brandishing an emerald bladed lightsaber in the thick of combat.

"You can't be serious!"

"Deadly serious, Rau," Ursa confirmed. "He's the one."

Rau's mouth gaped open, his mind working furiously through the implications. "Countess - choosing him surely is against the rules?"

"I make the rules," she replied coldly. "It's my game now. We are at war - not just against the Empire but for my daughter's freedom. And that boy is my best bet against these sharks swirling around us."

He stared at her. It was a bold move indeed.

Rau didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Maybe when his wits caught up with him, he could decide on that later.

"Shall I make the call, then?" he asked her.

"Yes, if you please," responded Ursa. Her face turned serious. "Get me a secure channel to the Ghost. I suspect Hera Syndulla will still be awake at this hour."

_ _ _ _ _

~ the suitors ~

Three days later

This was the worst day of Sabine's life. She stood in the hallway outside the Wren throne room, awaiting the summons. It felt like she was going to her execution.

On the wall in front of her, Sabine studied the painting hanging there. A portrait of her mother, commissioned by her father, Alrich, as a gift for their wedding day. She initially started to do so as a way to distract herself from the feeling of impending doom but as the minutes passed Sabine came to appreciate the details her father put into the work.

A labor of love, he had called it. Even then, he would privately admit to his daughter later, it did not do his wife's beauty justice.

(Pictured above: Alrich Wren's portrait of his wife, Ursa, given as a gift on their wedding day.)

"Feeling nervous?"

Sabine turned to find Fenn Rau, dressed in formal Mandalorian attire. A sleek, form fitting outfit that was militaristic in style, dyed in the traditional colors of Clan Wren. Sabine felt awkwardly out of place, wearing her customary beskar armor since she owned no dresses. It was hard to get any shopping done in the middle of an active war zone, she had come to learn.

Despite wearing his usual stoic expression, there was a glimmer of humor in Fenn Rau's eyes.

"I'm planning to vomit in front of everyone gathered in that throne room shortly," Sabine responded seriously.

He eyed her. "You don't trust your mother?" he asked.

"How can I trust her after this?" she asked. "She's bargaining away my freedom and - for what - a few meager alliances with some has-been clans?"

Rau's face became pained. "Sabine. If your mother thought this wasn't necessary, then you wouldn't be doing this. We are at war."

"We're always at war," she shot back. "Why now? These offers have been coming in since I got back a few months ago. She didn't seem to mind me turning them down then."

He sighed deeply. "Things change. Listen, Sabine - you know our resources and strength as well as she does. Tell me honestly that we do not need this."

Sabine bit her lip. She could not lie, not even to herself. Things were looking grim for Clan Wren. Even with the strength of the Darksaber backing up their clan, the Empire was everywhere with resources that far outstripped their own. And the Mandalorians were still scattered to the far reaches of the galaxy, hesitant to answer the call to take back their homeworld.

But still, she had hoped it would not come to this. Her mother had never been shy in expressing marriage as a viable future for Sabine, but Ursa had always been insistent that it would be her choice - and no one else's.

She thought of Ezra suddenly. The image of her best friend, far away on the Ghost or in the middle of some crucial mission for the Rebellion, brought a lump to her throat.

I miss you, goober, she thought miserably.

If it could have been my choice, Ezra . . .

She let that thought trail off, not daring to follow through with it. It was too late for that.

Far too late.

Duty calls.

Sabine came out of her reverie to find Fenn Rau looking at her with a surprisingly gentle expression. "You alright?" he asked.

"No," she said, her voice rough. "None of those people will ever love me the way I want. Nor will I ever love any of them."

Something almost like a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. She was immediately suspicious. "What is it?" she demanded.

He shrugged, the almost smile vanishing instantly. "Trust your mother, Sabine," he said again.

She opened her mouth to reply with a snarky answer - and then a horn resounded through the hallway.

It was time.

Sabine took a deep breath, looking up at the portrait of her mother one last time. Once upon a time, Ursa had to go through an arranged marriage set up by her own parents. But that had resulted in her marriage to Alrich, the love of her life.

It worked out for you, she thought bitterly. I doubt it will do so for me.

The doors to the throne room opened. Fenn Rau offered his arm, a formal gesture reserved for Mandalorian royalty. Sabine took it gratefully and let him lead her out.

Sitting on her throne was Ursa, dressed in a sleek silver gown, similar to the one depicted in the portrait Sabine had just been studying. Her mother's eyes watched her carefully, flashing coldly in a warning that only her daughter would pick up on: Behave.

It took every fiber of restraint not to dash out of the room right then and there, but Sabine did it. Her clan was at stake.

This is the right thing to do, isn't it Ezra?

But her best friend was not here to console her. Sabine wondered if she would ever see him again after this.

They reached the center of the room, Ursa behind them on her throne, and faced the candidates from the different clans.

The three suitors were hidden beneath shimmer-silk cloaks, bequeathed to only the most important guests. Behind them were the clan heads, she assumed, also wearing cloaks to hide their faces. The introductions would begin shortly, each candidate and their sponsor lowering their hoods to reveal their faces.

Fun, fun, fun, Sabine thought. I might really puke from all this fun I'm having.

"Welcome," boomed Ursa's voice from behind her. "Welcome, honored guests, to Krownest and Clan Wren."

The three hooded clan heads responded in unison. "We seek an invocation, Countess Wren."

Sabine glanced behind her to see Ursa nodding in acknowledgement. "I accept this invocation."

They spoke again. "What rite would you ask of us?"

"The Rite of Hearts," Ursa said calmly.

There was a pause. The hooded clan members exchanged hidden looks with one another; Sabine caught some murmurs of surprise being whispered.

"I take it they're not happy about that choice," she whispered to Rau.

He shook his head, cutting off any further commentary from her. "Just watch."

But she caught that almost smile from him again. She's planning something, Sabine thought. Fenn Rau knows about it.

A small flicker of hope began to quietly burn inside her. It wasn't much, but she clung to it.

What are you planning, mother?

"We accept, oh gracious Countess," came the unified reply, albeit a tad reluctantly. Sabine got a sense of satisfaction from hearing it.

"Good to hear," Ursa said cheerfully. "You are all gathered here today to contest for my daughter's hand in the hereby declared Rite of Hearts. Are there any other challengers that wish to make themselves known?"

The front doors to the throne room blew open in a frigid gale of bitter wind. A person stood there, dressed in a humble hooded cloak of brown homespun wool. They were just a dark silhouette against the frozen tundra in the backdrop, unrecognizable - but Sabine caught a flash of their eyes beneath the hood.

Familiar, piercing blue eyes.

Sabine felt her pulse spike. It can't be.

The figure stalked forward, only to be met by a pair of Krownest guards, brandishing their pikes threateningly in his direction. He paused before them.

Ursa's command cut through the air. "Wait."

The guards stilled their approach but kept their weapons pointed at the new guest.

"Who are you to interrupt these proceedings?" she asked.

"A challenger," came the reply. "As you called for, I am here to make myself known."

Ursa arched an imperious eyebrow. "You wish to challenge against these others for my daughter's hand?"

"I do."

She stared at him for a few tense seconds - and then Sabine caught a smirk flashing across her mother's face for the briefest of moments.

"Very well," Ursa said. "I accept your challenge. I will be your sponsor, as is my right."

The clan heads snapped their hooded faces towards Ursa in shock and anger but didn't dare to raise a complaint. This was, after all, her house. They would obey her rules - or face the consequences.

The guards removed their weapons and went back to their posts. Fenn Rau hurried forward to close the front doors before returning back to Sabine's side. The guest stepped forward and took their place awkwardly next to the other suitors.

They glared at him. He gave a little polite wave only to be met with more glare.

"Seeing as though you came in such a dramatic fashion," Ursa continued calmly. "Why don't you introduce yourself first?"

There was a pause. "Oh, I'm supposed to do that now?" asked the guest.

Sabine stared at him - and then at Fenn Rau.

He shrugged. "Desperate times," he said quietly, in answer to her look.

"Yes," replied Ursa, sounding annoyed. "Unless you're waiting for something else?"

"Oh, uh. No. I guess I'll do that," he replied nervously.

And the guest carefully lowered the hood of his cloak.

There, in the throne room, presenting himself as a challenger for her hand in marriage was Sabine's best friend, Ezra Bridger.

"Hi, everyone," he said in greeting. Ezra caught Sabine's stare and gave her a sheepish smile. "I'm Ezra Bridger. A Jedi. And, uh, Sabine's friend."

The silence in the air was thick enough to cut with a knife.

Sabine took a shaky step forward. Then another one.

Towards Ezra.

"You," she breathed. "It's you."

"Hey, Sabine," he said. "It's been a while - gah!"

She tackled him to the ground.

"Are you an idiot?!" she yelled, grabbing the front of his cloak and shaking Ezra. "Do you know what you've just agreed to, di'kut? Do you have some sort of death wish - "

"If you would just let me explain - glack!"

"Guards!" barked Ursa.

From behind her, Fenn Rau sighed deeply. "All according to plan, I suppose," Sabine heard him mutter, before the guards came to pull her away.

TO BE CONTINUED

#sabezra #sabezra fanfiction #sabine wren #ezra bridger #ursa wren #fenn rau #star wars rebels #stars wars #oh boy here we go #I promised i would never do another multi-part story #yet here we are #this one will be finished #i swear on my life #if you're wondering why there's a random picture of Dichen Lachman in here #it's because I think she's the perfect live action version of Ursa Wren #I am starting that campaign for her to be in Star Wars right here and now #I hope you all can see the vision

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moonstrider9904 · 7 months ago

Text

All good things start with coffee

Chapter 1 of Le Coeur

Series Masterlist | Read on AO3 | Next chapter

Chapter summary: On an otherwise typical day, the owners of the Coffeewick can't help but notice an enforcer standing guard outside their coffee shop.

Tags/warnings: Steb x Original Female Character, other OCs are in the fic as well. Canon divergence, flirting, pining, crushes, teasing. Just a cute intro chapter.

Word count: 4.4k

On the corner of Alpine Road and Reverie Lane, on the northwestern quadrant of the intersection, there was a lovely building called The Coffeewick. It had been named by its owner long before she had even laid eyes on it, long before she—and her trusted business partner—turned it into the staple it became. Before them, the building that would go on to become the Coffeewick was already a catch. With its front facing south, it overlooked Bonan Plaza, one of Piltover city’s most renowned parks filled with trees bursting with life, benches to sit and enjoy life, fountains, even monuments to some of the City of Progress’ brightest minds. Shops, boutiques, even some apartment complexes were in the area, and before it became filled with life, the Coffeewick didn’t really fit into any of these categories. It was a little building that stood there, right on the corner, that could amount to anything.

When looking at the Coffeewick between its neighboring buildings, it certainly looked small. It had merely two stories—two apartments in the top story, each with one bedroom, a small kitchen and restroom and just enough room to make it the coziest home one could conceive. The roof of the Coffeewick wasn’t regularly used for anything other than the greenhouse, a valuable asset to those who lived in the little building, and in the remaining space of the rooftop where chairs and a table, and a series of warm fairy lights above the makeshift outdoor living room for the nights in which the Coffeewick’s two residents would decide to spend some time up there. The rooftop rarely saw the presence of outsiders.

But the ground level of the Coffeewick was the crown jewel, the dream that had been given hours of work and planning and love until it became a reality. It was a cute little coffee shop run by a human woman and a Yordle, both avidly passionate about their place in the world. The walls were a light cream color, creating a fitting canvas for the decor placed around it, mainly revolving around delicate green foliage and the same warm fairy lights wherever they could be placed, from the dark oak furniture to the edges where the walls met the ceiling, even flower pots dangling from the roof. Shelves were placed along the back wall where both owners kept a collection of their favorite cups, and at times, they added seasonal plants and decorations there as well.

These shelves, of course, ended where the counter began, the same place that originated the magic—and science—of the brewery. The counter was of the same dark oak as the shelves, tables, and chairs, contrasting with the floor that was a wood of a slightly lighter tone, balancing out the roof and delightfully bringing out the green plants and the lights, as though to emphasize the life that the Coffeewick had, that was breathed into it. The outer face of the counter was simple, with an intuitive sequence where a visitor would arrive, order, pay, and receive their heart’s desire.

But at the back, the main attraction was the coffee machine, designed and perfected by the owner herself throughout years of study, capable of brewing coffee in different volumes, temperatures, and consistencies, roasting and grinding beans, and it also contained an attaché for frothing milk. The machine itself took up almost half of the space along the back wall of the counter, after which there was an assortment of utensils, a small oven, a rack of syrups, sugars, and spices, followed by pastry racks, and finally a refrigerator. The logo of the Coffeewick was painted on the empty wall space above all the equipment, and above it was a hand-written menu on a chalkboard containing all the different beverages that were available for purchase as well as any pastries that would be available for the day. The menu had doodles of flowers and stars in any empty spaces, just for the sake of a little more magic.

The owner and head barista of the Coffeewick smiled gently as she poured steamed milk into a mug to create a piece of art with the drink she’d just brewed. A graduate of the prestigious Piltover Academy, Nea had dedicated years of study into the arts and sciences of coffee. What had started as a simple beverage to cope with long periods of school work evolved into the little thing that made life most enjoyable, and Nea harnessed her knowledge and dedication into designs, money saved, even the construction of the coffee maker that made all the beverages in the Coffeewick. While it was her dream and her vision, Nea hadn’t solidified the Coffeewick entirely on her own.

Nea’s partner, Blu, was a Yordle shorter than most and with the feisty spirit that was signature for her species. The little Yordle was well over a hundred years old, and she had seen many things in her time in the Yordle homeland known as Bandle City, from magical dreamscapes to portal catastrophes. A century of being a knitter and a tidal wave of adventures that followed made Blu long for seeing more around Runeterra, and when she parted for Piltover, she had nearly nothing to her name, and no hopes of amounting to anything in the near future. That had changed when she met Nea.

On that fairly typical day, while Nea focused on brewing the drinks that the customers were ordering, Blu exited the back room of the Coffeewick holding a tray of fresh pastries. She placed it on the pastry rack at the back of the counter and glanced over at Nea on the other side.

“This batch of Poro Cookies is the last one of the day,” Blu called.

With her concentration unbroken, Nea nodded in understanding at Blu’s statement. Making the appropriate twisting motions with her wrist as she poured the milk, Nea finished the foamy drawing of a swan on the surface of the drink she’d created—a traditional flat white made with a slightly darker roast than usual, one of her favorites. She called the customer’s name and set it on the round wooden surface at the edge of the counter where customers picked up their orders. Letting out a little exhale of satisfaction, she tucked a strand of her short black wavy hair behind her ear and moved onto the next order.

On her side of the counter, Blu tapped the knee of the young man who was working the cash register. Like all the additional employees of the Coffeewick, he was a student at the Academy in his last semester who worked there to earn some money and experience pre-graduation, a need for many like him whom the Coffeewick also wanted to help. Once he graduated and got a better job, he’d move on and let another student take his place, and so on. He, like the other part-timers, enjoyed working at the Coffeewick—it wasn’t just the peaceful ambience and delightful smell of coffee that made it shine, but the feeling of having a safety net that it emulated in him and his fellow Academy students was rivaled by only a few other initiatives in Piltover.

“You’re free to go,” Blu told him. “I’ll take over until Lily shows up.”

He looked down at Blu and smiled as he bent over and pulled a stool for her to climb on. “Thanks, I just need to talk to Nea and then I’m off.”

“Yup, take care,” Blu said as she got on top of the stool and was finally able to reach the cash register to keep the line going. “May I take your order?”

The next person in line was a lady who looked like she was in her sixties. She was well-dressed in black and white clothes that looked expensive, and she crowned her head with a black hat that had a large, poofy burgundy feather adorning it. The lady was expecting a human to take her order—you know, the same one she’d just seen behind the cash register—but instead, she was met with a little Yordle. Yordles weren’t all that common in Piltover, even if recent years had brought more of them to the city, so it was still a surprise for a Piltovan citizen to come across one. And this one in particular, with her blue fur and round brown eyes, her short brown hair in a bob cut, her round ears that poked from beneath the hair and her round little snout, knitted beige sweater and brown knit cowl, this little Yordle was just so round and fuzzy that it looked like a child’s teddy!

“Yes, I’ll have a… uh…” The lady trailed off, her eyes sparkling as her demure smile expanded into a grin from ear to ear. “I’m sorry, you’re just so cute!”

“Ma’am, this is a coffee shop,” Blu replied in a kindness-infused deadpan, as though her words were previously rehearsed. “If you wish to express appreciation for the staff’s cuteness, I suggest doing it in the form of a generous tip.” Blu gestured at the little jar next to the cash register machine and directed a bright smile at the lady.

“Of course, of course,” the lady said, pressing a hand to her cheek as the other one looked through her purse and pulled out a hefty coin, proceeding to add it to the jar. “Here you go, dear. Now, could I please have the toffee caramel cappuccino to go?”

“Yes, ma’am, and thank you for the tip,” Blu smiled and proceeded to charge the lady for her beverage. “Toffee caramel cappuccino to go!”

“Coming up,” Nea called from the other side of the counter as she was finishing up the next milk drink in the queue.

One more coffee was done and delivered, and it was time to go for the next. This next drink was a large dark brewed in the Moka method—that one always took longer to brew, so Nea set up the Moka to brew with the cup underneath it while working on the next one in parallel, a simple, straightforward latte. And as Nea divided her focus between the two drinks, she was able to see from the corner of her eyes that her cashier was approaching her timidly.

“Um… Miss Nea?” He said.

“What can I do for you, Donnie?” Nea responded, glancing over at him through her glasses before focusing on steaming milk again. “Your shift’s over, right?”

“Yes,” Donnie replied, feeling a tad less tense. “Listen, um… I was wondering, and I’m sorry for not asking sooner, but… finals are coming up, and I’ll need to buy a whole bunch of supplies for my projects. I need my paycheck early, maybe not even the whole check, just whatever’s appropriate for the days since my last one… could you maybe…?”

Keeping the cup of milk at a steady angle for it to continue steaming, Nea looked at Donnie again, her big brown eyes soft on him. “Oh, I remember finals seasons. The sooner you can get your supplies, the better. Stores run out quickly.”

“Yes, that’s what I fear,” Donnie sighed. “And now that I pay for all my food and I got the bright idea of adopting a dog—”

Nea let out a smooth, delicate laugh, stopping Donnie’s nervous rambling in its tracks.

“It’s okay,” she said. “You don’t need to be afraid to ask me for things you need. The paychecks are in the backroom, just let me finish steaming this milk and I’ll go get it.”

Donnie directed a bright smile at Nea. “Thanks so much. You’re saving my life right now.”

“Not a problem,” Nea said, putting down the milk and quickly cleaning the steamer with a damp cloth and a second of blowing pure steam onto an empty cup. “Be right back.”

Having mastered the art of wandering around her coffee shop, Nea went to the back room for the paycheck and returned to see Donnie finishing up and delivering the drinks she left paused. She smiled at the sight—acts of kindness like that one would always live in her memory. She then walked up behind Donnie and handed him the envelope with his check, and the curve on her lips widened slightly.

“Thanks for covering those drinks,” Nea acknowledged. “Here’s your check, and if you need a raise, just let me know.”

“Thanks so much, Nea,” Donnie unconsciously gave a slight bow in her direction. “I don’t need the raise, I just really needed this to get all the stuff I need.”

“Alright, well, good luck with all your finals,” Nea smiled at him.

“Thanks!” Donnie cheerfully expressed his gratitude again, and he pranced his way out of the Coffeewick to leave Nea to continue her work.

Nea’s eyes lingered on Donnie as he made his way out, her mind temporarily wandering on a number of different things ranging from her own memories as an Academy student short on cash and the writing of a mental note to motivate Donnie—and the rest of the intern staff—more over the next few weeks. But just as Donnie’s figure was disappearing into the crowd of people outside, her gaze got caught in a blue uniform that shielded teal skin. It was a male enforcer whose profile faced Nea, and his posture was strictly straight, almost regal, with his fingers interlaced behind his back. The sight was fairly standard except for the obvious fact that this enforcer was a Vastaya, and the sound of Donnie walking out of the Coffeewick as well as his figure walking past the enforcer caused him to angle his body enough for him to fully face the Coffeewick’s entrance.

When he did, the enforcer's gaze traveled through the entrance of the Coffeewick and landed on Nea only for her to notice it was the most beautiful shade of aquamarine. With wide, brown eyes unable to hide their appeal at the most intricate details they were able to pick up on even in that second-long glance, from the gills above his jawline to the delicate fins that framed his eyes, and the way his angular features looked so incredibly soft, Nea stared back at him and felt her surroundings fade to white noise. Though as the door of the Coffeewick closed itself and cast a sheet of wood and glass between her and the enforcer, Nea noticed him turning around and regaining his post standing watch outside.

Even after Nea was no longer able to see that striking ocean gaze, she remained motionless as she replayed the image of it in her mind. Seconds passed her in her daze, forgetting the queue of orders and the smell of coffee that would, on any other day, be the thing to entrance her senses. Her stare stood focused on the blue uniform as if she could telepathically beckon him to turn around again, maybe inspire him to come inside and order a cup or two, but no such thing happened.

"Hey, head barista," Blu called from the cash register. "Get brewing!"

"Sorry!" Nea gave a hop, startled out of her daze, and she got back to brewing and filling orders as if nothing had distracted her in the first place.

Blu was just about to get off her stool with which she covered the cash register since Lily, another Coffeewick worker, had just arrived. As Blu was moving her stool over to the side, her gaze wandered over to Nea with an eyebrow raised, puzzled by her partner's sudden—and uncommon—lapsus.

"What was that about?" Blu asked Nea.

"Oh, nothing," Nea replied as she added whipped cream to the toffee caramel cappuccino she was finishing.

"Your cheeks are burning red," Blu deadpanned.

"Don't you have a tray of cookies to take out of the oven?" Nea glanced over at Blu.

"And now you're getting defensive, which means not even you understand whatever's got you in a pickle," Blu climbed onto a chair behind the counter. "You were looking outside, what happened?"

"Nothing," Nea said.

"A ghost from your past?" Blu teased. "An ex lover you left in the dead of the night?"

"No, and I've never done that," Nea answered as she delivered the beverage and headed toward the coffee machine to brew the next. In that time, Blu looked through the glass doors and windows over to the outside, and her Yordle eyes were able to catch irregular sights far quicker than others.

"Enforcers? Out here?" Blu wondered.

"Yeah," said Nea.

"Why?"

"I think I read in a newspaper somewhere that it's just a council initiative," Nea replied almost cautiously. "Just to keep people and businesses safe, etc, etc."

"So... if you're not a fugitive but you're nervous about an enforcer at our door-" Blu stopped herself and giggled. "Ooooh, I see. "

"No, you don't," Nea tried to dismiss.

"Poppycock," Blu laughed and stood on her paw toes, trying to get a look at the enforcer. "Woah, he's green!"

"Blu!" Nea scolded.

"Hey, come on, you just shouted the color of my fur," the Yordle teased and looked at the enforcer again with more attention. "What do you know? A Vastaya. Didn't know you were into that."

"Cut it out," Nea couldn't help but laugh, albeit nervously.

"Aww, you have a little crush," Blu smirked.

"Hey, I know that look in your eyes," Nea answered. "You may as well have little flames in them."

"Do you want me to go out there and tell him you like him?" Blu said with that same look of mischief in her teddy-like face.

"What I want is for you to get off my case," Nea frowned.

"No you don't, you love me," Blu crossed her arms and frowned back.

"Right now, I could think of a few other emotions I feel towards you," Nea smirked.

"You'd be lost without me," Blu challenged.

In response, Nea proceeded to do the mature, grown-up thing and stuck her tongue out at Blu. The Yordle instantly stuck her tongue out too in response and, after the two shared a laugh, Nea paused the drink she was brewing to help Blu off the chair.

"Fine, I'll go somewhere else and leave you to pine for your hot Vastaya enforcer man on your own," Blu laughed, looking back up at Nea over her shoulder. "Hey, here's an idea. You should totally make him a cup of coffee and take it to him, and be all girly and googly and all like 'thank you for your service' or something like that."

Nea straightened up, pausing in her tracks. "That's not a bad idea."

"What?" Blu's teasing became concern as she turned around and faced Nea fully. "Hey, I was kidding."

"No, you're right, that would be perfect!" Nea's face lit up with a smile. "Let me finish up these next couple of orders. Do you mind taking over the queue while I head out there?"

"You're serious," Blu stared blankly. "You're actually gonna do it."

"After these, it's just two lattes, one for here and one to go," Nea instructed. "It shouldn't take me any longer than that. What should I take him? Latte? Cappuccino? Flat white? Black coffee? Creamer on the side? Sugar?"

"Whatever Nea, just pick," Blu grunted as she pushed the chair over to the coffee machine, figuring she was gonna need the boost if she was to take over for Nea. Nea walked over to help with the chair and put Blu up on it again, earning her a frown from the Yordle. "I'd go with a Red Eye, maybe you'll scare him off for good."

"Oh, come on, don't be like that," Nea grinned. "It was your idea."

"If this is your way of teaching me to shut up next time, it's working," Blu deadpanned.

"You don't mean that," Nea smirked. "You love me."

"And now I'm eating my words from earlier," Blu said. "Yippee."

Despite Blu's protests, she obliged and brewed the next couple of drinks in the queue while Nea finished up her current orders. As for what beverage she would deliver to the enforcer, she leaned back on her experience and went for the most balanced recipe for a latte she knew, one with good coffee flavor and creamy milk that added just the right amount of sweetness—perfect for nearly anyone who favored either the sweet or the bitter side of the craft. Nea was careful in her movements, deliberate in each part of the process from the milk steaming to the pouring of the espresso, and even if she was placing it in a disposable cup with a lid, she still made a delicate flower latte art with the foam on top—a heart probably would have been too obvious, but no small part of Nea wanted to make it that way. The flower seemed like a good option for now.

With the beverage done, she reached for a packet of sugar, a wooden mixer, and a couple napkins, Nea walked out from behind the counter and made her way across the Coffeewick, heading for the door. She stepped outside, relished in the chilly fresh air, and walked forward with her gaze set on the enforcer.

She stopped. It only dawned on her then that she didn't know what she was going to say, but on top of that, she was about to make a total fool of herself for all she knew. She'd had so much fun brewing the coffee and thinking about the perfect outcome that now that she was out there, part of her wanted to run and hide. He hadn't turned around yet—if she was quick, she could abort the plan and get away with it, have that latte herself. It was sure to be a good cup of coffee, she'd made it, after all. Nea became lost in her thoughts of how she could use a good latte right about now to regain a grip on reality, and at that moment, the enforcer felt her presence behind him and calmly turned around.

His aquamarine gaze nearly ended Nea. Up close, she was able to see much more of the detail in his physique. The fins that framed his eyes were paired with markings of a slightly lighter shade of green, and the inner corners of his eyelids as well as the sides of the bridge of his nose adopted a shade that more closely resembled human flesh. The helmet that he wore concealed his eyebrows and any other details above, but even under it, Nea could observe the shape of his ears pointing upward. In the sunlight, the golden details of his enforcer uniform appeared to be glowing in contrast with the rich blue color of the fabric, and aside from being motionless, Nea was now also rendered speechless in the presence of such beauty. Even if she wanted to appear cool and collected, she knew right then that she would miserably fail at any attempts to do so.

As he looked at her, his gaze appeared to soften, and the detail that dealt the final blow for Nea and made her weak in the knees was the way the fins around his eyes flickered, like a wave from inside to out, as his eyes widened slightly in attention. When he blinked, Nea noticed he had a second eyelid acting as a membrane that closed on a horizontal plane underneath his main eyelids—ust another thing that added to Nea's inability to speak—and he remained quiet, expectant of whatever she was about to do, until his gaze finally traveled over to the cup of coffee she was holding.

He met her gaze again. "Can I help you, miss?"

God, Nea thought to herself. Even his voice was irresistible, it was almost unfair. It was deep and rich, and when he spoke, he had a thick, elegant accent that made her yearn to hear him endlessly. Thoughts and insecurities rushed through her mind, things like how could someone that gorgeous still be single, or how could someone as beautiful as him pay attention to her, but she was surprised at herself for being able to put those intrusive thoughts aside and instead lifted the cup of coffee, showing it to him. As for what she would say—and she had reached a point where she really should say something—Nea opted to use the very words Blu had suggested in her earlier mischief.

"Thank you for your service," Nea said softly and offered the coffee to him.

His gaze softened even more, and slowly, he reached for the cup, almost hesitating to take it from her. He met her eyes again, and the hint of a smile curved her lips.

"It's not necessary," he uttered, his voice much softer than it had been before.

"Oh, I know, I just..." Nea trailed off, unable to stop smiling at him. "I wanted to."

Finally, he gave her a fuller smile. "Thank you."

Nea's smile grew as well to the point where she nearly giggled. When he took the coffee, Nea used her free hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, averting her gaze from him before meeting his eyes again. Lost for words again, Nea gave a little nod and turned around, walking back towards the Coffeewick until she eventually disappeared into it.

Inside, Nea remained for a second at the doorstep smiling at herself, and then she went back behind the counter where she was needed. There, Blu was just finishing up a couple of orders, and as soon as she laid eyes on Nea, the spunky grin returned.

"Well?" Blu said. "Did you crash and burn and stumble with your words?"

"No, I..." Nea smiled. "I actually think that went really well."

"What's his name?" Blu asked.

"Not a clue," Nea replied, her smile still firm in place.

Blu, in turn, facepalmed. "You're hopeless. Alright, I'm done here. Take over your coffee bar."

"He is so pretty," Nea pouted with a hand over her chest. "He is seriously so pretty I kind of want to cry."

"And yet you don't know his name," Blu mentioned.

"Yeah..." Nea's smile faded a bit. "I messed that up."

"I'll let it slide," Blu smirked. "People make dumb mistakes when they're in loooove."

"Oh, be quiet, you," Nea chuckled.

Blu walked off in the direction making indiscreet kissing noises the whole way until she disappeared into the kitchen. In the meantime, Nea got back to work and noticed the way her hands were trembling, but she figured she would still be able to make coffee even with a shaky hand and rosy cheeks.

Thanks so much for reading! Please reblog to help me get out there!

Next chapter ->

#so the pretty fish man longfic begins #i hope you guys like it because i'm having a balst with this and do NOT intend to stop #moonstrider writes #le coeur fanfic #steb arcane #arcane steb #arcane fic #arcane fanfic #arcane fanfiction #steb fanfic #steb x oc #arcane oc #steb nation #oc x canon #arcane steb fanfic #arcane steb x oc

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deaniesangel · 26 days ago

Text

Blue Hills

Part 1 - Welcome to Cielo Drive

neighbour!cliff booth x reader

genre: foreplay

summary: you move into your new house and are quickly greeted by your welcoming neighbours. unfortunately, you get off to a rocky start when one of them gets to know you more intimately than you expected.

warnings: slow burn, language, embarrassment, mentions of shitty ex-boyfriends, mentions of underwear and toys, cliff being hot as always, rick being an awkward sweetheart

words: 2,35k

a/n: please bear with me, guys. i swear this story is going somewhere. it is a slow slow slooow burn type of story but it will be worth the wait. i promise :)

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The moment you stepped out of the car, a whiff of freshly cut grass entered your nostrils. The scent mixed with morning dew reminded you of your hometown. Not far off a sprinkler could be heard. You looked around to find it on the neighbours lawn which was mowed to perfection. If one were to measure each blade of grass they would all amount to the same height. Amazed and intimidated by the thought, you push your sunglasses further up your nose bridge and walk to the trunk of your car.

Countless boxes greeted you as you open the door. The wall of cartons had blocked your view while driving. In anticipation of the manual labour ahead, you tuck your hair behind your ears and study the contents of the truck. Your hands on your hips as if to mentally prepare a battle plan on how the hell you were supposed to carry all that into the house by yourself.

You take one deep breath before grabbing the first box and heading into the house. Your house. It still felt unreal. Two months ago you were basically homeless after your idiot boyfriend and you had broken up. But that was a story for another time.

Sleeping on your friend, Melanie’s old couch, the springs drilling into your back every night. And now? Now you have a house. With a garden. A bed of your own. In a damn great neighbourhood. The realtor told you about all the celebrities that lived on your street. Apparently, Cielo Drive was home to Roman Polanski, Rick Dalton and some other famous people you could not remember the names of. If you were honest, you had no clue who these supposedly important people were but you didn’t have the heart to tell the enthusiastic realtor.

Your house wasn’t as grand as the neighbouring ones. You heard it was built as the house for some villa’s staff years back. Hence the small scale, simple design and most importantly: how you could afford it. Nevertheless, it was a good house and something you could call your own.

You set the box you were carrying down on the wooden floor of your new bedroom. The walls definitely needed a new coat of paint and some work needed to be done here and there. Mostly little things like fixing the window frames. But the bones of the building were in great condition and there was no sign of mold or rats. Actually, it was quite a catch if you ignored some of the beauty blind spots.

You opened the carton box and were greeted by some books and a reading lamp, which you put into a pile in the corner of the room, the lamp beside it. Your first interior decor. Despite the house being barren of furniture as of now it didn’t feel empty. The walls were filled with hope and optimism.

A car’s exhaust engine could be heard outside. Oh, that must be the moving truck with all your furniture! Well, at least the pieces you fought your ex for. The asshole wanted to keep your stuff - the stuff you already owned before moving in together. Can you believe it? Good riddance.

Excitedly, you ran outside. Only it wasn’t the anticipated blue truck but a yellow chevvie, which vame to a stop in the parking spot of the neighbouring house. A wall with a painting of some man’s face was behind it. You remember now. The realtor said that Rick Dalton was your neighbour. The actor from Bounty Law. Your friend loved watching the show before going to bed. And here the man from TV was now. Your neighbour.

This was the moment worry set into your mind. Not only was Cielo drive filled with rich people with perfect lawns but rich people who thought plastering their home with a painting of themselves was a good idea. You didn’t belong here. Not really.

Just then, two men exited the yellow car. You could hear their conversation faintly. They were talking about Mexican food? Tacos and margaritas?

You were standing on your tippy toes, looking over to the arguing pair. Curiosity got the best of you. It didn’t take long for one of the men to notice you staring at them. The wave of a denim clad hand brings you out of your thoughts. You raise your hand to greet them as well and to your surprise they make their way over to you.

Shit, this wasn’t what you had in mind. But then again, you want to be a friendly neighbour, make a good impression and most importantly: blend in. And yes, maybe they will turn out to be assholes with OCD gardening compulsions or a narcissistic ego but you had to meet the people living next door sooner or later. And it just happened to be sooner rather than later.

You walk towards the two, intending to meet them halfway as you hear one of the men wearing a brown leather jacket say: “How you doing, Miss?"

Yeah, you were pretty sure that was Rick Dalton. But he seemed…nicer and maybe a little more awkward than expected? He was projecting a friendly smile that you couldn’t help but return.

“Hey, how you doing? I’m Y/N. I just moved in next door”, you say before extending your hand to shake his. A sign of good intentions. This interaction was going pretty well so far.

“Lovely to meet you, Miss. I’m Rick. Rick Dalton.” So you were right. If Melanie was here, she would freak the heck out.

The man that just introduced himself as the infamous Western actor pointed at the man nex to him, who was wearing a full on denim outfit and said: “And this is Cliff Booth.”

“Hi”, you said as you shake his hand, flashing the two of them a smile. His hand was rough and strong, a noticable contrast to the soft hand you had shaken before him.

Now you finally had a chance to examine their faces and my God. The man Rick had introduced as Cliff was handsome. Really handsome. The one in a million type of handsome that one would expect of someone working in hollywood. You wondered if he was a fellow actor or maybe a singer. Before you could continue to solve the mystery, Rick spoke up again:

“It’s good to see new faces around here. Most of the residents have lived here for decades so it’s awful nice to see young people take the opportunity to move up here.” The actor spoke with a passion and a slight stutter. You felt bad for thinking this but you were surprised by his polite speech and good manners.

He continued eloquently: “It’s a real good neighbourhood. Good, hardworking people. And safe. We haven’t had a break-in around her in over 20 years. Can you believe it?”

You make an impressed face as you listen to the Bounty Law actor list all the benefits of the area. While you are interested in what he has to say, you can’t help but get distracted by the man in denim. He hasn’t said much so far, but you had to fight with yourself by keeping your eyes on Rick instead of him.

“Here I go, rambling on again. Long story short: Welcome to the neighbourhood, Miss”, he ends his welcoming monologue. The rambling and the stutter…maybe he was nervous as well. It was quite endearing.

You want to express your gratitude and say: “Thank you, Mr. Dalton”

“Oh no, please. Call me Rick.”

You exhale a laugh and without noticing rest against the wall of cardboard boxes in your trunk. “Thank you. Rick. I’m relieved to know such nice people live next door.”

Their gaze moves to the wall of brown behind you and Rick asks: “Miss, do you live here alone?”

A little caught off guard by the question you reply: “Uhm, yes, it’s just me. I was living together with my friend before moving here.” It wasn’t a lie. Technically, you did live with Melanie until now. That your boyfriend threw you out of your shared apartment? That was a detail they didn’t need to know.

“I see. Then you must be moving and carrying this stuff all alone.” Rick proclaims and points at the heavy boxes behind you.

“Oh, it’s okay. The moving truck should arrive soon. And until then I can manage carrying a few boxes.” Again, not a lie. If the break-up had taught you anything it was that you are a strong, independent woman after all. But secretly, you did really really hope that they would fight your statement and help you carry at least some stuff inside.

“But that might be a while. Considering LA traffic and all. At least let us carry in some of these boxes.” Oh, thank you, thank you, Rick. You suddenly loved Bounty Law.

“That is really kind of you, Rick. But I don’t want to impose on you. You must have more important things to do.” Before the words left your mouth, Rick and Cliff were already helping themself grab some of the boxes.

“What nonsense. A lady like you shouldn’t carry all that by herself. We would be happy to help. Right, Cliff?”

“Sure would”, Cliff finally said something. And the way he did, God. It made your heart flutter.

Muttering a big “thank you”, you get a box yourself and try to catch up with the two men, who had already disappeared into the house. How could they be so quick? Especially Rick. He didn’t seem particularly athletic.

“You can just leave them on the floor”, you shout after them, not sure if they would hear.

“Will do, Miss”, Rick replied and a few seconds later he passed you as both men were making their way to get the next load.

You too set down your box next to the others. The one you just carried was especially heavy. Damn, you wish you had put markers on the boxes so that you knew what exactly they contained. Thankfully, you hadn’t sealed them shut with tape so one could easily see outlines of what was inside…Wait a minute. One could easily see what was inside. All your clothing, your underwear, hell even your toys were inside those boxes. What if-?

“Mr. Dalton! Mr. Booth!”, you shouted, panic filling your voice. “I can do the rest from here.”

“It’s okay, we’re nearly done. And I told you, it’s Rick”, the actor retorts with a smile on his face, which you awkwardly try to reciprocate.

“Sorry, Rick. I really appreciate it but these boxes are heavy and I wouldn’t want you to hurt your back.” Again: Not a complete lie.

And then. Your heart drops to the floor. You see Cliff staring at the box he was carrying for a suspiciously long time. And if there was any doubt that he hasn’t just seen something he shouldn’t have, his eyes inspected you from head to toe. Then he smirked before setting the box down and leaving to get another.

You could faintly make out Rick saying something in the background but your mind was occupied by something more pressing right now. Pure panic.

He smirked. Why did he smirk? Oh my god. What did he see? Was it a panty? One of your bras? Or-

You hurry to open the box and…no…out of all the boxes. It was the box with your toys.

After your break-up you had confessed to Melanie that sex with your ex was…less than satisfying. Which prompted her to gift you some sex toys for self discovery. You hadn’t even had the chance to try all of them yet and now a man you had just met, who was friends with Bounty Law star Rick Dalton, had seen your toys. Great. You wanted to disappear from the face of the earth.

Why didn’t you close the lids? Or at least hide the toys under a t-shirt or something. Anything to prevent a situation like this. You just prayed inwardly that it was all a misunderstanding and he hadn’t actually seen the contents of the box.

In the hopes of salvaging the situation, you quickly run outside, only to find Rick waiting at the trunk while Cliff was carrying the last of the carton boxes in his strong arms. Did Cliff tell his friend what he had seen? Did they make fun of you or talk about what a whore you are? All kinds of fearful thoughts circulate in your mind. But then, the actor opend his mouth to say: “That should be all, Miss. Anything else we can help you with?”

“No, tha-…thank you”, you reply distractedly. Your gaze follows the man in denim as he comes out of the house, walking slowly. Confidently. He had the same swagger a cowboy would have. You caught yourself getting weak knees until you remembered that this stranger had just caught a glimpse into your sex life.

Rick’s voice brings you back into reality as he says: “It’s our pleasure. If you need help with anything - and I mean anything - just give me a call.” He hands you out a business card. Rick Dalton. Actor. Producer.

“Will do. Thank you again, for everything”, you reply and do your best to give each of the men a smile.

Rick bids his farewell and gives you a slight wave: “Have a good day, Miss.”

“You too, bye!” You retaliate and wave him goodbye. You were painfully aware that Cliff was still standing in front of you. He hadn’t moved an inch. Was he waiting for something? By God, you were just hoping that he wouldn’t bring up the contents of the box. Maybe you should just break the silence and-

“Miss.” Cliff’s voice rings in your ear. The tall man nods his head as if to take off his hat to salute you. Before you can form a coherent sentence he gives you a cocky wink and turns around to leave.

Fuck. There was no doubt he saw the toys.

Why did this have to happen? On your first day nonetheless. With your new neighbours? And such an attractive man at that? And why did he smirk? Did he find it amusing?

But then again, it’s the 70s, goddammit. Women are allowed to have sex. And enjoy sex. You shouldn’t feel embarrassed by it. Still, you wish anyone but Mr. Handsome had seen the contents of the box.

What a great way to start your new life.

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part 2 ♡ part 3 - coming soon...

#blue hills #welcome to cielo drive #cliff booth fic #cliff booth #cliff booth smut #cliff booth x reader #brad pitt smut #brad putt x reader #rick dalton

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pasta-in-the-pudding · 2 years ago

Note

Could you describe how you see some of the creeps' rooms? Like what they havein there or if their roms are messy or always clean? :)

I decided that for this one, I would do my most popular creeps, if you or anyone else reading would like more headcanons on different creeps, let me know and i will be happy to!

Thank you so much for requesting!!

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Toby

Toby's room is located on the third floor of the mansion/manor (havent decided which one i like better) and is the third door on the left

His door doesn't really have anything fancy on it, it is a simple wooden door with his name on a bronze plate, just like the rest of the creeps

His room has a very grunge-esc and indie vibe to it

His bed is a twin sized bed, with a deep brown comforter, faded yellow sheets and two pillows with no pillowcases on them

He has 2 squishmellows, the hamster and the mango, they sit on his bed, and when he sleeps he uses one as an additional pillow, and the other one he hugs tightly to his chest

He has a lot of tapestries, and not many posters

He has posters for the beetles, fleetwood mac, and ozzy osbourne, and they are all on the wall above his bed

The rest of the tapestries are generic designs with skeletons and stars

He has a small couch under the window of his room, that has a small purple blanket thrown over the top of the couch

He has a lot of fake plants and vines in his room, because he can't take care of real plants to save his life

He has a wooden desk, and on that desk he has his laptop, headphones, tablet, hairspray, books, and writing utensils

Amongst those other things, he also has a few dishes on his desk

He uses his closet as a makeshift house for animals he finds (often possums and raccoons) so that he can help them return to full health, before setting them free once more

However, he does have 3 pet raccoons that just kept on coming back after he set them free, so he just kind of uses his closet for them

His clothes are stored on a clothing rack next to his couch

He has one nightstand on the left side of his bed, where he keeps his phone, charger, and in the drawer, he has spare masks, gloves, medications, and bandages/bandaids

He has a tv in his room, on the wall in front of his bed

All things considered, his room isnt too messy, he has a few dirty clothes here and there, and a few dishes, but it's not terrible

Masky

His room is on the third floor, and is the second door on the right

His door is also not decorated, just a simple wooden door with his name on a bronze plate

His room reeks of cigarettes

His bed is right under his window, it is queen sized and is the first thing you see as you open his door

He has basic white sheets, pillows with basic white pillowcases, and a basic brown comforter

He has a desk on the wall to the left of his bed, where he keeps books, notebooks, writing utensils, and his laptop

Next to his desk, he has an array of weapons

Guns, knifes, crossbows, etc

He has them displayed on the wall, he absolutely just stares at them from time to time, very proud of them

He doesn't have many decorations, but he does have a few trinkets Toby and Sally have given him

He has two nightstands, one has a lamp and the book hes reading, and the other has an ashtray and his current pack of cigarettes

In the drawers he has his medications, and his reading glasses (he refuses to accept the fact he's old, be nice to him about the glasses)

The jacket he normally wears is almost always thrown over his desk chair, ready for it to be used the next day

His closet is only really halfway full, so he uses the other half to store his pajamas, socks and underwear

He has a bunch of records and loves to play them

Takes him back to the good ol days

He is probably the second cleanest on this list

Eyeless Jack

His bedroom is on the second floor, and is the first door to your left

His door has been painted black and his entire room is soundproof

The black door is partly because he just likes it that way and partly to differentiate himself from Laughing Jack, which both door plates just read "Jack"

He has a twin sized bed with grey sheets and pillowcases, and a black comforter

His windows are covered by blackout curtains, making his room one of the darkest

Next to his bed, he has a nightstand with a lamp

Thats the only light source he allows

On the other side of his bed, there is a book cart with books (duh) and a few plants

He also has a bookshelf, but all of the books on the shelf are strictly educational books (studies on anatomy, different illnesses for different creatures, etc)

His desk has his laptop, tablet and a stack of notebooks, all full with his neat handwriting and labled with different things

He doesnt have many decorations in his room, but he does have some framed pictures of his friends from around the mansion

He also has a mini fridge with his stash of fresh food, it is kept clean and is restocked once every 2 weeks

He keeps his room spotless, no dust on anything, bed always made, etc

Definetly the cleanest on this list, if not in the entire house

Jeff

Jeff's room is on the second floor, and is the second door on the left

His door is very much decorated with crime scene tape, a stop sign and a small band poster

His room is very dirty, clothes, trash and dishes are strewn about the room, with a small path from his door to his bed

He has a twin sized bed (if you can even call it that) it is a worn out matress on the floor, with no sheets, pillows without a pillowcase, and a black comforter

He has a nightstand with his vape, medications and phone on it

He has a desk with a pc, nintendo switch, hairspray and makeup but he doesn't really sit at his desk much

His walls are completely covered in band posters, pride flags, road signs, and of course, his tv

He has an electric guitar, but he doesn't play it much

He only knows how to play MSI songs, but he is suprisingly good at them

He has a mannequin in his room as well, "Lucy", he named her, she is missing a leg, and four of her fingers on her left hand, jeff has stuck a knife through her eye and placed stickers over where her nipples would be as makeshift pasties

It is a running joke that Lucy is Jeff's one true love, but they have to keep their love a secret because people wouldn't understand them being together

BEN even bought lucy a cheap wig off of amazon, which sits crooked and tangled on her head

Lucy holds Jeff's bags, and his knives

His room doesn't exactly smell bad, but it doesn't smell pleasent

0/10 PLEASE DO NOT GO IN THERE WHATEVER YOU DO, YOU WILL BE MUTATED

BEN

He is on the third floor, and is the third door on the right

His door is a simple wooden door with a bronze plate that says his name

His bed is very low, almost touching the floor

There are no sheets, no pillowcases and a basic blue comforter

He has LED lights on the ceiling, which are almost always turned green

His desk has a full gaming set up, double moniters, and LED headphones, keyboard and mouse

Behind all of that, he has his hairspray, deodorant, and nintendo switch OLED

On the wall in front of his bed, his tv is mounted, under his tv he has a ps5, an xbox1 and an n64

He also has a small bookshelf where he stores all of his physical game copies

He has a bunch of blue light tapestries, almost all of them have at least one skeleton on it

He also has some posters for his favorite animes and video games (Black butler, one piece, the occassional hatsune miku poster...)

SPEAKING OF HATSUNE MIKU

He is throughly obsessed with her

He has a bunch of figurines he keeps around his gaming set up, he has a hatsune miku plush that sits on his shelf of video games, and he also bought a miku body pillow "as a joke"

And you better believe he has a few t-shirts

He keeps the body pillow stuffed under his bed, away from anyone who could possibly see her

I wouldn't say he classifies as a weeb, but he's definitely up there in the ranks

He also has a snack cart by his pc set up, one tier with drinks, the other two with snacks like chips, cookies, pastries, etc

As for cleanliness, i would say he isnt too dirty

He has a few dirty dishes on his desk, a few dirty shirts and hoodies here and there but other than that, his room is pretty clean

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awnezz · 1 month ago

Text

nobody gets me like you | eleven

៚ prev // next

៚ SYNOPSIS — after graduating highschool then going through your first break up, you're left to lean on your bestfriend for support before moving to america. returning home brings back memories, realizing your true feelings for each other back then, but is it too late?

៚ NOTES — hi ..i'm back 😛😛 fr this time (i think) it's literally almost 3am rn im sorry if there's any mistakes i just did a quick proofread

៚ TAGLIST — @jvngw0nlvr @kariluvsyunho @jaellymint @nujeskz @hanniehq @mwrsi @soheeunderthesun @getoxo @seoiohnnv @the-phantomss

it's about 6 pm

and you're getting ready to spend your last night in the house that you grew up in

bringing all the stuff that you've spent the past however many days packing into boxes and old luggages into your living room for the next morning—leaving your room emptied out, all for except your bed, which is still fixed

while packing the last moving box, you found one of your scrapbooks from one of your old hobbies

scrapbooking was one of the things you up picked up during summer to pass the time, alongside many other hobbies but this one stuck—you really liked taking pictures and so did all of your friends

but this scrapbook in particular was far more special than all the others; because of how close you were with eunseok, growing up together since very young, you two had taken lots of pictures together

so many that they started to pile up and so you used it as the perfect excuse to practice your new interest and you made your longest running memory book—which is what you wrote on the cover with puffy letter stickers and an old childhood picture of the two of you right in the center

looking through the pages, you start to remember how it was to be so young and have nothing to worry about

all you had to do was run around and have fun

seeings pictures from the times when you and eunseok would go to the park just down the street from your houses, swinging on the swings side by side and going down what felt like the biggest slide ever back then

a picture from when you were 12 on your first day of school, standing there with a frown on your face and your hair slightly messy from being rushed out the door because you woke up too late and eunseok standing right next to you with a big smile on his face because he couldn't keep in his laughter

one from just recently, when eunseok got his license a few years ago. you still don't know why but right after coming home from passing his test, your moms made the two of you take a picture together in your front yard like you had passed the test also

and then a picture of you and eunseok standing on either side of you bedroom pointing at your newly “decorated” room

you've always pretty much kept your room decorated the same way throughout the years, just replacing and adding new achievements to your collection as you got older but one thing you loved to do was paint your bedroom walls

you liked to keep an accent wall and every so often you’d cover up the old design and paint it again but it's been a few years since you last touched it up

wanting to do something more simple at the time but still wanting it to scream you, eunseok suggested to do stars

it could have just been because of your love for stars or maybe it was because he helped you paint it but you have never thought of redoing the wall—it was just perfect

it's honestly a little silly but you're really grateful for your moms pushing to take all these pictures, so you can look back and remember how happy your life has been

sometimes you wonder what your life would have been like if your family never had to move; how you would have been if you never met-

interrupting your thoughts, you hear the doorbell ring, but who could it be? your parents are gone and you're not expecting anyone

you open the door to no one, looking around and still see nothing—until you look down—it's a small card. “thank you for making my life worth something.” you read.. but it's not signed

standing there, looking at the piece of paper, you finally decided to step back inside your house, but then you see someone come around the corner—it was eunseok

unable to take your eyes off of him, you don't even notice that he's getting closer, nor do you notice anything else happening around you

“hey..” eunseok starts before taking a deep breath. he just got there but you could feel the awkward tension from a mile away, you haven't seen him since he tried confronting you about to kiss

if you were being honest, you weren't sure if you'd see him again before you left for the airport. it seemed like no one knew where he's been and that really worried you—but here he is—standing in front of you right now

“you know i couldn't miss saying goodbye to my bestfriend” did he just friendzone me? no, no, of course he said that, i am his bestfriend. you let out a quick nervous laugh, breaking eye contact for the first time since he's walked up to you. “yeah..” you respond

“i didn't think you'd show up” you can see the look in his eyes change, hearing that you thought he'd let you go without a proper send off. what kind of person would be he if he did that?

“i'm sorry, i was in busan, i-”

“yeah, i saw your story.. the flower shop” cutting him off quickly, just wanting to get this conversation over with.

too busy trying to act like you don't care, you failed to realize that he's had his hands behind his back the entire time, only to reveal a bouquet of flowers

“i got your favorites” you couldn't believe it. it was you, you're the girl he was getting flowers for.

at a loss for words, your mouth falls slightly open in shock. “don't say anything, just take them” eunseok says, noticing your lack of response, making him giggle to himself quietly

“i'm sorry for going silent and making you worry like that, shotaro told me” you can’t even pull yourself to say thank you for the flowers, they're too beautiful. no one has ever gotten you a bouquet like this before

the sun was setting and the wind started to pick up, making you shiver; seeing that neither of you have a cover up, eunseok suggests to continue talking inside, where he fixes the new flowers into the empty vase you kept by the tv that you always said was “just in case i ever get sent flowers for valentine's day”. it might not be valentine's day, but that doesn't make it any less special

putting the vase back where it's sat for the past year, he walks over to you to place the extra flower he bought behind your ear, tucking in the hair that would usually fall forward onto your face

“what do i have to do to get you to stay?” he asks, just barely above a whisper. “you can't keep trying to convince me, eunseok. i leave in like 12 hours” shaking his head at your response, you don't know what's got him so frustrated about this. i mean, of course he's sad because someone he's so close to is moving far away but he's been acting different since graduation

basically your whole life you've known eunseok, it's crazy to think that now you're turning 20 and moving away on your own

living in different places was something you two used to always talk about. like what places you thought would be the most fun to live and places you think you'd hate to live in. america was one of the places you guys spoke about a lot, especially since you met anton. you thought that if he can do it, then you can too but deep down you knew it was kind of a reach for you. that was until you got older and your parents started bringing up you moving in with distant family you've met maybe once or twice, just for better career opportunities they said and that felt like something you couldn't argue with

“can i stay the night?” eunseok blurts out, even surprising himself. why couldn't he just go to his place? it's just next door. wouldn't someone who hasn't slept in their own bed look forward to going back home? “of course but i have to get up really early, you're okay with that?” you question him

“yeah, i just wanna spend this last night with you, that's all” given that this isn't out of the ordinary, you don't ask him anymore questions, instead you just prepare yourself for the night that's to come. “you don't have to get the air mattress out, i got the couch” eunseok starts. “i don't want you to rush in the morning.” he says, rearranging the stuff he brought with him so he can get comfortable

it's just past 7:30 now, too early to sleep since he's here so you decided to order in some food to pass time

eating and just talking, never really staying on one topic for too long. if you were being honest, it just felt like you both were trying to distract yourselves from the fact that after tonight, you will no longer be neighbors

you end up talking about how you've been spending your free time on a new game you just bought and he was so interested that you guys moved into your bedroom so you can show him the game. “do you wanna play too?” you ask eunseok when you turn around and see him watching the screen intently. “no, i just want to watch” he replied with a reassuring smile as he opens up the blankets and leans against the pillows

you stay like this for a while, playing while eunseok makes small talk and asks questions about the game. it wasn't soon after when you noticed him get quiet—he had fallen asleep—all wrapped up in your blankets

not knowing how long it's been since he's dozed off, you turn off the game to leave the room. you were just going to take the couch for the night, but as you were stepping off the bed, eunseok catches your arm in his hand, “stay," he says with his eyes still closed, holding onto you with a grip so light that it was starting to slip

you don't argue with his request, it was getting late and you just needed to get some rest. he smiles as he lets go of your arm and while you get into the bed but you don't even notice it

he's happy to be this close to you during a time like this, it makes him feel like you won’t forget him. like he really is important enough to you that of all people, you let him be the one to be here with you while you say goodbye to the only house you've felt comfortable enough to call home

having trouble falling asleep, you toss and turn until you meet face to face with a sleeping eunseok, you didn't even realize he had turned towards you. you freeze, just looking at his face, his eyes are closed but it feels like he's looking back at you.

admiring his features, you can’t believe how much he's matured. he's older than you but he's always had that silly side to him that made him seem younger. despite always wanting to have fun, he's never failed to make sure you felt protected.

“hey,” he says, opening just one eye to see you. “i can feel you staring even in my sleep” he says, letting out a quiet chuckle

you don't know how long you had been laying there looking at him, but you just know that it didn't help you get sleepy. “can't sleep?” eunseok asks, finally opening both eyes. you just nod, letting out a deep breath—keeping the silence

he doesn't say anything, just pulls you in and wraps his arms around you. laying your head against his chest and you just let him. doing the same thing, you place your arms around his back and now you're both basically sharing the same pillow

this, this is the closest you have ever been to him. you think any normal person would feel a little awkward but you don't—it feels like anything but that—it felt natural

but you think it's because you're just that comfortable with eunseok

no matter what the reason was, you were finally able to get a good nights rest—

in his arms

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