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ceesimz · 25 days ago

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matters of the heart

the first time dealing with Alexia after a loss doesn't go how you expect. (angst -> comfort/fluff)

There was something that one of Alexia’s friends had said to you, a passing comment in a conversation that was probably meant as a joke, which you had forgotten about entirely. Until it suddenly became the most relevant information of your life one evening, maybe even the statement that your whole relationship rode on like a lifeline.

“Hey, Ale.” You started softly once your relatively new girlfriend had answered your call. She was hundreds of miles away in another country in Europe, having just lost a game that none of the Barcelona players could have expected. You didn’t get more than a grunt as a greeting. “How are you?”

“What question is that.” The blonde scoffed quietly, speaking to you with a harshness that you had never been on the receiving end of before. “I feel like shit. I’m embarrassed and sick to my stomach with anger, how’s that?”

“O-okay.” You replied with a frown, caught off-guard by her unfamiliar behaviour and entirely unsure where to go from here.

‘Alexia always takes defeats personally, I wouldn’t go near her if I was paid to after she loses.’

“Sorry. I do not mean to be so… rude.” She sighed, though the apology sounded rather forced and not really that genuine.

“It’s okay. You’re allowed to be annoyed, it was a hard game.” You smiled sadly. She was silent on the other side of the line, using up all her defiance to not scoff at your empty words. In the moment of quiet, you could hear the distant sounds of cars passing by. “Where are you?”

“The balcony. Won’t sleep tonight and I don’t want to get into bed yet.” All her replies were blunt and curt, it already felt like you were fighting a losing battle. But you did what you thought you should do, what every good girlfriend would do in the same situation, and carried on.

“I can stay on the phone with you if you’d like tonight. We can talk until you get tired, you don’t have to sit outside in the cold alone all night. It’ll make you feel worse.”

The conversation continued in much the same way, with you saying things and hardly receiving more than a sentence at a time from Alexia. When your patience couldn’t handle it much longer, you moved onto different topics, discussing your day and your friends and your family, thinking it might be helping her.

In this situation, you felt like a fish out of water. Football was an entirely different world than yours, you would never know what it was like to lose such a high profile game like the one Alexia was so distraught over, so you really had no idea what to do. All you could do was try and hope your efforts were appreciated.

They weren’t. You were fighting a losing battle and had been from the second you decided to call her.

“I’m so sorry about the result tonight.” You said after there was yet another awkward silence. Maybe you should have hung up already, put her out of her misery that this phone call was, but the idea that Alexia was sitting alone and going over how much she loathed herself and the world in that moment wasn’t something you were comfortable with.

“Yeah, well, we deserved it. I deserved it. I had no awareness, my decision making was too slow, my passes were terrible. The way we played today, we should have all three European titles taken from us.”

You hadn’t been together all that long, but you had never once heard her speak with such… vitriol before. She spat her words out like they disgusted her to utter them, each sentence laced with heavy disdain, almost entirely directed at herself.

Almost.

“A loss isn’t a failure, Ale. Everything happens for a reason.”

She laughed at your words, a spiteful and venomous sound that was so sharp, it spiked a feeling of anxiety within you. However, it paled in comparison to what she did next.

“Everything happens for a reason, hm? You really believe that?” The blonde tutted and muttered in Catalan under her breath. Just as you went to reply, to back up your point and try to talk her down from the mountain of loathing she found herself on, she cut you off. “That is a stupid thing to say. It’s not true, it’s bullshit. A pathetic, empty bit of encouragement that works as well as a slap to the face. What do you want me to do with that? You, you think that will help me process this loss? To get over it so you can have me in a better mood, where I’m not complaining and being depressing about a football game? The most important thing in my life?”

The most important thing in her life. Football. You already knew that, but it didn’t make it any less difficult to hear her actually admit it.

“I didn’t mean t-” Your attempt to defend yourself from the fire of shame raging inside of her was futile. She didn’t care about anything except the fury coursing through her veins.

“This is so stupid. There is no good that comes from losing like we did today, it was a failure. I’m done with this, I’m going to bed.”

The tone that sounded after she hung up circled through your mind as you sat there, frozen, with your phone still at your ear.

If you were clueless beforehand, it was nothing compared to now. In a slight daze, your head spinning from the conversation that had just occurred, you pressed onto Alexia’s contact again. This time only to send a few messages. All of which went unread, and would for the rest of the night.

You went about your evening absentmindedly afterwards, a strange floating, mindless feeling consuming you. You weren’t entirely sure if you had just witnessed the end of your relationship or not. That thought set you off spiralling, yet you weren’t present in your overthinking. It happened without your knowledge, like you were merely a passenger to the kamikaze journey your anxiety sent you on.

You made dinner, but you didn’t remember doing so. You changed your bedsheets, you don’t remember picking the set you put on. You brushed your teeth and did your skincare, you got into bed unsure if you’d washed it all off or not. You sent more texts to Alexia, though this time with the absence of two blue ticks under your message engraved onto your eyelids. You fell asleep, and you remember the distinct lack of love in your heart as you did so.

—

Every member of the team woke up the next day feeling worse for wear after the gruelling game and hard-to-take loss the day before, but everybody noticed how truly broken Alexia was. Nobody dared to approach her and ask how she was, the headphones glued to her ears more than enough warning for people to keep their distance.

She was, very clearly, disconnected from her life. Stuck in her own mind, rehashing every fuck-up she had made and what lecture to give to her own team when they trained the next day. They feared her and the venom on her tongue, waiting to be unleashed upon the first person that might breathe too loudly in her vicinity.

Not one of them knew her first victim was her own girlfriend.

You did though, of course. But nobody else, not your friends, family, or even Alexia's family. Instead, you had to carry the burden of being your girlfriend's burden around on your own.

By the sounds of it, you were nothing but a distraction. Just another thing on her very hectic plate that she had to worry about. Answering your call the night before was merely a chore for her. And that stung.

From your very first date with her, when you initially learnt about her job and the chaos it entailed, you made it known that you would be there for her when she needed it. However, you also said, which Alexia frowned at and vehemently denied, that if the relationship was ever putting strain on her, you would rather she end it than carry on unhappily.

Since she didn't agree back then, you wished for nothing more than for her to end it before she hated you anymore. All night long, you considered doing it for her... but you were known for making some brash decisions whilst stuck in a spiral of overthinking, so you hung on a little longer. Thank god that you did.

It wasn't easy, not in the slightest. Sometimes, things get harder before they get easier.

Alexia's fury heightened infinitely when she got back to her apartment to find it empty. It lacked you. The pair of you agreed that you would be there to greet her when she got back to Barcelona, win, lose, or draw. What she didn't comprehend, when she realised you weren't there, was that she wasn't angry, she was mentally exhausted. From the match, the hangover of the horrors of the Olympics in the summer and that scarring penalty miss, from the argument the previous night, from everything in her life, personal and professional. Whether she could admit it to herself or not, you not being there when she needed you the most was unknowingly the catalyst to her breaking down.

It came a little delayed though; she was overwhelmed with her feelings, an experience she never coped well with, and she didn't know what to do with them all. So, she did what she did best, and shut herself off from everybody around her.

Or, at least, she tried.

For both of you, the couple days that followed were a blur. Alexia returned to training the next day, and you went to work. You continued with your lives as if the other never even existed. It was radio silence between you. Not one text, one call, nothing.

Alexia, ashamed of her actions and not brave enough to admit the full extent of the turmoil she was going through. You, embarrassed by your efforts and afraid that getting in touch with her would result in much the same way it did a few nights prior. No part of you was ready to hear her definitively and the relationship, even though that wasn't the case at all, so not talking to her at all was, in your honest (and wrong) opinion, the only feasible option.

Listening to her reveal that you weren't part of her future was something you'd always feared. Being with Alexia had been so different to any other relationship you’d been in, and that’s because she was unlike anyone you had ever come across. The moment you met her eye as you walked into the restaurant on that first date, where she looked so excited and enamoured by the sight of you even from afar, you were certain she was the one. And she proved that by being an exemplary partner, if not more, each and every day you had been together so far.

You could be your complete, authentic self in her presence, something you had never felt comfortable doing in past relationships. Being without her for a few days, you were lost. You didn’t know what to do, didn’t know where this left you both, where to go from here. You didn’t know if things could be recovered or not.

But, some miles away in the same city, there was a certain Spaniard that loathed herself for treating you in such a way. The hate she felt, it was more than what she’d feel after missing a penalty or having a poor game or when she got injured. This was incomparable to anything she had ever experienced, because of you. She had pushed you away when she needed you most- perhaps the most idiotic thing she could ever do.

All the emotions running rampant through her nervous system went a lot deeper than one loss. It was an amalgamation of so many things, and instead of handling them like an adult, like the role model everybody thought of her as, she let everything build up until it became too much to control. It was wreckless of her, completely and utterly wreckless. And careless.

For the first day or two of training after the game that caused all this, everyone at the club could tell there was something not quite right with her. But, given the result, they gave her space, knowing she would bounce back with somehow more determination than she’d ever had before. The only thing is, that didn’t happen.

Day three passed, she was still not herself. And on day four, none of them could take it anymore, they just didn’t know where to start. Out of everybody on the team, there was only one person who could talk some sense into her. That person just didn’t expect the sight she’d walk in on after coming back to the locker room once she had finished her lunch.

“Ale?”

The blonde flinched slightly at the unexpected voice where she was sat at her cubby, head deep in her phone. Irene stood at the door, concern evident on her face as Alexia sniffled and hastily brushed away the tears on her face. On her screen, your contact, your chat. Her fingers found themselves hovering over the keyboard, not knowing where on earth to start to reach out to you again, and she dropped the device to the bench below her in defeat when her friend walked in.

“What is up with you, hm? You are not quite right.” Irene stated gently, making her way over and sitting beside Alexia.

“Some things.” Alexia replied, resisting the urge to roll her eyes when Irene scoffed lightly, knowing she couldn’t escape the incoming, persistent pressing.

“Come on. It cannot be the loss the other day, it doesn’t affect you for this long.” The taller woman said, putting a hand on Alexia’s shoulder and squeezing reassuringly.

“I just… everything is so much, all the time. I don’t really know what to do with it all.” Alexia began with a sigh, her hand falling to the dainty gold bracelet on her left wrist you had bought her only a few weeks ago that had been glued to her wrist ever since. “And I have ruined my relationship.”

“What? No, I am sure you haven’t, Ale, you-”

“Trust me, I have.” She laughed in spite of herself, shaking her head in disappointment that was aimed entirely at herself.

“Well, what happened?” Irene questioned with a frown. Alexia sighed, again, and she slumped forward a little so that her elbows were on her knees and her head was in her hands.

After that, she relayed everything that had happened during the past few days to Irene. Her friend sat there with no judgement, listening intently to every detail Alexia told her. The midfielder couldn’t help it, whenever Irene checked in with her, it took very little for it all to come spilling out. Irene was wise, always had been, and had always been a shoulder to cry on for the younger Spaniard. Her advice was something Alexia treasured, as well as her ability at never failing to knock some sense into her. This occasion was just another example of that.

“You just have to talk to her. She is probably upset at how she couldn’t help you more than being angry at your attitude. She will not be too happy about that too, obviously, but you know her well and I know her a little, but enough to know that about her. She is smart, and loves you. All you need to do is let her know you love her too, through anything because I know you do, and apologise. Say how you really feel, the rest will follow.”

It might be obvious advice, but to Alexia, there’s too much anxiety for her to think clearly. She doubted herself too much, fully believed there wasn’t any way for her to come back. So, what did she do after her chat with Irene?

Nothing.

Until late that night, when you were already in bed, eyelids drooping shut as tears still escaped and dampened your pillow.

One thing, the only thing, that Alexia wished she could change about you was the way you thought of yourself. That had been something that tore her heart a little to hear, especially so early on when you tried to get her to promise to break up if things got too tough for her. From the way you spoke about yourself, how you made it sound like you were only a small part of her life, you would force her to choose football over you if it came down to it. She wouldn’t stand for it. She'd sooner be six feet under than break up with you.

You believed you were just an add-on to her life, the latter not being affected by you coming or going. If you left, you knew she'd have a million other things to keep her company, keep her distracted. Or, the next person in the queue would slip into her bed and, subsequently, into Alexia's world as a whole. It'd be as if you'd never existed in the first place. And Alexia hated nothing more on earth than that knot of insecurity you had.

You were so much more than just an add-on, you were the other half of her. In her previous relationships, she didn’t think of her and whoever she was with as one single thing. There was her, and her partner. She loved them, maybe, and she liked spending time together. But when it came to life decisions and future plans, she still always thought of… just herself. She put herself first, decided everything to do with her life, solely for her own good. Then you came along.

The second she realised that she factored you into everything she did, whether that be picking up dinner on the way home or looking for a new apartment, that’s when she knew you were the one. It had happened naturally, without her even noticing, until one night she was on the plane back from the USA in the summer, flicking through photos of a flat that her sister had sent her, when she wondered to herself if you’d like it too.

She knew the side of you that could overthink and ruminate on every little thing and roll it like a snowball on the ground into something much bigger, and in the end the guilt she felt knowing that you were most likely at home, alone, doing exactly that? It was enough to convince her to head over, hours after she should have when she got home from training earlier.

It was midnight when she pulled up outside your apartment complex with a bit of haphazard and slightly illegal parking. Her head wasn’t exactly the clearest, and she probably shouldn’t have driven when her eyes were glossy with tears and her hands shook so much she could barely muster the strength to open her car door, but she did, for you. The janitor inside, should he have cared for his job more, might have been concerned at such a sight if he wasn’t clocking off only five minutes after Alexia walked in. Whatever would happen once she reached her destination after spamming the elevator button, simply wasn’t his responsibility.

You had given her a spare key to your apartment not so long after getting together, as she had to you. So with a quiet knock on your door that went unanswered, she unlocked it and entered. The lights were off, only the low hum of the AC sounding through the otherwise silent apartment, and so she headed towards your bedroom.

Fortunately, when she stepped into your bedroom without so much a creak of the floorboards or the click of the door handle as it shut behind her, she saw the outline of you under the covers, facing away from her, sleeping.

It might not have been the smartest idea she’d ever had, maybe you would kill her for it in the morning, but nevertheless, she gave into her temptations. She slipped her shoes off, leaving them out of the way like you would always beg her to do, and cautiously climbed into bed beside you. In the dark, she couldn’t see the redness to your face or your puffy eyes or the empty pack of tissues on the bedside table. Instead, none the wiser to your feelings and whether you would be angrier than ever at her for such a choice, she shuffled up behind you and wrapped a tentative arm around your torso.

To her surprise, you covered her hand on your stomach with your own, though she wasn’t sure if it was an automatic reaction or not. You had stirred a little, though mostly clouded with sleep that tried tugging you under again.

“Didn’t know when I’d get to see you again.” You murmured, words slightly slurred. Alexia had to squeeze her eyes shut to will away the tears that tried to force their way out, and chose to shuffle closer so that she could kiss the back of your neck in apology.

“I’m sorry. For everything.” She whispered, voice cracking in the middle of the last word.

“I missed you.” You frowned, Alexia could hear it when you spoke.

“I missed you too. But go to sleep, we can talk in the morning. We both need rest.” She said quietly. You nodded, and that was that.

Rather unexpectedly, the pair of you slept rather well. Being back in each other’s company was as relieving mentally as it apparently was physically, allowing you both to get more rest when together. Though, as you woke up and found Alexia already awake beside you, it wasn’t long before the strange feeling of bliss gave way for the anxiety you knew would come sooner than later.

She was on her side, whereas you were on your back, and there was a sleepy but worried expression on her face. You knew the conversation about to be had was necessary, didn’t mean you hated it any less. The situation that faced you both was discomforting, there were certain to be words you didn’t want to hear, and all kinds of outcomes to it.

In anxious anticipation, you sat up, back against the headboard and knees against your chest with your arms resting atop them. Alexia decided to sit up too, though turned to face you with her legs crossed. It was quiet, awkwardly quiet, for some time, before the blonde spoke first, which you were glad for.

“I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. Especially when you were just trying to help.” She began. It wasn’t much, but it was a good start. “I appreciated that you wanted to make me feel better. But I don’t think anyone could have gotten through to me then.”

She fell silent, hoping you’d take your turn to talk then, to give her a chance to catch a glimpse of your true feelings. Communication went both ways, so you complied.

“I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me that though. If I’d have known that ringing you would have made you feel worse, I wouldn’t have done it in the first place.” The insecurities you felt under the surface came through so clearly in your voice. Alexia frowned upon hearing your reply, desperately scrambling for a way to explain the point she wanted to make.

“I think you did make me feel better. And I know, I promise I know, that I did not show that. But… I needed you. I didn’t realise it and I wish I could change that, I am really sorry I didn’t see it, I just… haven’t had someone there for me like you when I have lost. I’m not used to it but now I know how to navigate it. I am sorry you got hurt along the way of me discovering that.” The furrow to her brow deepened, so much so you were sure there’d be lines left there permanently long after this conversation had finished, but you couldn’t focus on that once you saw the first tear slide down her cheek. She had her eyes focused on the cuff of her joggers, her fingers tracing the stitching. “I regret it. Because I know how it must have made you feel. I always want you to… to feel important, a-and I know I failed that this time. I’m sorry.”

At the sight and the sound of her getting so clearly upset by the situation, you felt yourself getting just as worked up too. Though, despite those feelings, one which was slowly becoming more prominent was relief. As the conversation continued, you slowly began to realise that this was just an argument, and you two would make it out of it. The doubts were being broken down, one by one, by the emotionally intelligent woman in front of you… even if it took a little while for that intelligence to come to light.

You reached out for her hand that was fidgeting with her trousers, and it caused her to look up. Just as she did, another tear fell from her eye, and you shuffled closer and copied her position so that you could wipe away that single tear before it hit the sheets below.

“These days without you have been… awful, but I think it helped us to work through what we felt. Maybe it helped us to… recognise what is most important to us.” You stated, which Alexia nodded affirmatively to. “How you spoke to me and treated me, it really did hurt me. I forgive you, though.”

Her eyes widened a little, definitely not expecting to hear those words so soon.

“You do?” She mumbled hopefully, sounding like a small child in the way she asked.

“I do. You were honest and you opened up. You didn’t say any excuses, I can see you didn’t mean any of it. It’s not all magically gone, but I’m not upset or angry with you.” The blonde closed her eyes and you weren’t exactly sure if the breath that came from her was a relieved sigh or a choked sob, but it didn’t matter because you knew then, by her reaction, that you would move past this bump in the road for definite.

“I didn’t mean a word I said. I really needed you and I hate that I didn’t realise that until too late. I swear, it won’t happen again, and if I could go b-”

“I know, I know.” You shushed her gently, leaning forward and wrapping your arms around her shoulders to bring her in for a much needed embrace. “It’s not too late, Ale. It’s not too late.”

“D-dios, I r-really love you.” You knew then that she was crying, burying her face into your neck and letting out all the emotions she’d kept stored up inside of her since that stupid game that caused all this.

For some time, you weren’t sure how long, you held her as she released everything pent up, one hand at some point having slipped down to her back and rubbing up and down comfortingly. You got just as much out of the hug as she did, except you’d already exerted almost all the tears you had, so you stayed there with her arms loosely around your back with your eyes closed and took time to relish in the feeling of her again.

Eventually, she slowed down to quiet sniffles, and she leaned back though kept her hands on your waist so that she could look at you.

“You are the most important thing to me, more than football, more than a win or a loss or a draw, more than anything. I will make sure you know that. I will.” She said firmly, looking into your eyes with a determination you knew you’d be wrong to doubt. There was, however, one more thing you needed to get off your chest.

“Ale, football isn’t my world. I don’t know what you need yet after a disappointing match, I need you to help me figure that out so I can be exactly what you need.” In an instant, she was nodding, her thumbs stroking up and down against the material of your shirt against your sides.

“Of course. Of course. I will help, I will try.” The blonde responded, and finally, this terrible blip was done with. You could look ahead at the future now, but not without soaking up the missed presence of the other before reluctantly facing the world again.

“Thank you.” You whispered, leaning your forehead against hers. Her hands raised to your cheeks then, and she tilted her chin up so that she could kiss your temple, then the space between your eyebrows, then your nose, and lastly, leaving a soft and unhurried kiss to your lips. It was a gesture that sealed this slightly unwanted but somewhat needed milestone off.

Obstacles occur in relationships, they’re quite common. How you come back from them, as a couple, is the defining factor in being able to move forward, or falling apart. In this instance, the pair of you stumbled at first but in the end, you flourished in working it out together, with respect, with decency, with love. The silver lining of it was that you both gained a surefire belief that you could make it through anything, as long as you had each other’s back.

The most important part of any relationship is trying your best to learn about the person you love. It won’t always be perfect, but as long as you’re trying, that’s all that matters.

—

look i mostly hate this and i've been writing it on and off since october (that game) and i am sooooo bad at writing this stuff so this is like a filler fic and a weight off my shoulders but be excited for more soon!! thanks for putting up with my bs☺️🧡

#alexia putellas x reader #woso x reader #alexia putellas #woso #woso community #woso imagine #woso fic

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bunny-jpeg · 2 months ago

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✿❯────「✿i'm get money, i'm a star - toto w.✿」────❮✿

"daddy." you said as you straightened out your back a little bit. you crossed your arms under your breasts and stuck them out a little more. but toto wasn't looking away from the morning paper. you shifted from one foot to another, "daddy!" you sounded a little more whiny. in all fairness you had been standing there for almost three minutes and your daddy still hadn't given you a lick of attention. his eyes on the paper, even your whines went on deaf ears.

you got closer to him and leaned forward, getting your breasts in the way of his paper. he looked at you, creases in his brow as he adjusted his glasses, "yes, mon cheri." you knew toto wolff was good with his tongue, you've seen him switch between languages with ease, and also that time he made you cum from three strokes of his tongue. you looked at him and he kept his gaze on your eyes. you pouted a little, "you're ignoring me." "i wasn't, treasure. i have to keep an eye on the economy if you want that trip of france next month." you didn't know what he was talking about, all you knew about the become was that green meant good and that toto had a lot of it. you said, "but, you were ignoring me."

even the most dangerous man in central europe wasn't immune to your puppy dog eyes.

toto wolff was smitten by you. if he wasn't they would've never found your body. toto wasn't fond of yappy idiots, but you were endearing. the way the light reflected off your eyes, how you were so eager to please, anything toto needed from you, he got. you were so gentle, you'd never survive outside of his grasp. you were safe with him. he knew the problem with most girls your age was that, they were too stubborn and didn't listen to an older guiding hand. such pretty things wasted on running their mouths. some need to sit there and look pretty. listen when being spoken to. you let his words soak in your brain and his cum soak in your panties. he was a scary mafia boss, the wolff from hell. and you were the little thing he picked up along the way. the tiny thing with the pouty lips and doe-like expressions. who rubs her pretty breasts all over him to get his attention and is whiny like a puppy. eventually you got into his lap and he put the paper down.

he kissed at your face for a moment, "you need manners, treasure. you cannot go around and become a brat. i trained you better." his rough words made you rub your thighs together as you clung to his t-shirt. you looked at him, his larger frame loomed over you like a domineering shading. it casted you in darkness as he looked at you. you giggled a little, "you look good in your glasses, daddy." he held you closer, "well, that's good to know. now, what does my treasure want? what was so important that you had to tell me right away." you giggled and licked your lips, then pressed your breasts up against him. your curious eyes gazed at him, "i missed you. i woke up and you were out of bed." he chuckled and held the back of your head with tenderness, "well, it's already past noon most would be out of bed by now. but not you, right, schatzi?" you nodded at him as you felt his hard cock against your lower back. you clung to him and he leaned in for a kiss as he held you close to him. you squirmed a little bit more and he kissed you again. you felt so delicate in his touch, you knew what he had done. the lives he had taken with his own hands. they were large and the strength to them could easily bruise you if not out right kill you. but with you he was much nicer, more aware of his strength. he was aware that when he got his fingers between one of your nipples, that he was holding onto you with a bruising pressure. he watched you whine and squirm at his touch. "needy girl." he said, "usually you're so good for me. don't tell me you are slipping. i'd hate to train you again, it was hard to house break you the first time." that his way of saying that he made sure that you were his ideal woman. and you happily accepted it. why would you deny your mafia lover. the big scary wolff. you rubbed your hips against his and said, "no, i've been good and i'll keep being good." and then made a small noise when he pressed his lips against yours. those were the words he liked to hear.

he wanted to hear you were good for him. when he finished groping your breasts he got you over the kitchen table. when he pulled down your sleeping shorts, he saw that you were not wearing panties. someone missed him, someone was thinking about him when they woke up. you felt his cock pressed against your back as he rubbed your clit with your shorts around your left ankle. he kept another hand wrapped around your throat. his voice was low in your ear as he rubbed his clothed cock up against your soaked pussy, "are you going to be good, schatzi, or?" you swallowed and arched your back and responded, "i'll always be good for you, daddy." you held onto the edge of the table and let yourself be tease. you pouted with your cheek against the expensive wood of the table. you should be thankful that he didn't rip your clothes off of you, it would've have been the first time he did that. your back arched when you felt him slide his cock into you, you whimpered a little bit and then pressed your cheeks against your crossed wrists for some kind of cushion against the unforgiving table. toto hissed through his teeth as he moved against you. his cock as deep as it could go and it felt like it was in your stomach. his pace was unforgiving, you were so good under him. you always were, a good little puppy for him. letting him use and abuse your sweet sex for his own pleasure, you knew every ache would be soothed with kisses and by the next day your daddy would buy you something pretty. only the best for the boss' pet.

you didn't need to think, just be at your knees like a good girl. be all smiles and delicate in your lover's grasp. and while you didn't need to think you had to be polite to toto's 'friends'. toto continued to move against you, your hips hitting against the edge of the table. the older man had to admit, getting a good feel of your pussy first thing in the morning was better than any coffee. it lit him like a wire and made him move harder against you. if the table was any lighter it would be moving against the floor. his hips gripped onto your hips as he kissed at your neck, his cock felt so good inside of you. it messed up your insides and made you pant heavily against the wood. you could barely form words, just 'daddy' coming out like a pathetic little chant. it only turned toto on further. you were toto wolff's pretty little thing, the shiniest diamond in his collection. he kissed at the side of your neck as he rutted against you. he listened keenly to your soft noises and felt something hot in his gut. you were beautiful. "always so good for me, treasure." he said, "under me like a good girl." his voice was rough and rubbed against the sides of your head perfectly. you felt flushed as you tried to keep up with his rapid pace. when you came, your pretty pink nails gripped onto the flat surface of the table, you whined against the your wrists and it only fueled his fire. "please, daddy." you said softly.

he was a dangerous man, but he always found a softness between your legs. he angled your hips a little higher, putting you on your tip-toes and pushed you further against the table. it rocked against his hard thrusts as he panted heavily against your heated skin. his words were mush in your over stimulated brain, but it made you feel hot. "you look beautiful like this. under me. you know exactly how to get the attention you want. you're a needy little whore, but that's alright. i'll give you all the attention you want." he kissed the shell of your ear before he gave a few more heavy thrusts of his hips. soon he finished inside of you with a heated groan. he didn't want to admit that his legs were a little wobbly as he came down from the high. that was the effect of your wet cunt. when he pulled out, he shoved two fingers inside of your slick hole once more, he loomed over you as he battered your pussy with his thick digits. the roughness of the tips dragging across your more sensitive areas has you whimpering. toto was far from finished with you.

if you wanted daddy's attention so badly, then he'd give it to you in spades.

maybe begging for attention wasn't the smartest idea, but as you laid out on the table, sweaty and hot, the thought didn't cross your mind. only your lover's thick fingers making a further mess of your pretty pussy.

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killerlookz · 8 months ago

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heyyy💋 so could i request a fic where reader is an eurovision contestant and basically her & joost are attached to the hip. they are seen being all cuddly with each other, flirting, sitting as close to each other as possible, the cameras catching your non so secret glances.. generally acting like a couple. but when the press asks you about this whole situation, you both deny that you have something going on between you two, but deep down you know that those gestures are not so “innocent” at all🤭🤭

a/n: ooooh i love a cheeky little secret romance!! thank you for the request anon <3

Just Friends | Joost Klein

content: gn! reader, very brief allusion to sex, joost and reader are so down bad for each other its a little pathetic, mostly fluff, some angst if you look at it under a microscope. this fic contains rpf and has been tagged as such, do not continue if that makes you uncomfortable, and please block the rpf tag

word count: 2128

You sit on the edge of your hotel bed, you smile, your cheeks grow hot, letting out a small breath from your nose, replacing a genuine laugh.

Your phone sits in your lap, opened to a message

Joost Klein: When were you planning to tell me that I'm your secret lover 😓

What followed was a screenshot from some European tabloid sight, headed by: Eurovision Contestants Spotted Getting Cozy: Secret Lovers Revealed?!

Below were two grainy photos of you and Joost, taken just moments apart from each other. Taken from behind, they showed the two of you walking side by side, just outside the hotel you were staying in. It would have looked more like a friendly exchange if your hands hadn't been locked together.

You knew you'd have to explain everything eventually, that was the third headline this week that had come out about you and Joost. Another showed the two of you sharing a hug that looked a little too close for it to be friendly, in another you had a hand planted on his chest, and your head tilted back mid-laugh.

It all seemed a little ridiculous. You knew Eurovision was one of the largest events in all of Europe- but still, you couldn't have imagined how interested people would be in your personal life off the stage.

It was nothing too scandalous anyway, you and Joost had known each other prior to Eurovision. And sure, you were more casual friends, despite being from different countries, the two of you had run in similar circles with music and all. You had spent the last few years admiring each other's music, usually from afar, the times the two of you had genuinely hung out before all this were few and far between. Your conversations were usually reserved for more chaotic moments, either backstage at the end of a show or in the crowd for a musician friend the two of you had in common.

You couldn't exactly explain away all of the touchy-touchy stuff, but you never expected that you would have to, it had just always been like that, ever since you first met. Truthfully, the two of you were closer than the tabloid photos led on. But they didn't have to know that.

Hasty fingers tap at your phone screen

apparently it's so secret that i didn't know it either!

You send your response to Joost before closing your phone and tossing it somewhere on the bed. You lay back, landing on the firm mattress with a small bounce.

Your eyelids are lowered, trying your best to keep focus on the woman in front of you through heavy lids- though it seems impossible with the crisp white LEDs shining in your face.

"So, have you made any connections with any other contestants since you've been here in Malmö?" The woman asks, a curious eyebrow-raising as she guides the microphone in her hands in front of your face.

You know exactly what she wants to hear from you, the hunger is evident in her eyes, she licks her lips in desperation for a scoop, before her mouth pulls into a sly smile, it all feels so predatory. You swallow thickly, shifting a quick gaze toward the cameraman before flicking your eyes back to the reporter, who has an equally as hungry look on his face, and you realize, you are their prey.

"Yeah, absolutely," You nod, your face lights up, "I've honestly really connected with Bambi Thug, they're really bringing such a new and innovative sound to Eurovision, I really admire them for that, and don't let the makeup and costumes fool you they are an absolute sweetheart!" It wasn't a lie, Joost was not the only person you had talked to since the competition started. You did make friends while you'd been here.

The journalist loses her grin, her face now twisted with dissatisfaction.

"Anyone else?" She asks, nearly cutting you off, her microphone still stuck in your face.

"Marina has been an absolute joy too," Your smile lingers on your lips, "And Nemo- they're great too!"

"Well," The journalist starts, facing the microphone back to her, "I think we've all been hearing the rumors about some sparks flying between you and the Dutch representative, Joost Klein, is there any truth to them?"

You're a little taken back by her forwardness to just outright ask the question,

"I wasn't aware of any rumors," You furrow your eyebrows, shaking your head in vehement denial, "But Joost is great too, we've known each other for a few years now, and I've been a big fan of his music, and he's a great friend." You breathe out, silently hoping the answer is satisfactory for the journalist to cease probing any further.

"No potential for anything more than a friendship?"

"Oh no," You shake your head, nearly scoffing as the words choke out of your mouth, and you hope you're as good of an actress as you are a singer, "Again, Joost is great, but he's just my friend."

"Alright," She nods her head slowly, unsatisfied. The way the journalist's eyes linger on you makes it clear she doesn't quite believe you- but it would be inappropriate of her to ask you any more questions on the matter.

"Would you like to talk about my music now?"

"I just don't know why they're acting like we had a sex tape leak- do these people not hug their friends?" You throw your hands up, frustrated. The last two days had been nothing but interviews, but it seemed none of the interviewers were as interested in your actual Eurovision performance as they were in potentially getting the first scoop on what was "going on" between you and Joost.

"I mean that would give them something to talk about," Joost chuckles, standing at the foot of your hotel bed, he's clad in nothing but a white tank top and his underwear. The tight fabric of what little he's wearing clings to his body, leaving just about nothing to the imagination. He ruffles a hand through his already messy hair. You'd wondered what the tabloids would say if they got a whiff of this, "All press is good press"

"Are you suggesting something, Mr. Klein?" You flash a look at him, your eyes piercing his. Your words come out much harsher than you had intended them to, you couldn't help it, your frustration was evident.

Joost placed a hand behind his neck, rubbing anxiously, throwing a sheepish look in your direction as to insinuate he had been suggesting something. You knew he was only joking, but the thought of actually doing such a thing made your face hot. A light pink blush burned on your face as you stared up at him.

"You're filthy," You giggle, and your hands latch on to a pillow that sits next to you, and you fling it in Joost's direction.

He takes a step back as the pillow hits him square in the stomach, a loud thump can be heard in the room as contact between his body and the stuffed object is made. He choked out a breath of surprise, and his face winced as he grabbed his stomach in feigned agony,

"How could you," He shakes his head, "I think you broke every single one of my ribs."

"Shush," You scoff, "C'mon, get over here." You pat the bed next to you, shifting yourself over to one side.

In typical Joost fashion, he practically jumps onto the bed. He adjusts himself in such a way that his shoulder is brushing up against yours. He's warm, and you want nothing more than to crawl into his arms. It was almost pitiful the way you wanted him, completely desperate. And yet, you don't dare to act- not right now.

The room falls silent as the both of you hesitate to say anything. The room is thick with a humid tension, and words left unsaid. Your reccolection of the last few days seemed non-existent yet ever-present at the same time. Everything had left you wondering the same exact questions as every journalist who had talked to you today, what was going on between you and Joost?

"I can feel the stress radiating off of you," Joost finally speaks, "Are you okay?"

You furrow your eyebrows, looking down into your lap where your fingers are not fidgeting and intertwined. Your face twitches.

"Are you really so upset about those interviews? Do you want to stop this, I can lea-"

"No," you cut him off all too quickly, "No stay. Please." Your voice had shriveled down to nothing but a pathetic whisper. As confusing as your feelings had been, the confusion seemed to be better than not having them at all. It was hard being away from home and feeling like you were bracing the weight of the world or at least of Europe against your shoulders. Joost, at least, was a source of comfort, something to come back to.

"Okay," He nods, his head moving up and down slowly.

You'd be lying if you said you hadn't felt some sort of way about Joost before all of this. His affectionate nature with you seemed to cross all of the wires in your brain. He had always been affectionate with his close friends, not afraid to spare a hug or an arm around the shoulder when he felt like it, but with you it seemed different, especially taking into account neither of you would exactly consider the other as a "best friend."

Besides, even if you were, best friends don't usually stay up all night, lying on top of each other in some state of undress, lips hungrily pressed against one another. This whole situation had left you feeling like you were a teen again, the prickling feeling in your chest of excitement and anxiety of sneaking around to see a boy you liked. It was addicting, the adrenaline that flooded each and every inch of your body, as the two of you snuck off from the afterparties where your appearances were all but mandatory. You'd be lying if you said it didn't at least help a little to take the edge off of all the stress of the competition.

An arm snakes around your shoulder, and immediately Joost is clicking his tongue disapprovingly

"So tense," He mumbles, "Lay down, will you?" His voice is quiet, nearly pleading, and much more timid than you're used to. You feel compelled to oblige, spellbound, his soft words are like hypnosis.

Joost's arm slips from where it sits around your shoulder as you sink into the pillows below. You allow your body to relax into the support of the mattress.

A hand grazes your thigh, trailing down to your knee, Joost gives you a couple gentle taps, "Put your legs up, I'll pull down the blanket for you."

You oblige, bending your knees to pull them inward, and Joost hops off the bed for a moment, grabbing the thick white comforter in his hands from its neatly made position. You shift as he pulls it from under your body, allowing the blanket to slip down to your feet.

The bed dips as Joost crawls back to his position next to you. He reaches out to the foot of the bed, pulling the comforter up to cover the two of you.

"So," You start, rolling on your side, facing away from Joost, "Did they ask you about me?"

The blanket above you shifts as Joost adjusts himself to lie down next to you. He places a gentle hand against your hip, rubbing careful circles against the fabric that separates your skin from his. His chin rests upon your shoulder, and almost instinctively you nuzzle your cheek against his.

"Mhmm," His gentle hum vibrates against your skin, sending shivers down your spine.

"What did you say?" You ask and your teeth clench, your eyes shut tight, waiting with anticipation for his response, hoping for it to line up with yours. You could only imagine the suspicion that would arise if the two of you were to have given entirely different answers to the same question.

"I told them we're friends, just friends."

Your jaw slacks at the relief, and you let out a sigh, eyes fluttering open. But something about those words coming from his mouth, just friends, as his words graze your ears your relief is coupled with a stinging feeling in your chest, a sharp reminder of the peculiar position you had found yourself in.

"And are we," You pause, "Just friends?"

Joost picks his head up from where it rests on your shoulder, ghosting the exposed flesh of your arm with a kiss.

"Not if you don't want us to be."

a/n: i added a pt. II to this, read it here!

#joost klein #joost klein x reader #joost klein x you #joost klein fic #rpf

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snaileer · 7 months ago

Text

Call to My Bedside - Part 2

Part 1: https://www.tumblr.com/snaileer/733019972168761344/call-to-my-bedside

Danyal wakes the next time with a weight to his limbs. From the moment he opens his eyes, he realizes he is not where he is supposed to be.

This is a medical bay, but it is not in the league, the constant twittering of League doctors monitoring his health is suspiciously gone. No shadows on guard outside the door.

The most glaring thing though, there was no Lazarus Water in his veins.

Perhaps Ra’s had decided he was no longer worth the expense, had decided-

No.

It was something else. That wasn’t an option he would consider.

Danyal tested the feeling of thin metal on his right wrist. Handcuffs, not shackles. It was odd.

But again, this wasn’t the league.

But he’d need to go back before Ra’s became angry. Danyal couldn’t fail.

He glances to the door as it opens, an old man-the one from before- and a younger, slender man standing just behind him.

Danyal stays still, his breathing even, forcing his heart to stay at a constant, stable rate. He watches them, analyzing.

The old man blinks, “It’s good to see you’re awake, young sir-,” He steps into the room, left foot a second slower, old weakness?- English accent, in Europe? the man behind him follows- stiff posture, rib injury, core focused strength, gymnast, combat trained and familiar- Richard Dick Grayson, Nightwing, he’s in America, Batman- “You gave us quite the shock earlier, myself especially.”

Nightwing watched Danyal warily, he saw him as a threat, and by the angle of his feet, a threat to the older man. He remembers now, he’d attacked him before, Nightwing was here to prevent it again.

They are heroes.

He was a part of the League of the Assassins.

He doesn’t fit here, could never.

Danyal considers the merits of speaking English, he wants to, deeply, and perhaps it would even benefit the situation; but his chest clogs with fear before he can even compose a sentence. It’s been too long anyways, the League dialect is easier.

“How long have I been here?” Danyal says, still not moving enough to even jostle the cuff at his wrist.

Nightwing sighs deeply, “We rescued you and Damian from a League of Assassins boat yesterday.” The words of the language are stilted, either by unfamiliarity or awkwardness, and who’s Damian? There’s a pause, “Do you know who I am?” Nightwing asks, caution in the words.

Danyal takes a deep breath, finally sitting up, despite the rattling of the chain on the cuff, “You are Nightwing, Dick Grayson, correct?”

Nightwing nods, his eyes briefly flitting to the elder man, “And you?”

Danyal’s eyes narrow, trying to find the trap, “I am Danyal Al Ghul, Heir of the Demon’s head, Blood of the Batman.”

Danyal watches the eyebrow of the old man tick up in his peripheral.

Nightwing pinches the bridge of his nose, “God I can’t believe Talia did it again,” He murmurs under his breath. In English. And Danyal would be lying if he said he wasn’t happy to hear the language again, even just a little.

“Perhaps it would be best to bring Master Bruce back from his meeting,” the old man says pointedly. Danyal ignores as he changes and resets the IV attached to him, familiar with the autonomous care. With or without his consent.

“I’ve already notified him, he should be here soon.”

“Very good. In the meantime,” he turns to Danyal, “I am Alfred Pennyworth, the Wayne family butler. It seems I did not get the chance to introduce myself the last time you were awake.”

Danyal can’t help but blink at the almost joking tone Alfred says it with, knowing that Danyal had been the one to knock him out. It makes his lip twitch, and he silently huffs, surprising himself with the action.

The amusement vanishes as the door opens once more, footsteps barely audible in the second before.

The man standing there is large, tall and broad shouldered, strong- dangerous, calloused hands from training- his eyes stay glued to Danyal, blue and steady amidst the square jaw and sharp features, black hair tussled like he’d been rushing, just like Dad always-

Danyal feels his jaw wire shut, back straightening.

The thin chain of the handcuff jingles in the sudden silence.

This he remembers. This is Batman. The Dark Night of Gotham. The Detective.

The source of every expectation Ra’s Al Ghul has ever placed on Danyal.

He feels his face try to screw into a sneer, because he hates him and everything he’s done that has ever affected Danyal, but his face remains still. Controlled. Because there’s nothing he can do about it anyways.

Batman had introduced himself before.

As another name. A civilian. His training forces him to remember it.

Bruce Wayne.

It means next to nothing to him. But the man doesn’t stop looking.

It’s Nightwing that speaks next, “Danyal, this is Batman, Bruce Wayne, your father.” The smile is at odds with the weary tone of the words, “He was there when we saved you and Damian a few.. yesterday. God that feels like longer.”

Saved? The sentiment makes him want to scoff. He doesn’t, because Batman’s eyes already narrow with Nightwing’s words, and Danyal doesn’t need to make it worse.

A thousand more questions rush through his head. Each one bitten back with practiced force.

Instead he dips his head briefly, aiming for a show of respect, whatever that might mean here. However little he means it. Danyal can adjust regardless.

“Hn.”

Danyal lifts his head. That was the only response?

They uproot him entirely, chain him, throw him into unfamiliar waters where everything-everyone- is in new danger and all he does is grunt?

Danyal bites his tongue hard, letting his head lift, carefully non-defiant. He’s not quite sure his eyes get the message because he can feel the glare from them.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred pipes in, tone sharp.

Batman sighs, but the set of his shoulders changes, no longer so heavily lined with suspicion.

“What do you know about why Damian was-" There’s an even sharper cough from Alfred. Another sigh, “Fine. What has Talia already told you about me?”

Danyal glances between them, purposefully keeping his eyes from jumping down to the metal around his wrists.

No one else speaks.

“I know that you are Batman, the Dark Night of Gotham. You are also the detective, great enough to impress the Demon’s Head, Ra’s Al Ghul. The Demon’s daughter informed me you were dead.”

There’s a slight twitch on Batman’s face. “I survived Darkseid’s attack, although it led to me being lost in time and assumed dead for nearly a year,” Batman’s eyes flick across the room, almost considering, “Red Robin was responsible for my return just over a year ago.”

Red Robin. Timothy Drake. The one Ra’s favored. The second source of expectations placed on Danyal.

And he was lost in time? What did that consist of, what did it mean for Batman? Did it matter if it didn’t affect Danyal?

“I see.” He says. Silence lingers. They still expect him to speak. He hedges his bets, asking something he actually cares about, “Why am I here, Batman?”

The question seems to be expected and yet still strike with surprise.

“I… regrettably, did not know you were… present at the league. I do not believe in their methods and would not have left you there had I known.”

And that makes it all okay. Danyal wants to scream. But he narrows his eyes instead, only more suspicious, “And why were you there then?”

“We followed the shadows that had taken Damian. He told us who you were.”

Danyal pauses, leaning back slightly. They were willing to answer his questions, to actually talk with him. Of course they were, they were meant to be heroes.

But it had been so long since he’d actually talked with anyone other than Ra’s, and their conversations were a battleground of expectations and tests.

He fights with his conscious knowledge of this and the habits that have been beaten into him so thoroughly.

“Who is… Damian?” He asks, watching their reactions for the answer.

All three seem surprised by the question. But not angry. Of course not, he reminds himself.

“You’ve mentioned him several times like I am supposed to know who he is.” He had barely been told anything since his forceful return, and any knowledge he had from before stopped at Dick Grayson. And then Timothy Drake.

Danyal had purposefully ignored the hero world he had lived in-

He forces his eyes up to meet Batman’s, noting the hesitance in the set of his shoulders.

“Damian is… your brother. He was.. Talia’s son, before he came to me just a few years ago. He was raised in the league.”

Danyal blinks, anger disbelieving in his chest. Is that what she did?

“When.”

There’s no response, save a twitch of Batman’s eyebrow.

“When,” Danyal says again, his breathing controlled, “Did he come to you? How old was he? How long ago?”

They seem to pick up on the way Danyal’s tone has changed. Good for them.

“Nearly three years ago. He was ten.” Batman answers, voice rough. Tinged with curiosity and unfulfilled questions.

Danyal breathes deeply, his heart rate picking up against his wishes. Icy rage flares.

The beeping of the machine at his side matches the pounding in his chest, uneven, unbalanced, uncontrolled.

Keep it under control. Keep it. Under. Control.

Control is power. Control is strength. Control is the only thing that will ever be enough.

He breathes deeper. Holding his breath. Once. Twice.

The beeping is steadier with each tone.

“Danyal?” An old voice asks beside him. It’s Alfred. The butler.

Danyal shifts his jaw from its clench, “I am fine.” His eyes slide back into focus, still on Batman, “Damian is your son then.”

Batman nods solemnly, a heavier sigh through his chest, “Talia and I have had an… interesting relationship. But I loved her. Once. She has never failed to make me regret it.”

That was why she had visited him. Her words. What she had almost said. Talia had wished he was Damian, wished he was Bruce. Just not Danyal of course. The weapon she discarded for a better version. One she could love.

One who would be heir.

Batman continues, “Talia is Damian’s mother, told him he would be my heir, as I’m sure you were but-” Batman stops, looking at Danyal as confusion flicks across his face, “You weren’t.”

“I was never told I would be heir of the Batman, only of the Demon’s head.” This, at least, Danyal is familiar with, “That’s the only reason they needed me: to be their weapon made from the Demon Head’s enemy.” Danyal breathes, “A weapon does not have parents, and I have never been more than a weapon to them, crafted for the league’s purpose. For Ra’s.”

Ra’s is the reason Danyal is alive at all. Is the only reason he has survived the league, but he is also the reason Danyal had to, no- has to survive.

Danyal drops his eyes, tired, so so tired, like he always is. Unerringly, his eyes find the shine of the metal around his wrist. Arm held carefully still to keep from jostling it, even as his other hand has found its way to his lap.

“You can’t really believe that,” Dick says, disbelief in his own voice, unsurety in the frame of an unfamiliar language.

“It doesn’t matter what I believe.”

And it doesn’t. It only matters what he can do. That’s he’s strong. He just has to be strong enough. Ra’s is the reason Danyal suffers, has always been, and Danyal will never let him escape that.

Silence lasts. Danyal quickly grows tired of it.

Luckily, Batman breaks it, “Why were you exposed to the Lazarus waters?” He asks, voice rigid and flat once more.

Perhaps the casualness is getting to him because Danyal manages to lift one lip in a slight sneer, “The only reason anybody uses the Lazarus Pits.”

The Batman stays silent, clearly talking about the unorthodox method of exposure they had resorted to.

Danyal sighs this time, serious, “My heart is damaged. Electricity. The pits are a short term solution for it. Grandfather had said he found a long term one.” Danyal doubts it matters now. Whatever care his grandfather’d had was fragile, dependent on Danyal’s performance.

The palm of his left hand tingles sharply.

Would this be enough to tip the scale against him? What would he lose for being here? Who would he-

Danyal looks into Batman’s eyes, “Am I to be a prisoner here?”

The man glances over him at the two on the other side, Danyal doesn’t follow it, nor the silent conversation he’s sure is happening.

Instead, Danyal focuses his ears, senses sharpened by training, by the pits, by his accident… and turns his attention to the person hiding in an alcove above them.

Low breathing, higher pitched, the scent of sword polish and hair gel. The person was small and armed.

“You’re not a prisoner… but if you leave.. you’ll be in danger,” Batman says, voice deep, “We can’t let that happen.”

So either be followed or don’t leave. What great options.

Danyal tries not to scowl, not to show any inflection at it, “And do I have to stay here? In your…. Cave?”

“It might be difficult to move- uh.. the medical things-” Nightwing starts, but Danyal cuts him off by swiftly removing the IV tucked in the crook of his elbow.

He presses his thumb against the small well of blood as he looks forward.

Alfred shouts, jolting towards him, “Master Danyal! That is hardly sterile-“

Danyal’s eyes snap to him the moment the title leaves his mouth, heart stilling for a second, commands in his eyes. Alfred falls still.

Danyal lets it fall away the next second, barely two beats missed. The beeping starts again.

“I see.” Alfred straightens, stepping forward slowly to turn off the IV and coil it, removing other monitors, “Another one for the dramatics then.”

Nightwing steps up, hands out placatingly, “There’s..mm really no need, Danyal, uh-” He glances back to Batman, “Of course you can leave the cave-,” the next words are in bright clear English, “I’m sure there’s already a room picked out for you.”

“Right you are Master Dick,” Alfred says, “Young sir, do you need any help moving?” He directs to Danyal.

He wants to rip his hand from the metal cuff. Snap the thin chain to pieces.

Instead he looks to Nightwing, then Batman, “The restraints?” He says, voice as empty of want as he can make it.

The click of the key in the lock echoes in his ear and it’s only through practiced calm that Danyal does not immediately jerk his arm away from it. Instead, he calmly retracts his hand, bracing slightly against the bed as he turns and plants his feet on the floor.

The others have already moved out of his way, watching intently, waiting for him to fall- to fail.

Danyal straightens his legs. He stands. He breathes. He controls his heart. He walks forward.

He does not fall. He doesn’t have the option to fall.

“I can go now.” He says, looking at them. His knuckles are white on the edge of the bed.

Nightwing looks at Batman once more. The man grunts, then turns from the room in a way that he can only imagine would perfectly flare a cape.

Danyal’s feet feel like they’re filling with cement. Nightwing stares at him expectantly. Danyal understands expectations- but these ones, it leaves him helpless and-

“Follow me then, dear boys,” Alfred says, stepping in front smoothly, already moving towards the door, “We can go upstairs, I’ll start on a meal and Master Dick can show you the rooms.”

Nightwing goes next, leaving Danyal to follow not quite behind him, the angle purposeful to keep him in sight.

Nightwing casts a wary glance to him every few minutes, continuing a light chatter with Alfred. Danyal stares forward, taking in the cave from his peripheral - computer, showers, training mats, an unfamiliar shadow watching him, armory, swords, knifes, suits, cars and vehicles lined up on platforms, a t-Rex, giant penny, a glass case- Danyal lets his eyes linger on the shadow, never faltering his steps.

His neck itches at the attention.

He looks forward. Nightwing is looking at him again, snapping forward the moment Danyal’s eyes narrow. Good.

The steps are slightly narrow, dark, but they come out to a warmly lit study. Dark wood, papers, books on shelves, a portrait on the wall, pictures on the desk, three black hair boys, another of only a single with stiff posture, a ballet dancer- they keep walking. The door-clock- closes behind them like the clamping of an artery.

Nightwing and Alfred’s conversation continues in smooth, low-toned English. Danyal blinks, slowly, slower than he needs to, for a breath of a second relishing in the almost familiarity of it all, the dissonance from the last three years alone enough to well emotion in his chest.

His eyes open. He continues after them.

“This is where I’ll leave you, I’ll be up with some food young sir,” Alfred says abruptly, turning towards a swinging door that reveals a glimpse of a stainless kitchen.

“So…” Nightwing says, swinging his arms a bit at his sides, “uh… I can show you the room you can sleep in, yes?”

Danyal’s shoulders tighten, rising from a subconscious millimeter slouch. He nods stiffly.

His heart remains under control. Always under control.

“So this is the Wayne Mansion, you can go for food any time, uh…” There’s an unsure pause as they start up the stairs, “You can meet the rest of us soon maybe, a correct introduction to Damian…depends on Bruce really… he can be … over …over.”

Nightwing looks at Danyal properly, “I’m usually better at this, most of the bat kids know the League dialect but… I haven’t exactly practiced it.”

Danyal stares at him. He doesn’t want to hear the sound of the League’s twisting words, he wants to leave. He wants to find his family, protect them, get them as far away from Ra’s al Ghul and the league as possible. He wants to go back to Ra’s convince him to let his family go if Danyal stays willingly. Wants a blade strong enough to run the man through and-

“I know you are probably stressed and this is all unfamiliar but … we want you to stay… you won’t be hurt here. This is different than the league, you’re safe.”

Danyal scoffs, not bothering to stop it, he hasn’t been safe since the day he tripped over a wire and died.

Nightwing doesn’t seem surprised by the response.

“This can be your room,” He says, opening a door in the hallway and gesturing a wide arm to Danyal. “The rest of us are just down the hall.”

Danyal steps in, looking around, counting exits, tactical advantages, possible listening devices- He turns around, giving Nightwing a stiff nod, “Thank you for the room.”

Nightwing still stands at his door, “Anything else I can help with for you?” He says.

Danyal considers staying silent, obedient, but he hates hearing the language at every turn, he never wants to hear it again, the words they forced in his mouth, ripping away what was in their place-

“Can you just speak English?” He says, realizing too late how weak it sounds, “You don’t have to use the league tongue, I can-English is.. fine.” Fine. Better. Familiar. A remnant of a family he’s almost certain he’s lost now.

Nightwing barely quirks a brow, eyes flicking over him.

“Can do,” He nods, “Well then… Welcome to Wayne Manor, Danyal.”

And he closes the door behind him.

'It’s just Danny, please.' He wants to whisper to the silence. But he’s grown too used to shadows and it catches in his throat.

He goes and sits on the bed. Staring out of the window. A window he can’t leave from. Where would he go? He doesn’t have anyone, they’re all in danger because of him. He can’t leave.

He’s trapped.

Always trapped.

Bound. Stuck to one place. One thing.

Emotions well in his chest, in the back of his throat, thick and dark and painful. He wants to cry. He can’t. Emotions constrict around his lungs.

And Danyal sits, staring at the wall, wishing he could cry. But the emotions just twist themselves until they’re tight enough, heavy enough to fall down, settle back like a layer of heavy chainmail over his insides.

Danyal turns on the bed, facing the wall.

It’s empty tan-beige. Neutral colors. No personality. Temporary.

This is familiar to him. This he can do.

Danyal stands again, he strips down his tunic, his shin-guards and pants- notes the lack of his typical weapons- methodically placing it on the dresser. Not his dresser, he already has one, painted blue with yellow stars back in-

Danyal gets in the shower, glad to find soap there, contemplating not using it, not wasting the energy. He watches condensation develop on the glass walls, water droplets collecting until they finally rush down the glass.

His finger lifts, already wanting to trace the letters he knows. Three lines, an H. One. i. Or e, he could write hello. Or ghost. Mom. Dad. Jazz, Sam, Tucker. Write it in English so he wouldn’t forget the way they were meant to be spelled, let the water wash it away.

His fingers ache where they’d been broken for it. For tracing letters in dirt or on mirrors, in the foggy glass at night. A break for every word.

Danyal can see his hand shake, inches from the glass. Pain and fear a leech on his bones.

He drops the hand. Turns to wash away the soap and get out, towels left on the counter.

He doesn’t even glance at the mirror as he goes out.

His tunic is where he’d left it, neatly set on the dresser top… but…

Danyal opens the drawers, changing into the boxers, the next one is dress pants and collared shirts, but in the third-

Rough denim scuffs against his fingertips.

They’re dark wash jeans, fancy and nothing like the ones his mom would buy on sale from the thrift store but…

He doesn’t let himself debate it further, he has to wear clothes and no one is here to tell him which. They put them here so they should expect him to wear it- it could be a test but he doesn’t care, let them do what they want if only to pretend the jeans are stiff from ectoplasm stains instead of fresh starch.

He chooses a white t-shirt, ignoring the collared shirts and polos that are probably meant to go over it.

He breathes, letting his shoulders drop, tilting his head back with his eyes closed, pretending for only a second that he’s getting dressed for school. Jazz is across the hall getting her books together, Sam and Tuck are on their way to walk together, his parents are already downstairs working.

'See?' He wants to say, 'I’m still the same person, nothings changed!'

The metal of the door knob clicks and Danyal’s head snaps towards the sound.

There’s nothing. Danyal doesn’t trust it, eyes narrowing as he scrutinizes the tall double doors.

“I know you’re there!” he calls out, fists ready, “Open the door and show yourself or I will!”

There’s a harsh tutt behind the door before it swings open, revealing a kid standing there. Short, black hair- hair gel-, dress slacks and shirt hiding multiple bladed weapons-

“Clearly I meant for you to know I was here, I am not incompetent,” The kid scoffs. So Nightwing wasn’t lying about them all knowing the league dialect…. Yet somehow, it sounds different coming from the kid, familiar in a way that makes Danyal's skin burn. He looks irritated, arms crossed in front of him even while his eyes wander over the room and Danyal with curiosity. And judgement.

Danyal rolls his eyes at it, “Did you need something from me, or did you just want to stand there looking like a hair gel commercial?”

The boy’s face goes red impressively fast, “How dare you-” he moves- and a knife is flying at his face, Danyal dodges, catching it in a second, shifting to throw it back but stops, half way extended. He looks at the hilt, there’s a League marking engraved on the bottom no larger than a droplet.

Danyal's eyes flick up to the boy still standing in front of him, glaring him down.

That’s all it takes before the boy jumps forward, another knife in his hand.

Danyal blocks it, twisting the arm as he drops his own acquired knife to his other hand and lunges forward.

The boy flips over his arm, and Danyal doesn’t let his surprise show as he reaches to grab the second knife he’d forced the kid to drop.

The boy tutts at him again, “So this was who Mother replaced me with? Street rabble?”

Danyal blinks, Mother? Then it clicks.

So this was Damian. The child the demon’s daughter wanted, beloved by all. Treasured. Preserved.

Danyal grits his teeth against the bitter taste in his mouth. He lunges forward, already expecting the larger dagger Damian uses to block him as he’s forced to retreat.

Danyal doesn’t stop, continuing to press him, “The Demon’s Daughter is no mother of mine,” he spits as he slams a kick against Damian’s elbow, blade dropping once more. Danyal cuts a shallow slash across Damian’s left cheek before dropping his own stolen knives.

He doesn’t stop though, continuing to push Damian back- Damian swerves to the side, grabbing his arm, flipping him, Danyal retaliates, grabbing the others shirt and taking him with him.

He catches his feet a second before the other, using it to pin him face to face with Danyal’s arm at his throat, “Maybe if you were good enough, you wouldn’t have had to be replaced at all and I never would have been forced to be here, this is your fault. I was free,” He grits out, teeth bared, “You got to live these last three years because I paid for it, and you’re angry because they don’t want you!?”

There’s something startling in Damian’s wide eyes, “What are you talking about?” He snaps, “I am Damian Al Ghul, Heir to the League, Ibn al X-“

Danyal slams him harder against the floor, cutting him off. Green simmers, almost boiling, under his skin. He grits his teeth harder against the sharp pain through his chest.

He leans closer to Damian, snarling, his grip bruising, “You don’t even know what you escaped, what Ra’s really wanted with you, do you? What being heir means. You’re nothing more than a -”

Damian jerks his head upwards, colliding with Danyal’s forehead and knocking him back with a grunt. Danyal’s grip loosens momentarily and Damian pulls free.

He slams a palm strike into Danyal’s front, pain lancing through his chest as he gasps, heart convulsing.

He moves through it by force, both rolling off each other with violent hands.

They stand opposite each other once more. Blood drips from the cut on Damian’s cheek. Danyal’s ragged breaths join Damian’s in the silence. He can hear footsteps on the stairs. His heart clenches in his chest painfully. There’s barely enough Lazarus water in his veins to keep it pumping for a week, less if he keeps this up.

The door flings open with a slam, both of them turning to look.

Batman stands there, battle calm in his eyes.

Damian turns fully at the sight of his father, but Danyal doesn’t shift from his stance.

“Father, I-“ Damian starts, but Batman just lifts a hand, silencing him.

“What. Happened.” Batman says, looking straight at Danyal, not even a question. A demand. Green tinted steel shoots up Danyal’s spine and he does nothing but glare back at the man.

Batman doesn’t break eye contact, “Damian.”

“I was determining if he was a threat. He is from the League, Father,” Damian says shortly, standing tall despite the blood on his face.

Batman looks between them briefly, and oh what a picture they must make.

Two kids, both born in the same cage, one trying to claw his way out of the chains and the other trying to fight his way in.

Exhaustion washes over Danyal, and he drops his fists, letting them hang by his sides.

Batman hums, barely a sound, but a muscle twitches in Damian’s jaw.

“Father-“

“Go Damian. Now.”

Damian looks back at him, not-quite-hate in his eyes, before dropping to a crouch to grab the knife closest to his feet with one hand and turning to leave.

Faced with Batman’s sole attention, Danyal lifts his chin defiantly, daring him to take action, to punish him, to do something that he can predict, can defend, can justify the anger he feels when he sees him.

“I know it was different in the league, but here, this is not acceptable.”

Danyal half-scoffs. He finally steps out of his stance, “I could leave.”

“That’s not-” Batman pinches the bridge of his nose, voice like gravel, “I am trying to protect you, the manor is not the league. I understand what it must have been like to be raised like that, but you can’t hurt others, no matter what teachings you’ve had. I can guarantee you won’t be hurt here, I won’t let-”

Danny huffs a dry laugh, “You won’t let?” He steps forward, rage bubbling back up, “Hurt me? I’m not worried about me, Batman. You can’t stop him. Ra’s is going to get what he wants, and as long as that is me, everyone around me is in danger, I’m dangerous. I'm a weapon, a weapon of your enemy. You can’t fix that, can you?”

“We can protect ourselves-”

Danyal scoffs again, “Because you’ve done such a good job of that already? Don’t forget, all of this is because of you, they wanted you, and now they want me because of you, Batman. You.”

Something stricken shoots through the man’s face before it flattens. Batman nods and steps back, a hand on the doorhandle, “Don’t leave.” Is all he says, before the door clicks shut.

Danyal feels the walls closing in on him like a cell.

He looks to his left.

The bathroom door is open. He can see his reflection in the mirror, any condensation gone.

Danyal stares.

When he had been younger, back in- before. Danyal would stand in front of a mirror and pick out parts he thought looked like his parents. Like a Fenton. His shoulders were from Jack obviously. His eyes and hair too. His jawline was from Maddie, his hands from Jack, and the love of engineering and planning from Maddie. He had the same legs as his mom. Same voice as his dad, always loud. If he didn’t look too hard, he could almost convince himself he was really their kid, their son.

But he could never quite place his tanned skin, or the texture of his hair. The shape of his eyes and nose. Always just a little bit wrong.

What had pretending done but put them in danger?

Danyal turns on his heel, flicking the lights off and putting a glass soap bottle on the door handle.

He knew he’d wake up regardless… but he wasn’t taking any chances.

Danyal rubs his chest with the heel of his palm as he lays down on the far side of the bed, his back to the door, staring out at the city beyond the window glass.

How close would he come to freedom before he’d have to give it up again?

And he knew he would.

For his family, he would give the Demon’s Head anything.

Everything.

If that’s what it took.

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to pretend he would fall asleep.

———

Bruce runs over Danyal’s words again and again during the flight.

'This is because of you, Batman,'

He flicks a switch.

'You.'

The landing gear lowers.

'You can’t fix this.'

He can see the way the shadows of the forest twist around the clearing.

'Dangerous.'

Wheels touch grass. Batman lands at the coordinates, just on the side of the field in front of the woman waiting for him.

'Because of you.'

He breathes.

“My Beloved, how are you?” She greets him as he descends the ramp.

Bruce says nothing. He cannot even begin to fathom what he would say if he did.

Instead, he stares at her. A woman who had once meant so much to him, whom he had nearly thrown away everything for. And who had nearly done the same for him.

But she hadn’t. Wouldn’t. And it had hurt him, but he had recovered.

And then she hurt him again.

She had stolen and lied to him in his vulnerability.

And still, he had found himself loving her.

Had allowed her to continue hurting him. Again and again. Out of a vain hope that she would change. Because he thought that he could change her. That she would change for him.

It was foolish. It was senseless.

Yet he found it just as impossible to stop.

And so she had hurt him again.

“Talia.” Her name grated against his heart, “Why did you not tell me I had another son?”

“The boy is no more yours than he is mine, Beloved,” She says with a roll of her eyes, as if explaining a basic fact, “He belongs to my father. And to the league.”

Bruce is silent. He notices a slight bruise forming on her left cheek.

Talia’s face is tight, “Do you not care about the son I have given you? Has Damian not satisfied you?”

Bruce feels the leather of his gauntlets stretch over his clenched fists.

“I deserved to know,” He near growls, “Just as I did Damian, just as I did with Jason. You cannot continue to keep my children from me-“

“If it was not for that boy, you would not have met Damian at all,” Talia snaps.

Bruce blinks. Hard.

“His return brought Damian into your arms, you should be grateful.” She spits at him like an accusation, “Damian is ours, Bruce. From our love. That boy was made before we truly knew each other, before we understood each other as we do now. He was borne of nothing more than my father’s obsession. Damian is our son, not him.”

“His name is Danyal, Talia!” Bruce bellows, “He is a child, and he is a person! Just like you, and me, and Damian, and he deserves more than to be written off as one of Ra’s al Ghul’s projects! He deserves better than this!” Than us, he doesn’t say. Deserves better than him.

Talia straightens from already perfect posture, “I made a choice Bruce, for Damian. To protect Damian. I knew our son was never meant to bear my father’s hands, he was never meant to be what Danyal is.” Talia pauses, eyes sharp on him, and he can see when she chooses her next words. Already knows they are meant to cut him, to hurt him. He steels himself and listens anyways.

“Perhaps you should ask him where he’s been all these years I’ve supposedly kept him from you, Beloved.” She says coyly, stepping forward.

“What are you talking about.”

She takes another step, “The truth of the matter is that Danyal could have gone to you any time he wanted. He chose not to. Chose to stay away.”

He stays silent.

“Oh- Did the boy not tell you?“ Talia says, barely hiding the falseness, “Danyal was living in America before he returned to his rightful duty. Almost didn’t work, but…” Talia hummed, “His gifts were fortuitous in the end. A risk well calculated, my father’s doing I suspect.”

Talia almost seems blaisé as she talks about it, but he can see the way it irks her. Her father had tricked her. Somehow. Or had manipulated her into some choice she hadn’t known about.

Batman says nothing, analyzing, taking in clues.

“Beloved,” Talia sighs, “Surely you must know, the boy must return.”

“And surely you know: I can’t let that happen.”

Talia glowers at him.

“It’s him or Damian, Bruce, you must choose, just as I did.”

“No.” Bruce growls.

“You cannot have both,” She snaps at him.

Batman stands firm, staring her down, resolute.

“You invite his anger on them both,” She snarls, “You save no one.”

Batman ignores the words. He has made it his job to make sure that’s not true. He’ll die before it is.

“Fine.” She snaps again. But she lingers for a few seconds more. The lines of her face softening.

“I remember I once loved that same unbending drive.”

It feels odd to hear her confirm something he’s not sure ever really existed.

Then Talia turns away and walks into the forest. Shadows contort and reform around her at the edges of the clearing. Slowly emptying until there’s nothing left but the trees and the grass and him, standing alone at the center of it all.

He turns to leave.

He won’t choose between his children.

He climbs the ramp.

He will protect them.

He sits down in the pilots chair, flicking switches and gears.

All of them.

Engines roar to life below him.

He will not fail.

And yet… he cannot forget her words. Twisted they may be, and just as easily lies.. but, her irritation at her father’s plans… he had always been good at telling when it was real.

'Living in America… chose to stay away,'

Living in America?

Had he been secluded at one of their bases here? Had it even been close?

Had Danyal been just miles away, suffering, and Bruce hadn’t known?

But it felt wrong. What Talia had said sat like a jagged puzzle piece, poking and prodding at him, not quite fitting the theories he threw at it.

‘Returned.’

Did she only mean returned to the League’s home base? Closer to their original strongholds in Asia?

It didn’t make sense. She would have crafted the words differently, to drive her point home.

She’d said ‘supposedly kept him from you’ like she hadn’t. Like she hadn’t kept Danyal hidden, the way she had Damian. It didn’t add up.

She could have just been lying. Bruce didn’t think she was. It couldn’t be that simple. No, there was something specific about the way she’d phrased it all, like she was telling him a secret. Like it was something Ra’s had hidden. Like something Danyal was hiding.

Batman narrowed his eyes, staring out at the landscape in front of him as it rushed past.

Whatever it was, whatever she wasn’t telling him, Batman needed to figure it out before it came back to hurt him or his family. Danyal included.

Then there was the rest of it.

The ‘gifts’ that Talia had mentioned.

He knew Danyal had been forced to interact with the Lazarus waters, but he didn’t know to what extent. What it had done to him.

It’d had an effect on him, that much was clear by the acid green of his eyes when he stood off against them in the Batcave. And earlier when Bruce had first interrupted the fight with Damian.

He didn’t even think Danyal had noticed they were glowing then. Too defensive to think about it. Or perhaps he was used to it.

How many times had he been submerged? Had been so injured that Ra’s saw fit to put him in?

How many times had Bruce not been there to protect him from it?

Even if he was only acting out of defensiveness… was that not Bruce’s fault too?

That he still felt unsafe in the Manor. That he didn’t know if Bruce would act the same as Ra’s, as the League.

And Danyal was right, he was responsible for the pain the league caused him, for them hunting him. If he had never let himself be pulled into Talia’s web- or if she was to be believed… even before that.

When exactly? When had Batman become enough of a threat that Ra’s had decided to use him? Was it because he had refused to be his heir? Or before that? Before or after Dick? Jason?

He doesn’t even know how old Danyal is. How long Batman had let him suffer because of h-

“I do hope you aren’t planning to brood like this with your children around, Master Bruce,” Alfred says, cutting through his thoughts, “I don’t believe your pride would survive the repercussions.”

Bruce glances at the monitor Alfred has decided to call from.

“Hn.” Bruce grumbles.

Alfred is right, his children would tease him mercilessly for ‘brooding’ as they called it. If only Dick at least, who hasn’t missed a chance to do so since he’d been a freshly christened Robin.

How would Danyal fit into that? Would he grow to tease like the others? Or remain stoic like Damian?

“I’ll be approaching in 30 minutes, A.” He says. ‘Will Danyal be there?’ He doesn’t say.

Alfred says nothing in response. The engines fill the silence.

He grits his teeth, he just wants to know the situation, to stay updated, he wants to know if something’s happened or anything’s changed.

He sighs, forcefully loosening his jaw, “Who’s going out tonight?”

“Mm, I believe Miss Brown and Master Tim were discussing going together. Master Thomas is in bed, as is usual, though he did mention he’d be out early.. and I believe Madame Cassandra is staying in. She seems to have found a new project.”

Batman hums in confirmation. He wants to know what Cass had found interesting. More than that, he wants to know if Danyal was okay, Damian too.

“It seems it circles around our newest resident, though she hasn’t shown herself to him yet. Master Dick also seems to think the young sir is his duty as much as Master Damian had been.”

Batman feels his lips tug downwards as he grunts in response. Damian’s first year with them was… a regret. His own absence was devastating. He’d have to find some way to assure Dick that Danyal wasn’t his responsibility this time, that he could still be his own person. Perhaps he should encourage Dick to return to Blüdhaven. Affirm the family would be alright without him.

Batman sees Gotham’s cloud of smog come into view. The bay follows soon after, and the buildings next.

“I’m coming in now.”

“Very good sir.” Alfred answers, nodding in his peripheral before the call clicks off.

When the Batplane arrives to the cave, Alfred is nowhere to be seen. The other’s suits are missing as well, meaning they are already out for the night.

Batman doesn’t pause more than to look around, already heading to the Batcomputer with determined steps.

He enters his access codes, running through his security checks unconsciously, mind spinning on theories and clues.

He picks apart his and Talia’s interaction again and again, trying to pull everything he can from it and put it into his report file. Maybe if he can just read over it again, remember something else, maybe it will be enough to protect Danyal, maybe it will be enough to stop Ra’s, maybe it will be enough understand why Talia did this to h-

A gentle hand slides over his just as his finger goes to slam the enter button of the keyboard.

He looks over his shoulder, already recognizing the feeling of stitching against his suit.

Cass looks at him meaningfully. Her gentle hand shifts into a lean against his arm, the pressure a comfort. She stares up at the Batcomputer and reads through his writing piece by piece.

Bruce waits for her. He knows she struggles with so many words. Knows that she gained more from watching him type it than she will from reading an exact account but the details will be helpful anyways.

She nods to him, fingers tapping lightly against his arm as she thinks it over, scanning and rescanning the document.

Cass has been developing fidgets recently, small twitches of movement that don’t serve a purpose than to let her move.

Bruce wants to smile every time. He’s pretty sure they’re on purpose, but still.. it’s freedom for her.

She nudges him, reaching for a button across the keys. It flicks to a camera screen a second later.

The one in Danyal’s room.

Bruce feels a twinge of guilt at the disappointment Cass aims at him before they both refocus on the image.

The empty image.

Danyal is not in the room, and Bruce feels his eyebrows scrunch as he goes to pull up the other camera feeds to locate him, make sure he hasn’t been taken-

“Downstairs.” Cass says.

Batman gets a half turn around, checking the cave for a foreign presence, before Cass stops him again.

She points to the screen, drawing his attention to a bottom square.

Danyal stands in the hallway of the manor, staring at the portraits on the walls.

He feels a light tap on his shoulder in parting before Cass’s presence at his side disappears silently.

He stares up at the figure of his son standing in the hallway, mind still whirring about possibilities and clues and lies and secrets.

Danyal continues to stand in front of the portrait for another minute, clenching and unclenching his fists at his side.

He rips his eyes away from the portrait, turning down the hallway and ducking into the kitchen.

It’s empty when he gets there. Then again, the whole mansion had seemed empty. Aside from the ever constant, ever familiar feeling of eyes weighing down on him.

Danyal considers making himself food.

He considers jumping out of the window and seeing how far he could get.

He wonders if their cabinets have something he’d know and could do himself or if he’d be hopelessly lost.

He wonders how long it will take for the Demon’s Head to find him. Wonders what he’ll do when he does. Wonders if his-

He stops himself short.

“May I offer you some tea and snacks, young sir?”

Danyal turns slightly to face the old butler-Alfred- who’d entered behind him and nods.

Can he even say no?

Alfred gestures to a chair set up by the built in breakfast nook.

He sits. Even as the domesticity of it all throttles his heart in his chest. The way they must eat together every morning, appear together in every photo, smiling. A family portrait. Batman’s family. Batman got to keep his. But Danny’s is tra-

Danyal breathes purposefully, staring down at his hands, clenching them tighter.

Suddenly a hand reaches across his vision, pressing a button on an ancient looking miniature TV sitting just tucked into the kitchen corner.

It flickers to life on some random news channel, low mindless chatter softening the air.

Danyal feels his shoulders lower slightly, just barely, as the silences retreats. He glances up, expecting to find Alfred there staring at him, questioning him, why he’s acting like this, why he-

Alfred’s back is to him. The man busy at the stove with the tea kettle.

“I hope you like lemon ginger tea,” the man says, getting a small jar from a cupboard, “It’s been quite a bit since I’ve had the opportunity to make some.”

Danyal doesn’t quite trust it, still watching the man warily. He doesn’t understand why they would welcome him into their house, Batman or no, he was a threat to them. He was nothing but a threat.

“How about something to eat?”

Danyal watches the man move over to the fridge.

Something moves in his peripheral and his eyes jump to the side.

Narrowed eyes comb over the fancy china case against the wall. But he can’t see anything odd. The glass is clear, refracted reflection shining back him over the china. A dark phone sitting on the ledge. Dark wood pressed against the wall. He doesn’t know what he saw.

Alfred sets a small plate down in front of him with a light clatter, immediately turning back as the tea kettle begins to screech.

The movement makes a small carrot tumble off, rolling across the counter to Danyal.

He stares at it.

He breathes in, out, in out, in out in out too fast. Too fast-

A finger rolls to a stop in front of him and he can only stare at it as strong arms grip and pull him back, keeping him restrained.

Granite counters blend until they are stone floors.

He can’t look away from it. Confusion bleeds in with denial and regret and bloodthirsty stubbornness.

“Look at me, boy.”

Danny’s head is jerked back by his hair, forcing his eyes up to his instructor.

The man glares down at him.

“I have taught warriors better than you by a thousand, and you dare to try to escape under my hand?”

Danny tries to grin, barely managing a crude sneer, coppery blood in his teeth, “You should have kept a better eye on me, you fucking nutcase.”

His eyelid flicks closed automatically as cold gunmetal rests against it.

“Say that again.”

Danny swallows his regret, in for a penny in for a pound. He juts his chin up, forcing the man to follow the movement with his gun.

“What, were you dropped as a bab-” His open eye strains to see his instructor’s thumb press down the hammer of the gun. A warning.

He can feel his hands shake under the assassins hold. His throat burns.

“You scared of a chil-?” He barely has time to register the hand moving before the butt of the gun slams into his nose with a sickening crack.

Pain floods his face. He gets half a shout out before his chin is grabbed by unforgiving hands.

He stares into the man’s cold eyes.

Danny says nothing. Too focused on trying to breathe when his nose is filling with blood and his mouth is clamped nearly shut.

“Better.”

He resists the urge to spit in the man’s face as he steps back, straightening and waving a hand to the assassins. Even without their hands on him he can feel their presence looming behind him.

Danny drops his head, curling in on himself as much as he can, trying to ignore the feeling of blood as it slides down his face.

His eyes are left to stagnate on the finger thrown to the ground in front of him.

Pale skin stands stark against dark floors, contrasted by blood and dirt marring it. He can see the calluses and small scars.

He doesn’t understand.

He might.

He doesn’t want to.

“You are not the only one I can punish to get my point across, boy.”

He looks closer at the finger. At the nicks of careless knives and tools, of a hand that had cradled- no- please no-

“The oaf was very insistent it be him.”

Danny snaps his head up, fear striking through his chest, “No! Please-“ he catches himself, “Please don’t hurt them! They don’t- Hurt me, just me! They don’t deserve it, they didn’t do anything-!”

Sharp eyes stab into him. Fury behind them.

“Hurt me, Master Shrike, just me. Please.”

There’s a pause as the man continues to stare down at him before he lifts one lip in a sneer, “Do you think you command me, child?”

Danny freezes, “I don’t- I- No, Master. I don’t.”

“Then why,” Shrike near growls, “Do you beg me? Why do you plead like you have a right to ask for anything?”

“I don’t-” 'I don’t understand,' he starts to say but he’s cut off by Shrike’s boot hitting his face. He’s learned by now when not to dodge. He can’t give them another reason to hurt his family.

A second kick lands.

“You will be quiet!”

Danny waits for a beat, then slowly pulls himself up from the floor, not lifting his eyes.

He can still see his father’s finger on the floor.

“You do not command me. You are a tool! A weapon in the Demon’s hand! I choose to act, to punish or break you! You do not act, do not speak until you are to be used!”

Danyal stays silent.

He wants to scream, to fight back, they train him and they train him but he can’t fight back because if he does- his eyes flick to the bloodied finger.

He can let them. For his family, he can let them call him a weapon, can let them say he has no will. He can do this one thing.

He’s not giving up, he tells himself. But for his family’s safety, he can let them think he is. Just this once.

Danny stops, eyes shutting for just a second as he bends into a kneel, holding his hands up in front of him.

There’s a pause, cruel satisfaction radiating off the man in front of him.

Danyal licks his lips, steeling himself, “I am ready for my lesson,” Danny forces the words out, “Master Shrike.”

He doesn’t bother to look up and see the man’s sneer.

“Good.”

He sees the kick coming.

He still doesn’t move.

He stays still.

The world moves around him. Voices. Muttering. The sound of dishes, water being poured.

There’s a carrot.. orange and bright in front of him.

His heart is beating too fast. His eyes sting.

Calm down. Control it. Control it. Stop, stop-

A tea cup clatters in front of him.

“Sir Danyal, are you quite alright?” He hears someone ask. Alfred. It’s Alfred. Batman’s butler. He’s not-

He tries to speak, ‘I’m fine’ he tries to say. But his throat constricts. He simply nods, staring down at the carrot.

A freaking carrot.

It’s ridiculous.

He’s fine. He’s fine. He’s. Fine.

Danyal takes a deep breath. He breathes out. Silently.

He does it again.

He holds it until his heart slows down, stops stuttering from beat to beat.

He breathes out.

He reaches for the tea, ignoring the eyes on him-always watching him- ignoring the way his hands shake.

He drinks the tea. Let’s it burn his throat and distract him.

He breathes.

Alfred does not turn to look at him. Staying busy at the sink with dishes that already look clean.

He is thankful.

He breathes.

Low murmurs fill impenetrable silence. Danyal drags his eyes over to the small TV.

His breath stops.

A banner of words crawls across the bottom of the screen.

‘DalvCo factories shutting down after mass destruction.’

He tries to tear his eyes away.

‘Four buildings exploded just after midnight on Saturday in downtown Chicago, Elmerton, and Red Lake. 12 workers dead. Police have not caught the perpetrators.’

And they won’t.

Danyal can recognize a message.

He knows what it means. Who is sending it.

He tries not to let it show how his mind begins spinning. Churning out plans and strategies- If an attempt had cost his father a finger, what would they do to them now, because of Danyal?- he had to fix this.

He looks down to his shaking hands. He stops them. And the tea in his cup stills.

He stops. Pauses. He eyes Alfred still at the sink without looking up.

He places it just on the edge of the counter. Then turns away and lets go.

The cup falls.

It shatters against the floor. Danyal jumps up from his seat at the same time Alfred turns around.

“What’s happened?” He says, already hustling over with a towel. “Are you hurt?”

Danyal steps away and around him, towards the door.

He almost bumps into the display case until the reflection of light off the phone catches his eye. A small ballet sticker sits on the back of the case.

His hand moves before he can think and slips it into his pocket. He looks at Alfred.

“It’s no trouble, Young Danyal,” Alfred says as he crouches over where Danyal had been sitting, “I’ll clean this up and get you more. You can help me prepare for breakfast-“

Danyal considers knocking him out, so he can’t stop him, or alert anyone, but a body is more suspicious. Instead he paints his face with fear and steps out of the room as quick as he can.

He turns down the hallway, trying to remember where he’d walked from the cave.

Mere hours ago.

He goes the opposite direction, following a halls as far to the outer edges of the mansion as he can, typing in Vlad’s number with nervous hands as he goes.

He makes a final turn before he opens a window, glances backwards, and jumps out.

He lands in a roll, already running. His finger presses call and he listens to the phone ringing as he runs.

Once. Twice. He swipes branches out of his way. Three times. Four. Five. Six.

‘We’re sorry the number-‘

Danyal hangs up and presses again.

He doesn’t stop running.

He just has to protect them. He has to warn Vlad. Warn whoever he can. Tell someone.

It rings again. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. Five. Six- ‘We’re sorr-‘

Danyal presses it again and runs faster.

If he can get caught by the League maybe Ra’s will overlook it. Maybe he can still protect them. He can fix this. Please just let him fix this.

‘We’re s-‘

He tries again.

And Danyal continues rushing through the woods, wishing his feet would carry him faster, further, higher-

The sound of his steps pounds in his ears. The phantom feeling of eyes on his back.

He slams his finger down on Vlad’s number again, letting the dial tone drown his heartbeat out.

Once. Twice. Three times, Frick! Vlad pick up! Four- the speakerphone clicks.

“Vlad!”

There’s barely a pause, “DANNY!?”

Danny nearly trips, his heart stuttering dangerously, hopefully.

“Dani?…” He says, then jolts to his senses and continues running, a glance thrown behind him, “Dani, how do you have Vlad’s phone, are you okay? Have you been to Amity?”

“Danny, where the hell are you!? I’ve been looking all over for-“

“Dani, you have to listen okay, there’s dangerous people after me- after us-“ Danyal jumps another log, scaling a small stone wall, “You can’t fight them, you have to run, they’ve got my family, Tuck, Sam-“

“Danny wait no listen to me-!”

“You can’t fight them! You can’t, okay!?” Danny scans his eyes back and forth frantically as he runs, mind spinning, calculating how he’s going to get out, away, controlling his heart rate as much as he can, “You have to promise me! Just find Vlad, get out of Amity. Warn him- I couldn’t - my parents- you have to-“

“Danny, listen to me!” Dani yells, stopping him in his tracks.

“Your parents are out, Danny,” She says, voice rushed, but his ears barely hear it. “They escaped, they called us weeks ago to start looking for you- Danny, they’re out.”

She goes quiet. Waiting for Danny.

His parents were-

Danny draws in a deep breath, standing stock still in the middle of the trees, stolen phone still pressed to his ear.

He couldn’t believe it.. they were-

Something clangs against a tree behind him and Danyal whips around ready to-

His head blossoms with pain.

Everything goes dark.

This is included in my one-shot collection(for now) on Ao3, under same name. The collection is Things that Could Exist by Snaileer.

Part 3: https://www.tumblr.com/snaileer/760212137159294976/call-to-my-bedside-3?source=share

Tags:

@thecrystallabyrinth @isnt-that-grape @riverdancingwerewolves @mimblizzy @chaos-deimos-et-eris @miraculousandmore2 @mys-tia @jitteryjuttury @moonlight-opal @nerdypaintbrush @thedragonqueen1998 @luminanightfall @cowarddragon @cyrwrites @kamireadsmcu

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natti-ice · 8 months ago

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Can I PLEASE have some Colin bridgerton smut? My man deserves it he's so overlooked by Anthony and Benedict that no one barely writes for him and it makes me sadd :(

Imagine you and Colin are on travel(or a honeymoon even) and he just ruins you on a balcony ofc you scold him for it but it's not like he would listen to you

Pairing: Colin Bridegerton x fem!reader

Warnings: 18+mdni, groping, teasing, clit play, semi public sex, p in v, creampie. (1.3k words)

Reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated<3

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You're standing outside on the small terrace right outside your bedroom of the chateau you've been staying at for the past few days, the warm summer air blows gently across your skin as you watch the sun set in the distance. Your week has been quite hectic with all the traveling you and your now husband Colin have been doing, he always promised you that once you were wed he would show you the world and he's done very well at keeping his word. The day after your wedding the two of you set off into adventure, stopping off in many cities in England before working your way through Europe.

You were amazed at just how grand everything was outside of your city, you had grown so accustomed to the high social life you were brought up in, it never crossed your mind that others did not live the way you did, and when you found out, it was life changing. In such a short amount of time you had learned so much from the people you and Colin came across, he's quite the tour guide, he shows you to all of the best places for food and always seems to find the most unique forms of entertainment. You were so grateful to have such a special husband, most of the other suitors were bland and didn't care for culture but Colin was different, he had a thirst for exploration and he wanted you to come along.

Though he loved to travel around and see the sights, he also loved to spend time with you. More importantly, time alone... that man hasn't been able to keep his hands to himself since you both said "I do", his hands mindlessly wander around your body at any given moment, the feeling of his rough callused hands sent a rush through your body and he knew exactly what you were feeling. It was almost if he got off on making you shiver, seeing you try to pretend you don't feel anything when his fingers graze the back of your neck while talking to some local about the price of fish in his small town really gets him going.

You were lost in thought and didn't hear the footsteps creeping up behind you until suddenly long, toned, muscular arms wrapped around your frame causing you to jump. You hear his soft chuckle and immediately realize it was your husband, "my apologies dear, I didn't mean to startle you" your heart was already racing because of his sneak up but it pounded a little harder when his hands started to caress your sides so lovingly.

You let out a soft chuckle and lean against his chest "it's alright my love, my mind was in another word" you say, then you feel his hands starting to make their way up to your chest, his large calloused hands cup your breasts through the thin fabric of the nightie that clung to your body. A gasp gets caught in your throat as you feel yourself becoming more aroused, "Colin, we mustn't do this out here, the staff will see."

Colin's warm breath fanned on the nape of your neck leaving goosebumps in its wake as he whispers "we'll give them a good show, lord knows this place lacks entertainment." Despite your protests he continues to indulge in your body, you look over the balcony to see maids hanging up laundry to dry in the distance, surely if the looked up they could see you but in this moment you stopped caring. Your love and lust for Colin was much too strong to fight.

He moved one hand slowly down your front and lifted the hem of your dress to expose your undergarments that were now damp with your arousal, Colin runs his middle and ring fingers teasingly over your clothed slit sending a shiver down your spine. "Mmm, you're already so wet for me. Just how I like you." His dirty words make you feel like the only woman in the world, the pleasure he gives you is unlike anything you have ever experienced and you know you'll never find anything that will compare. His fingers found their way into your panties and he begun teasing your swollen clit with the pads of his fingers, you fought back moans, you didn't want him to know the effects he had on you but he was already well versed in your pleasure.

The hand that was still on your breast made its way you your neck, he held it gently but firm enough that you knew you weren't going anywhere.

"Tell me what you want, dear. Tell me what you crave." He whispers huskily into your ear, his desire for you strong in each of his words. His fingers slowly circled around your entrance, giving you a teasing taste of what's to come if you just ask.

"You," you let out breathlessly, "I want you." He hums as he is delighted by your response and pulls his hand from your clit making you whimper softly with need, he takes his hand off of your throat to quickly pull down his sleeping pants. You feel his hardened cock against your ass as he pulls up the fabric of your nightgown, his fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear and pull them down to your ankles. He spreads your legs with his knee and pushes your back forward slowly, your chest presses against the cool metal of the railing in front of you. He takes your hands and makes you grip the rail as he teasingly says "you might want to hold on, dear."

He lines himself up behind you and slowly runs his tip between your folds before pushing his length into your dripping pussy, your body shakes slightly as your senses are taken over by pleasure. He starts slow, rocking his hips against yours as he holds onto your waist firmly to keep you in place, his cock stretches you out deliciously making you moan softly. Your sounds encourage him to go harder, it's taking everything in him to not completely ruin you right now, he wants to prolong the experience to make sure you feel everything. Once he sets a good pace, that's when he starts to have fun with you. He snakes one hand under your bunched up dress and palms your bare tit, he groans into your ear as he pinches your hard nipple, "you feel so fucking good, fit so perfectly around my cock." You can't fight it anymore, you let your moans fly freely for the world to hear, you'll probably regret it later but you don't care right now.

You were certain everyone in the whole estate knew exactly what was taking place, your loud moans bounced off the walls as you came all over his cock, Colin was in complete ecstasy and couldn't care less about any onlookers. Let them watch. Let them see who owns you.

A few more pumps into your tight channel was all it took to send Colin over the edge, he groaned loudly as his hips bucked against you whilst his seed flooded your womb. He panted heavily as he slowly pulled out of you, both of your fluids covered his length in a beautifully raunchy mess. You slowly stood up straight and turned around to face him, the smile on his face matched yours as you both began to giggle softly. You feel so relaxed but you were still a bit embarrassed about allowing him to take you so publicly. "Colin Bridgerton, you are a very scandalous man" you say teasingly and lightly hit his left peck, he laughs heartily at your comment and takes your hand, bringing it to his mouth and placing a soft, loving kiss to it. "My apologies, dear. You are too irresistible, I cannot contain my desire for you." He says with a smile and helps you straighten out your clothing before leading you back into your bedroom where he will most likely repeat the events that just transpired.

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Tag list: @let-love-bleeds-red @lovelyy-moonlight @themadhattersqueen @artzygurl

Join a tag list!

#natti’s 18+#colin bridgerton #colin bridgerton x reader #colin bridgerton smut #colin bridgerton x you #colin bridgerton x y/n #bridgerton #bridgerton smut #colin bridgerton x fem!reader

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dailymanners · 4 months ago

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Bear with me because I am about to rant about something not blog related that's been grating on me ever since this blog gained more traction

USAmericans being Americancentric vs. Europeans every single time someone says something they don't like or don't agree with or is just coming from a place of different experiences than them assuming you MUST be a USAmerican coming from a place of Americancentrism: fight

For context, I do not live in the U.S., and do not base my posts off of experiences in the U.S., and as much as I find it annoying that sometimes USAmericans reply to my posts with assumptions that their experiences are universal, for example USAmericans replying to my post about closing the lid before you flush with "but public toilets don't have lids!" when they do in my country, I find it equally annoying if not even more annoying with how much Europeans assume that every time I post something they disagree with or is a different experience than them that I must be USAmerican and coming from a place of Americancentrism

For example when I made a post saying "use excuse me if you have to get into someone else's personal space" I had a bunch of British people replying to it something along the lines of "Are you Americans so uncivilized that you're not taught basic manners like this? Good thing us civilized Brits know to use excuse me!" when, again, I do not live in the U.S., the post was based on experiences I had here in my country and again, not in the U.S.

Or when I made a post just saying "don't be rude to people who got you a present you don't like" because I've had experiences here in my country of people sneering at and tossing aside presents they didn't live or even yelling at or scolding the gift giver just because it wasn't a color that they like, I did not say that you have to pretend to like it, just don't be rude and sneer at them or yell at the gift giver, but I still had a bunch of Germans replying something like "well you Americans may think you have to pretend to like gifts you don't actually like but us Germans believe in being honest!" (even though that's not even what I was saying) when again, I am not in the U.S., I have never said that I am in the U.S., this was based on experiences in my country which is not the U.S., but Europeans had to go and assume everyone who says something they don't fully like or agree with must be USAmerican.

And I know it's not just me, I've seen a lot of posts from people here on Tumblr in South American or Asia saying that Europeans are always assuming they're USAmerican and coming from a place of Americancentrism when they talk about their experiences in South American or Asia.

I saw a quote one time that was something like "USAmericans believe the entire world is the U.S. while Europeans believe the entire world is Europe + the U.S."

but the thing is that I DO live in Europe, my country is a small northern European country, but of course my experiences are going to be different than someone who is British or German or Swedish, but it's like people from those countries so often assume their experiences are universal to everyone in their country + the rest of Europe, so if a British person experiences being taught to use excuse me that MUST be universal to Europe, and that apparently nobody outside of Europe and the U.S. is on Tumblr, so if I experience being shoved by people who don't use excuse me (in my tiny northern European country) that MUST mean I live in the U.S. and MUST be USAmerican since their British experiences MUST be universal to everyone else on this website who isn't USAmerican

#sorry I might delete this later #but I wish Europeans would stop assuming their experiences are universal to everyone outside of the U.S.#or that it's only people from their country + the u.s. on this website #and especially stop assuming that every time someone says something you don't like or agree with or is different from your own experiences #that the only possible explanation is that they're USAmerican #not blog related

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buckets-and-trees · 6 months ago

Text

Big Conversation

Collection: Desperate to Devoted Characters/Pairings: Bucky x Millennial Female!Reader Word Count: 1100 Summary: Life keeps moving forward, and so does the relationship that has completely turned around between you and Bucky, including how that will look now in your shared workplace.

Content/Warnings: fluff, new relationship feels

Author Notes: Week five piece for @buckybarnesevents Hot Bucky Summer - the prompt was "We're..." with friends with benefits, exes, and enemies to lovers as options - and ticking off TEASING to catch up on January for Build-a-Bucky Bingo.

You were so immersed in studying the map and interpreting the data points on your screen with Conor that you didn’t notice the hush that washed over what was a typical hubbub of noise outside your office, or else you might have guessed someone with A Name in the agency had hit the floor.

Instead, it was the decisive knock on your doorframe that brought you out of deep concentration.

When your eyes clocked the Winter Soldier there, a warm smile split across your face. “Sergeant Barnes! Is it already eleven-thirty?” you asked, glancing down at your watch.

“Nearly,” he replied, smiling back, but you noticed it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Eyes that were scrutinizing the man standing just over your shoulder.

“Bucky, this is Conor Sullivan.”

“I’m the director of the digital media analysis team,” Conor said, his Irish accent more pronounced than usual, and instead of straightening, he maintained the stance he’d adopted to look over your shoulder at the screens.

“I’m an Avenger,” Bucky offered.

You bit your lip to keep from giggling.

The posturing energy in the room was painfully palpable.

“We’ve been looking over the latest social media trends, crossing referencing that with reports we’re getting from some of our agents, and the leads Joaquin has been pursuing in Eastern Europe. The activity of the Flag Smashers is absolutely heating up again, and there’s some definite indicators that some potential leaders of the group may be circling in Tirana.”

“I look forward to the briefing – it’s always gratifying when a hunch my team has turns out to have traction,” Bucky’s words were slightly stilted. “Maybe we put something on the books for after lunch. Do you think your findings will be ready by then, Sullivan?”

“More than enough time, Barnes,” Conor responded.

“Even without this analysis mastermind?” Bucky asked, gesturing to you. “We have a date with HR at eleven-thirty.”

“A date?” Conor asked.

“Sorry,” Bucky quickly corrected, “I meant to say meeting.”

You tried to discreetly put your hand to your stomach to hold in the laughter. This was too much.

“We have a meeting with HR to officially disclose our relationship status,” Bucky further explained.

“Oh, I didn’t know,” Conor started, abruptly straightening.

“Of course not, you’re working with one of the most consummate professionals around, she’s never been messy in the workplace.”

“Not true,” you interjected, your cheeks heating slightly. “I used to be fairly passive aggressive and petty towards you.”

“But you did it in a way that you somehow always maddeningly remained above actual reproach,” Bucky said. “We’re one of those classic enemies to lovers romances for the ages. What do they call it now? End game? Like Taylor and Travis.”

You tilted your head, but you did not risk looking at Conor.

“Taylor and Travis?”

“Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce,” Bucky explained. “There was no animosity for them to overcome, but the true love, end game thing.”

“I… should let you get to your meeting, then,” Conor said, some reticence in his tone.

Bucky came further into your office and Conor passed him on the way out.

Bucky squared his shoulders and didn’t relax his intimidating gaze for one second, but Conor was formidable in his own right – only an inch shorter and with maybe twenty pounds less of muscle, the charming, blond, Irish man didn’t pass for someone who you’d expect to work the office side of things in this building.

“You used to date that guy?” Bucky asked two beats after he’d gone, a boyish, smirking grin on his face as he turned back to you.

“Two dates,” you reminded him, “only two dates, and it was more than a year ago.”

“What kind of name is Conor Brady? Could he be more Irish?”

You laughed. “Your names is James.”

“But I go by Bucky,” he countered, reaching out a hand.

You stood and stepped right up to him, twining your fingers with his. “End game?” you changed the line of post-encounter questioning.

Bucky tugged you close with the one hand, and his vibranium hand came up to cup your cheek. “We haven’t said it with those words, but that enemies wave we rode out? The ordeal just outside of Paris? The past six weeks with you since then? Unless you’re not convinced, I’m all in for the long haul.”

You pressed up on your tiptoes and kissed him in a blazing, euphoric heat. He returned the kiss, circling his arm around your waist while still keeping your fingers twined, and pressed your soft body against his chest.

You could kiss this man for an eternity, but you did finally press him away. “End game for me, too.”

“Yeah?”

The smitten smile on his face made you want to close your door and get to much more than kissing. The feelings that shone through his eyes made your heart swell.

“Yeah,” you affirmed and delivered a quick peck.

Everything with him had always been intense, strong, deep feelings. Now that they were rooted in care and affection, it only made you more sure every day since you’d finally broken down the walls and defenses that had been there before.

“That possessive streak looked good on you,” you teased, but he grinned.

“You like knowing you’re my girl?”

“That’s why we’re declaring our intentions to HR,” you said. “Now let’s go make it official, and then maybe I’ll show you in the back of your car just how much I like it.”

“Damn,” Bucky groaned, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead briefly to yours. “I’m holding you to that.”

You kissed him again, just one more time.

Then you giggled.

“What?” Bucky asked, echoing with a half laugh.

“You really said enemies to lovers?”

“You loved it.”

“And Taylor and Travis?”

“You know I was there next to you when you were scrolling through video after video of London night three last weekend and then Dublin this weekend. I’m invested in them now, too. I can appreciate a man who unapologetically loves his woman.”

“Bucky,” you breathed, heart aching and swelling for this man. He smiled and pulled you out of your office, and you followed happily. He was everything, gave you all the shades you’d hoped to find, someone who was proving to be a true other half, and you couldn’t wait for the days and weeks and months and years ahead and all the ways he’d make you laugh, make you melt, and sometimes both at the same time.

NEXT PART: Too Hot

We've come a long way from their start in Desperate, but I just... want them to be in love and happy and get to have fun moments now. I can't help it! 🫠

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forlix · 1 year ago

Text

𝐜𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠・h.h.

— you're uninviting, there's no doubt about that, your resolve like unpolished diamond and tongue like broken glass. but hyunjin finds you're not half as impossible as everyone assumes you are.

words・11.1k

pairing・idol!hyunjin x female stylist!reader (inspired by this)

genres・fluff, angst, eventual smut so MDNI, some hurt/comfort, some humor, mc is a bad bitch and hyunjin is a #simp, enemies? to lovers, sexual tension, workplace relationship, mutual pining, slow burn, nonlinear narrative

warnings・reader vividly remembers an anxiety attack, alcohol is consumed, lots of compartmentalization and imperfect communication, complex people feeling complex emotions, smut warnings under the cut

playlist・farewell, neverland by txt・like crazy by jimin・black friday by tom odell・collide by justine skye・crying lightning by arctic monkeys

a/n・call me victor frankenstein bc i've given birth to a MONSTER (except i actually love and care for mine ofc). this was easily the greatest challenge of my fanfiction-writing career and it feels like my magnum opus; i hope it's worth the wait! also a huge shoutout to sahar for being my voice of reason and my biggest supporter :’) i don’t deserve u i love u

smut warnings・cunnilingus, overstimulation, creampie (practice safe sex!!), mild dacryphilia

Present day. Cannes, France. 5:54 P.M.

You’ve long made peace with the fact that Hwang Hyunjin is incapable of shutting up for more than five minutes.

As it is, the man has a mouth that runs like a cross-country marathon; then throw in his uncanny aptitude for annoying you, and what do you get? A nonstop slew of terrible jokes and teasing quips, tailored according to his thorough mental manual of what gets under your skin hardest and fastest.

This is the reality you live in, presumably because you were evil in your past life, and you’ve steeled yourself to see it through.

But twenty minutes have passed since you and Hyunjin ducked into the back of a cab and gave the driver the show’s address—and, as stunning as the red rooftops and lazuline coastline of Cannes are, you find you’re more interested in Hyunjin’s peculiar silence.

You move your gaze to his face. He’s looking outside, his chin resting upon the palm of his hand, the afternoon sunlight dusting over his chiseled features like polish on pottery; his complexion an exuberant gold against the cream-colored linen that makes up his clothing.

Maybe it’s because you opted for a simpler makeup look today, leaving the most telling contours of his face warm and bare, or maybe it’s because you’ve spent the last year committing his every mannerism and expression to memory. Nevertheless, you see through his pursed lips and tight brow right away.

“Nervous?”

Hyunjin’s head swivels towards you with a small snap, like he’s forgotten you’re here. His lips fall open, their glossy peach color glinting with the small shift.

“No,” he replies reflexively, but then his facade flickers. “Fuck, maybe a little. It’s just hard to believe, you know?”

You do know. It was a huge honor for both of you when Hyunjin was named the newest global ambassador of Versace. For you to be attending the brand’s pop-up show in one of the most beautiful cities in Europe, among some of the world’s most prolific creatives, is truly incomprehensible. Even you’ve been feeling antsy since you landed; you can only imagine Hyunjin’s anxiety.

You have never been good at consolation. You think your mouth is too coarse, your propensity for honesty too strong. But you’ve always known just what to say when it comes to him.

“Just remember who you are.”

Hyunjin takes a few seconds to process your words, but his understanding washes over his whole body; straightens his back; hardens his gaze. You don’t see this change in posture, though. You’re too busy looking anywhere else, all of a sudden feeling quite embarrassed.

Nor do you see the private smile that disperses across Hyunjin’s lips; his eyes softening so, so marginally when they peer at your profile; his hand twitching where it rests on his knee, as if contemplating reaching for you with a mind of its own.

Thirty seconds. That is the amount of time you have left to bask in this otherworldly tranquility. And then he speaks.

“I want you to meet my parents.”

Your arm reacts before your mind can. Without having to turn your head an inch, you smack him squarely in the bicep, sending him crumpling against his door with a bark of a laugh; “please,” he adds, and you’re biting back a smile as you hit him again, with less conviction this time.

The cab driver nearly misses an exit, too busy wondering about the peculiar pair in his backseat and the nature of your relationship. He can’t tell if you hate each other or if you’re married.

One year ago. Seoul, South Korea. 8:42 A.M.

“I still can’t believe you’re abandoning me.”

“For my newborn daughter.”

“Yeah, okay. I still can’t believe you’re abandoning me for your newborn daughter. What does that brat have that I don’t?”

“My genes, to begin with.”

“That’s unfair. She’s using—”

An important-looking pair of women step out of the nearest elevators, the clacking of their heels ricocheting sharply off the lobby walls. Hyunjin straightens his back so quickly he thinks he pulls a muscle. He and Seojun incline their heads in perfect sync, their “good morning”s prim and professional.

“She’s using cheats,” Hyunjin hisses the second the women are out of earshot again, and this wrests a laugh from the older man at last.

Around one month prior, Seojun confided in Hyunjin that he and his partner were expecting their first child soon, and that he would be putting his career on indefinite hiatus to welcome her into the world.

Hyunjin had never felt so conflicted in his life. On one hand, he’d grown closer to his stylist over the last two years than he’d thought possible, and he knew it was stupid to be anything but delighted for him and his expanding family. On the other hand, it was precisely because they’d become so close that he wanted to grab the man by the ankles and shake the decision clean out of his body. He couldn’t imagine a dressing room or tour bus without him.

Today is a Saturday, but it’s also Seojun’s last day with the company. Hyunjin dragged himself to the JYP building at half past eight with much less reluctance than he let on. He wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

“Fourth floor,” Seojun instructs after the pair enter the elevator, and Hyunjin presses a knuckle to the according number. “Thanks.”

The doors slide shut; the floor numbers tick upwards.

“What was her name again?” Hyunjin asks.

“Y/N,” Seojun returns. “Y/L/N.”

“Is she here already?”

“No, she’ll be here at nine.”

There’s a small pause.

“Hyung.”

“Hm?”

“I feel like I’m being married off to another family for political reasons.”

“God, I can’t wait to be free of your theatrics.”

At this, the two men make eye contact; exchange smiles. The elevator announces their arrival to the fourth floor, and they step through the doors.

“You’ll be in good hands,” Seojun reassures. “She’s the best of the best. I hear she’s basically running the industry these days. I’m surprised she agreed to take you on.”

“I’m surprised an old fry like you knows someone like her,” Hyunjin replies, and the look Seojun gives him is so withering that he thinks he pulls a muscle again with his apologetic bow.

“You’re not wrong, though,” Seojun concedes. “We happened to work on the same project back when she was still a small name, and we’ve kept in touch ever since. She’s a great kid. Ambitious, hardworking, strong as hell—”

They arrive outside their destination, and Hyunjin holds open the door to the conference room. Only to find that Seojun has stopped in his footsteps, temporarily stunned by a new realization.

She reminds me of him.

“He’s forgotten how to walk,” the him in question whispers like he’s narrating a nature documentary, and the moment is over. “Is this what fatherhood does to a man?”

Seojun kicks Hyunjin into the room by the seat of his pants.

The minutes pass slowly. Seojun moves his eyes between the door and his phone every few seconds, visibly antsy about the imminent meeting. In the meantime, Hyunjin makes the groundbreaking discovery that these office chairs are absurdly and almost suspiciously comfortable. All it takes is a chin upon his palm and a few seconds of shut-eye, and he’s suddenly slumped over the table, snoring softly into the crook of his elbow.

At 8:57, Seojun’s phone lights up with a new notification. At 8:58, he notices that Hyunjin is asleep, and closes his hand around the crumpled receipt in his pocket. At 8:59, he scrunches said receipt into a ball and launches it in Hyunjin’s direction. It hits him squarely on the head, and the boy is nearly knocked to the floor like a bowling pin.

“For that,” Hyunjin sputters, “I’m the godfather.”

“Absolutely the hell not.”

Then, it is 9:00.

When the door of the conference room opens, Hyunjin is still trying to gather his wits, wondering if the bastard is leaving the makeup industry to secretly pursue a career in professional basketball. He just barely notices the unfamiliar figure who steps into his line of vision.

“There she is,” Seojun greets warmly, rising to his feet right away. “God, how long has it been? Two, three years now?”

You’re not doing anything remarkable when Hyunjin sees you for the first time, simply walking across the room and bowing graciously in Seojun’s direction, but he is immediately under the vague impression that you’re cutting through space as you move, scorching the particles of air that dare obstruct your path.

With his head cocked slightly to the left, like a fascinated puppy, Hyunjin watches the stunning smile that forms on your lips when you take Seojun’s hand; your finger as it tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear with the elegance of rippling silk. His mind feels impossibly slow, like you’ve tapped open his skull and robbed him of his ability to think.

Then, you toss Hyunjin a look over your shoulder, and he’s reminded of lightning forking towards the earth. Terrifying, volatile, beautiful.

“Something like that,” you say, turning back to Seojun, and time starts to move again. “It’s great to see you again, Mr. Lee. Congratulations on the baby.”

“Please, Seojun is fine,” he answers hastily. “And thank you. Thank you for all of this, actually. I can’t tell you how excited we are to have you.”

“You’re too kind—I’m excited too.”

Upon uttering the word “we,” Seojun delivers Hyunjin a fleeting side-eye; he takes the hint and pushes himself to his feet, feeling uncharacteristically clumsy as he moves towards you.

The second time he meets your gaze, it feels wrong, almost, for him to hold it for as long as he does. Like he’s approaching your throne with his chin held high and eyes fixed forward instead of his head sweeping the ground.

Except he swears he senses a strange warmth within the rings of your irises, and he spends every second of eye contact following, chasing it, almost craning his neck with how badly he wants to get a closer look. Until he’s as close to you as is socially acceptable for a first meeting and comes to a halt.

He ends up losing its trail, but he won’t forget that it’s there.

“My client, I’m guessing?” You say, extending your hand. “Y/N. It’s a pleasure.”

Your fingers are freezing cold where they meet his, and Hyunjin already knows that melting the permafrost that coats your flesh and guards your soul will be the tallest task of his life.

But he finds his next words accompanied by an involuntary smirk; he’s nothing, if not tenacious.

“Hyunjin,” he returns. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

Nine months ago. Paris, France. 6:16 P.M.

Hyunjin isn’t sure why—maybe you forget that he can still steal glances at your reflection over your shoulder or through the gaps of your fingers—but he’s learned over the last four weeks that you’re different, gentler, when you’re doing his makeup.

Your cold hands request instead of demand that he angle his head a certain way or suck in his cheeks. Your syllables are rounder somehow, your voice never traveling above a murmur. Even your eyes mellow out when you move in really close, your pupils dilating as you detail the final touches to the fresco you’ve painted upon him.

Your expression doesn’t give you away (it never does), but his hunch is that there’s a sprinkle of doting somewhere among the intense focus. That would explain why he feels like a flower in the moments when your fingertips and gaze move so carefully over his skin, like you’re touching his petals, trying not to tear them.

Too bad you never let him daydream for long.

“Close.”

“Huh?”

“Your eyes. Close them.”

His lashes have hardly brushed his lower lids when you begin to empty what feels like an entire bottle of setting spray on him. At the moist surprise, Hyunjin’s features scrunch up around his nose and he lets out a distraught hack like an old man.

A few seconds later, the barrage stops, and he cracks open a wary eye to scope out his surroundings. You wait until he does this to give his face one last spurt.

“Witch,” Hyunjin mutters, clawing back up the vanity chair.

“Thank you,” you reply, completely earnestly.

And whatever Hyunjin was going to say next suspends instantly on his tongue when you bring the pad of your thumb to the very edge of his lower lip and drag it across the soft flesh. He wonders if you know how hard he tries not to look at your mouth whenever you tend to his. He wonders if there’s anything you don’t know.

“You smudged your lipstick already.” There’s a small streak of coral pink on your hand when it falls back to your side. “See? That’s why we need the setting spray.”

“Uh huh.” And Hyunjin spots a ghost of a smile flit across your face, gone nearly as soon as it appears. The only evidence of it ever existing is the quickened heartbeat it leaves behind within him.

“You’re done, by the way,” you say, stepping aside. “Take a look.”

He slips out of his seat and moves closer to the vanity, peering at his reflection as curiously as if he’s never seen it before. But that’s how he’s felt since he started working with you.

Seojun was right: you are the best that the makeup industry has to offer. Hyunjin has come to understand this for multiple reasons. Your phone screen is incessantly illuminated by new notifications and incoming calls. The other stylists heed your advice like it’s the law. Brushes and pencils move like water when it’s you maneuvering them. And then some.

He would call what you have “talent,” but he knows it’s more than that. You show him a new version of himself every time you turn a mirror in his direction, like there are facets of him that are visible to you and you only. As much as he delights in the notion that you have such intimate knowledge of him, it should be impossible, considering you’ve only known him for two months. So no, it’s not just talent that you possess. It’s some combination of talent, hawkish perception, and raw artistry that is utterly inhuman—and sexy as fuck.

Speaking of sexy. Hyunjin’s look is relatively rudimentary tonight, the makeup light, the outfit a simple black tank top beneath a jacket and pants made of bright red velvet. But it’s the details that tie the whole thing together: the wide, loose sleeves causing the jacket to slip continually off his shoulders; the inner layer tight in all the right places. His face doesn’t look half bad either, with the sultry carmine powder that fringes his eyes and the intentionally mussed state of his hair. He pushes a hand through the dark locks, regarding himself with thorough appreciation.

You appear in his periphery as you start cleaning up your work station. “You can just take the jacket off when your sweat glands start malfunctioning, by the way. I thought you’d appreciate that detail.”

At this, his smize cracks into a laugh, the sound loud and uninhibited and uniquely yours to hear. “You suck.”

He looks away from his reflection just in time to glimpse another of your phantom smiles, and he thinks it’s so painfully on brand that the two times it’s appeared tonight have both been from you making yourself laugh. You might be the most insufferable person he’s ever met. He might be obsessed with you anyways.

“Well?” You implore. “What do you think?”

“No notes.”

It’s the answer you’re expecting. You survey him from head to toe one last time, decide that you, too, are satisfied, and slip your makeup into your bag; hike its strap over your shoulder.

“I’ll see you after the show, then.”

You have an important conference call to attend before tonight’s concert, hence why Hyunjin had to come in early for hair and makeup. This is also the reason why the two of you have been the only people in the dressing room for the better part of an hour.

It’s rare that he ever gets you alone, and he doesn’t want it to end. Not just yet.

“I lied, actually,” he calls. “I do have notes.”

You already have one foot out the door when you hear this, and you turn around so slowly and in such disbelief that he has to fight to constrain his laugh—the concept of imperfection is truly unthinkable to you. Insufferable, like he said.

“Do tell,” you say, dropping your bag back onto the floor.

“You have any jewelry for me?”

You chew on this for a moment. You did have a selection of necklaces prepared for tonight, but they were heavy and numerous, not exactly the best-suited for the group’s dynamic sets. You still like them, granted, and you know Hyunjin would as well.

You articulate all of this to him, and he asks if he can take a look at them anyways. “Come here, then,” you say, the words so tantalizing when they fall from your lips that nearly trips over himself trying to obey.

You take out a flat rectangular box from your bag and set it down in front of the lightbulb-studded mirrors. Hyunjin observes quietly as you show him its contents: three thick, gold chains with varying lengths and boasting different pendants, plus a beaded bracelet and an assembly of rings of the same material. His devious plan aside, he does love the selection.

“You’re sure you won’t be uncomfortable?”

He nods, and you pick up the longest of the three chains; turn to him expectedly. He takes this as his cue to move closer to you, except he overshoots a little, and he feels the tips of his shoes accidentally bump into the ends of yours; discerns the warmth emanating from your body against his own. He expects a withering glare, a kick in the shin, maybe, but you don’t seem bothered by the proximity at all, unblinking as you bring your hands around the either side of his neck and fasten the first necklace with a soft tap. Your fingers then brush over his collarbones to adjust the pendant, and he thinks your hands would have to be numb not to perceive the frantic heartbeat threatening to burst straight out of his skin.

Entire minutes pass before Hyunjin musters the courage to actually look at you. By then, you’re already working on the third and final necklace. It’s not a surprise that your face is mere inches away from his; he’s been watching your reflections out of the corner of his eye; he knows you’re closer to each other than you’ve ever been. But there are parts of you that the mirror doesn’t show—the soft curve of your lashes, the concentrated narrow of your eyes, the shapely protrusion of your pursed lips—and these surprise him so thoroughly that he slips and slides out of his right mind.

You are the type of beautiful that’s been around longer than humans have, the same as that of the true blue color of forget-me-nots. And Hyunjin feels enveloped, intoxicated by you from this minuscule distance. The idea forms numbly in his head that maybe, just maybe, he was put on this earth to admire you.

In this inebriated state, he makes a venturesome decision.

When you finish centering the last pendant upon the his chest, you are about to take a step back and review the updated look, but you’re debilitated by the feeling of fingers grazing over your hip—lightly, so lightly that you mistake them for a gust of wind at first, but the contact is enough to push the small of your back against the edge of the counter. Then, both of Hyunjin’s hands reach behind you, pressing flat against the marble surface, and, just like that, he has you right where he wants you, ensnared between cold stone and hot flesh.

And so begins an equilibrium so fragile that it’ll shatter if one of you so much as blinks the wrong way, your rattled breath fluttering against his lips, his eyes dark and hooded and out of focus as they survey the fine lines of your expression. It still doesn’t give you away (it never does), but he finds that in this moment he just doesn’t care.

“Let me take you out,” he murmurs. “One date.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” You reply under your breath.

“You know what I’m talking about, beautiful.”

Upon uttering that last word, he angles his head almost imperceptibly, the movement challenging, daring you to say something about it. But you don’t. You merely hiss out a whetted “you’re fucking crazy,” and that’s his opening to drag this on a little longer; push your limits a little more.

“About you? Damn straight.”

At this, finally, fucking finally, there is a semblance of something in your face that isn’t just your usual mildly-irritated nonchalance. Instead, he detects surprise in the whites of your eyes as you widen them; as you part your lips with a response that only comes much later.

And he’s surprised by your surprise. Surely, with your skills of observation, you would’ve noticed long ago how his world shrinks down to only you and your gorgeous voice and your confident glare and your shitty sense of humor whenever he’s been granted the privilege of your presence.

This might be the first time he’s admitted it out loud, but he hasn’t tried—hasn’t been able—to hide how he feels about you, not now, not ever. It’s been that way since the moment the sole of your shoe met the carpet of that conference room on the fourth floor of the JYP building.

“Hwang—” You begin.

“Hyung!”

At the sound of a third, new voice, your arms tense like you’re about to shove Hyunjin off of you, but he only leans in further, so that his lips almost graze your jaw and your hands have nowhere to go except the taut surface of his chest. The surprise is gone; now you’re just pissed. He can feel the heat of your furious eyes and the tremor in your hands as you form fists around the fabric of his top. But he takes his sweet time in scooping up the bracelet and rings, and only afterwards does he pull away from you and straighten to his full height.

“Hey, Innie!” Hyunjin chirps, and Jeongin materializes in the doorway, looking thoroughly perturbed by the older boy’s sunny tone. “What’s up?”

In the meantime, you turn around to snap the lid of your jewelry box shut, and it takes a singular glance in the mirror for a truly horrible realization to settle upon your shoulders. You don’t think anybody would be able to tell even if you announced it outright, but you know yourself and the little nuances of your face all too well.

You’re flustered.

You feel like a horror movie heroine breaking the fourth wall.

“Nothing, weirdo. I was just announcing my arrival,” Jeongin says. Thank fuck you did, Hyunjin thinks to himself, completely unaware of the epiphany you’re having behind him. “Chan-hyung mentioned you were here already? Why?”

“She’s in high demand.” Hyunjin points out the she in question by jutting his chin in your direction. “The usual.”

“Ah.”

Jeongin inclines his head towards you in polite greeting. You return his hello, but your expression starts to feel tight when his eyes dart between the strange smile on Hyunjin’s face and your awkward stance (still glued to the edge of the counter) as he drops his duffel by the couch. The boy isn’t stupid, unlike his older counterpart.

“I saw a vending machine on my way here,” Jeongin says, turning to leave the room again. “You want anything, hyung? Noona?”

“I’m okay, thank you,” you say.

“I’ll have whatever you have,” Hyunjin says.

Jeongin flashes a thumbs-up and dips out of the room, perhaps a little more hastily than he intends to come across. And then there are two. Again.

You wait until you can’t hear his footsteps anymore, and then you turn to glower at Hyunjin so intensely that he thinks you’re about to place a curse on his whole bloodline.

Then, your phone starts vibrating, and he knows he’ll live to see another day.

“You still owe me an answer,” Hyunjin calls as you turn around and leave the room.

“Don’t hold your breath,” you reply.

One day, I’ll break her, is the predominant thought that resides in Hyunjin’s head as he slips on the remaining jewelry; watches your figure disappear around a corner. One day, I’ll break his face, is the predominant thought that resides in yours as you stalk away. That’s the two of you, in a nutshell.

Six months ago. Osaka, Japan. 3:03 P.M.

When you walk into the dressing room, you find Haeun hunched over an overflowing photo album with her hands forming fists in her hair, muttering to nobody in particular, “I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing.”

There’s an amused look in your eye as you set your bag down by Hyunjin’s empty vanity chair. She hasn’t noticed your presence yet; approximately three hallways down, the members are rehearsing for tonight’s performance on the main stage of the Kyocera Dome, and the music is so loud that you think you actually saw the walls vibrating while you were in the hallway moments ago.

You rise to your tiptoes and encroach upon her, waiting until she’s within reach to tickle the back of her neck. She nearly flies out of her seat with a shriek that can be heard over the heavy bass.

“Never gets old.” You hand her the photo album that went soaring also, and Haeun snatches it back with an affronted flourish.

“I can’t remember the last time you said hi to me normally, unnie.”

“Me neither, now that you mention it.”

Haeun and Han are your favorite stylist-idol duo in the world because they’re so eerily similar—and it’s adorable. They both illuminate every room they walk into; they both have grins too big for their faces, laughs too loud for their lungs. You always regret leaving your sunglasses at home when you catch sight of the effulgent pair.

But today you cannot detect the usual radiance in Haeun’s voice, nor so much as a hint of her easy grin. Then again, that’s another quality that she and her client share; they’re both well acquainted with the burdens that come with unwavering passion.

Every stylist has their own modus operandi. Haeun’s is a scrapbook of images that she cuts out and saves from catalogs, advertisements, newspapers, et cetera. You’ve seen it many times before, but never in such a state: messy handwriting stuffing the margins to their very brims, numbers and symbols like clusters of rainclouds over a sea of different outfits, arrows and circles and squares highlighting pant cuffs and cascade collars and dangling earrings. Telltale signs that Haeun hasn’t a clue as to what Han will be wearing tonight.

You gnaw on your lower lip, deliberating your next move. You end up placing a firm hand against the album’s cover and pushing it closed.

“Come with me,” you say. “We’re gonna try a new approach.”

Haeun opens her mouth to protest, but unfortunately you have an extensive track record of being right.

“What do you have in mind?” She sighs instead.

“You’ll see.”

With that, you stand up, tuck a small towel under your arm, and angle your head in the direction of the music.

The two of you make your way through the labyrinth of hallways that comprise the venue’s backstage. Eventually, the color of the floor changes from speckled white to solid black, and you step onto the part of the stage that is concealed from the audience by drawn curtains and heavy equipment. You say a quick hello to the group’s manager as you dip past him, and eventually reach the edge of the curtains, where you and Haeun have a good view of the eight members as they run through their setlist for tonight’s concert.

Haeun settles into the spot beside you, still confused as she follows your gaze.

“Let me ask you this,” you say, just audible over the din. “Can you style a performer if you don’t know how he performs?”

And understanding seeps over her features like poured tea.

“I want you to watch him,” you continue. “Tell me how he performs.”

Han’s part begins, as if on cue. His voice rings out through the empty stadium as he ducks to the front of the formation, a microphone held loosely to his lips, his face taut with focus. Haeun stares at him for some time, silently trying to fathom her observations, but she sees you shaking your head in the corner of her eye.

“Don’t think, Haeun. Just speak.”

She blows out a deep breath before obliging. “It’s hard to picture Han doing anything but laughing or making other people laugh, he’s so goofy and lighthearted most of the time. But he’s like a different person on stage. He’s so intense, it’s almost intimidating. Not intimidating in a douchey way, though—you just get the impression that he’s very confident in himself and his music.

You don’t say another word, but don’t need to. She’s hit her stride.

“His voice and enunciation are so clear. It’s crazy how he sounds exactly like the studio recording. Plus, his delivery feels genuine; he’s not just reciting lyrics, but speaking straight from his heart.

“And this is gonna sound bad, but I didn’t know Han could dance. Like, yeah, I knew that he could dance, but not like this. His movements are so sharp that I feel like my attention is being—”

Right there.

She cuts herself off, reaching the same conclusion.

“It’s his turn to talk, and he wants you to cling to his every word," Haeun articulates slowly. "He’s demanding your attention. He needs you to listen. That’s how he performs.”

A satisfied smile bolts across your face like lightning. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

Haeun pictures her scrapbook again, and there are now only a few articles of clothing and accessories that fit the framework you’ve helped her forge. She’s almost dizzy with disbelief, tearing her eyes from Han to look at you instead.

“You’re brilliant, you know that?”

“I do, but I appreciate the reminder.”

She can’t help but giggle. It’s a you answer if she’s ever heard one. “Do you do that with all of your clients?”

Haeun asks the question arbitrarily, without thinking. But you respond in a way that she doesn’t think she’s ever witnessed before, and she’s momentarily baffled by the sight: you hesitate.

As the song’s final chorus approaches, Hyunjin is the one folding himself into the center of the eight-person throng. You can only see his back from this angle, but even then it’s palpable how expertly and effortlessly he molds his body to the modulations of the music; how much fervor and feeling he expresses with every jerk of his spine and flex of his hands.

Within a few short seconds, innumerable descriptors and sensations skim the surface of your mind—but one word knocks the rest clean out of the water, the way it always does when you watch Hwang Hyunjin perform.

Artistry.

“No,” you reply. “Not all of them.”

And where better to find inspiration than inspiration himself?

Haeun furrows a brow, understandably puzzled by this response, but you don’t elaborate. Partially because you feel like being coy, but mostly because you know that any explanation you offer will sound like a confession.

The song ends, leaving your ears ringing with the abrupt absence of sound. The members hold their poses with heaving shoulders, staring out into the empty stands until the stage manager’s voice comes through the monitors.

“And that’s a wrap! We’re all set for tonight. Good work, everyone.”

There is a ripple of movement around the stage as the boys relax. Jeongin jogs over to Minho, hoping to review a particularly challenging dance break; the manager asks Chan if he has a second to discuss travel logistics; Seungmin plops onto the edge of the stage and downs the rest of his water; Hyunjin beelines toward you the second he sees you, because of course he does.

You get a good look at him as he skips closer. Stray blonde locks plastered against his damp skin, tank top dyed several shades darker by the perspiration rolling down his neck, the muscles of his arms actually rippling as he swings them around stupidly, a shit-eating smile plastered across his stunning face.

You’re annoyed before he says a word.

“I didn’t know they were letting fans backstage now,” he hums happily. “Want an autograph, gorgeous?”

“Put a sock in it.” You whisk the towel you’ve been holding in his direction. “Wet freak.”

But he catches and tosses it over his shoulder straightaway, and your heart sinks to your fucking ankle. You’ve seen this movie before. You know how it ends.

“No.” You take a shaky step back. “No, nope, don’t even think about—”

The next thing you know, Hyunjin is lunging towards you and winding his arms around your waist, nearly sweeping you clean off your feet as he pulls you into his sweaty embrace. To your complete dismay, your face presses flat against the clammy plane of his chest. “Call me a wet freak again, go on,” he manages to say through his laughter.

In response, one of your hands wriggles free of its slippery prison and snatches the cuff of Hyunjin’s ear with impressive accuracy. He yelps and loosens his hold on you, but doesn’t relent completely, not even when he catches sight of the murderous expression on your face and cackles so forcefully his whole head is thrown back.

You tighten your grip. “Wet,” you seethe, “freak.”

“Ow—okay, don’t make it hot, what’s wrong with you?”

“Wha—what’s wrong with YOU?!”

As the two of you dissolve into your fatuous arguing, Haeun is no longer sure that she’s still standing here. She’s not even sure if she’s in her right mind anymore. She thinks she might be hallucinating the way everything about Hyunjin softens next to you, or the way your biting tone only seems to nibble when it’s him on the receiving end.

“Psst. We’ve been placing bets on them. You want in?”

Han suddenly materializes next to Haeun, and she would have been jumpscared into a different dimension if she wasn’t so fixated upon the bizarre occurrence before her.

But what if she’s not hallucinating?

No, not all of them, you’d said, like you were disclosing a forbidden secret.

“Yes,” she says, and Han beams. “Absolutely.”

Three months ago. Seoul, South Korea. 2:26 A.M.

On a tranquil Saturday night, you’re sitting at your desk, your knees tucked to your chest, the newest episode of your drama playing quietly on your laptop, a half-empty glass of rosé and open sketchbook laid before you. This is your happy place—a safe haven that the trials and tribulations of the real world can’t reach. But you think you’ve really gone and lost your mind when you find yourself thinking about your job.

Well, not your job, exactly. More like the man who makes your job feel fucking Sisyphean.

You know your way around fabric and foundation better than anyone, but you have never struggled with anything as much as you have trying to navigate Hyunjin. You show up to work every day ready to just put some makeup on the man; instead, you wind up stumbling around the potholes of his dimples and the hills of the veins that run over his forearms and hands like a hopeless drunkard. Scouring the creases of his smile and the oscillations of his voice like they’re topographical maps. Mentally replaying your interactions with him time and time again like you’re monitoring security footage, trying to detect illicit activity in every casual touch he leaves on your shoulder or waist; every babe or gorgeous he throws your way, seemingly without a second thought.

You’ve been trying to understand him and his intentions for seven months now, and your efforts have yielded no fruit whatsoever, save for a few theories that you feel insane for even humoring.

You down the rest of the blush-colored liquid, and as you set down your empty glass you notice your fingers itch with a familiar urge. The pen that you’ve been twirling over your knuckles stills, then swivels; its tip hovers over the last free corner of the sheet of cartridge paper below you. And then it presses upon the surface and starts to move, as naturally as if on its own.

When you were little, you came across a children’s book that you no longer remember the name of, about a little girl with a magical pen that brought her every drawing to life. You decided then that you would one day be that girl.

At some point, the subjects of your incessant sketching became almost exclusively runway models and makeup advertisements. You cemented that you wanted to work in fashion as early as your high school graduation, and by then you already possessed the conviction and charisma of the industry’s most experienced members. Your portfolio was stellar; your personality prophesied of wild success. So your career took off, propelled by the neverending positions and projects that various companies continually laid before your feet.

You stand and pad to your kitchen to refill your glass, only to bring the entire bottle of wine back to your room instead. With one hand, you flick the cap off and lift the whole thing to your lips; with the other, you seize your pen again, not wanting to lose momentum.

For the year or so after you joined the industry, you basked in your idyllic prosperity. Even the doodles you scrawled on random napkins during banal business lunches would appear on some of the world’s most renowned faces the next week. You had indubitably become the little girl from your story; made a career out of giving your imagination tangible form. And what a fruitful career it was going to be.

If only you knew how it would strengthen you in ways you never wanted.

The first time someone called you cold, it took you a while to realize that they were talking about you. The phrase was said so casually and lightheartedly that it sounded at first like a piece of unimportant small talk. But the whisper of cold bitch was then followed by a bout of stifled laughter and what was undoubtedly your name. Your heart stopped along with your footsteps, and you looked towards the source: two interns whose names you had yet to learn, while yours was already in their mouths.

You felt nothing until you were three stops away from your apartment, and then the bottom of the subway gave out beneath you and suddenly you were feeling everything. Only confusion, hurt, and rage at first, but then the other emotions that you’d been smothering tirelessly for who-knows-how-long tore free of their cerebral shackles too, and together they formed an amalgamation of anxiety that closed up your throat within seconds.

As your pen studs details into a shapely jawline, you remember how you’d shoved your way off the subway and made a mad dash into the night air. You remember how you collapsed against a utility pole in an unfamiliar neighborhood, how your knuckles paled around the ashen wood, how your tears tumbled over your lips and salted your tongue. You remember wanting to go home so badly that you thought your ribcage would cave in on itself with the weight of it. You remember begging for air, for you.

By the time the oxygen had returned to your lungs, the streets were empty save for you, crouched on the curb, your face buried in your arms, spent, shattered, and alone. You were only nineteen at the time.

You are now twenty-two, and the word “cold” has become a regular guest in the lodgings of your heart. You never invite it over, but you’re no longer surprised to find it at your door. It’s a thief, swiping pieces of you when it thinks you’re not looking—a fragment above the fireplace, a scrap from the cracks between the couch—and you know whenever you’re being robbed, know that you lose parts of yourself upon its every visit. But better that than acknowledging what you lose.

You allow it to walk away with full pockets every time.

Hyunjin does not.

“Three words to describe yourself. Go,” he said a few days ago, the two of you heading back to the tour bus after a filming session.

You were so used to these irrational inquiries of his that you didn’t bother trying to dodge this one. “You first.”

“Smart, sexy, suave,” he said immediately, but burst into a sheepish laugh at the sight of your weary glare. “Fine, fine, let me think. Ambitious, for one. Introspective, definitely—maybe overly so. And artistic. I’d like to think so, at least. Satisfied?”

The most creative person you knew doubting his own ingenuity was absurd to you, but you nodded begrudgingly. It was a good answer, for the most part.

“Now you.”

Honestly, the thief had surfaced the moment you heard the question, but you weren’t sure if you wanted to inform Hyunjin of its existence. Not because you didn’t trust him—you did, more than you had anyone in years—but because you didn’t know what you’d do with yourself if he agreed. You weren’t sure your heart would be able to take it.

When you met the boy’s gaze, though, the carob brown of his eyes was so curious and so comforting that you suspected that was never a possibility.

“Cold,” you mumbled. “I’ve been called cold before.”

There was a pregnant pause. You found yourself holding your breath. And then—

“That’s a joke, right?”

Hyunjin began to count off his fingers.

“Mean. So mean. Impossibly, infuriatingly confident. Talented, stubborn, strong. Funny, sometimes, I guess, though I’d rather you hit me with a metal pipe than admit that ever again.”

At this, you caved; a laugh erupted from your lips, leaving a genuine smile in its wake.

“Determined. Eloquent. Bossy. Some kind of evil, twisted genius. Contemplative, caring, compassionate. Fearless,” he went on. “You get my point. You’re a lot of things, Y/N, but cold isn’t one—”

He was about to say something mind-numbingly stupid. You could sense it in the air.

“—and not just because you’re hot.”

You smacked his bicep, the smile on your face now an uninhibited, helpless grin. And as he vanished into a fit of high-pitched laughter, you thought you sensed him crack open your door and slip your missing artifacts back to their rightful places.

Hyunjin began to climb into the bus, and you caught the cuff of his sleeve, your feet still planted on the pavement.

“Thank you,” you said.

The tremors of his fond chuckle traveled to your very core.

“Idiot,” he sighed softly.

Idiot, you write, and the drawings are complete.

When you stand up, the bottle is mostly gone—and so are you. You splash some water on your face in lieu of your skincare routine and prod the inside of your mouth a few times using a dry toothbrush, and then you dive beneath your duvet and are dead asleep in minutes. Your slumber is interrupted only by dreams of a world where your theories about Hyunjin aren’t just theories.

If you’d had even one mouthful less of rosé, you might’ve remembered that you picked up your phone and opened your most recent conversation somewhere between steps two and three.

[3:10 A.M.] To: Hwang Hyunjin (Stray Kids, JYP) Audio Message.wav

Hi. I’m drunk and I’m going to regret this tomorrow. But that’s tomorrow’s business. There’s something I need to tell you tonight.

After I moved to Seoul, I used to get these bouts of homesickness. Not in a standard ‘I wanna go home’ kind of way, but in a way that felt like a hole had opened up in the ground below me. I was always ready for it to swallow me alive. I would’ve been happy for it to.

But I haven’t felt that way since I met you. I realized this not too long ago, and it threw me for a fucking loop. I’ve never felt seen the way you see me. I’ve never been known the way you know me. Every time I look at you or hear your voice, it feels so much like returning home that I don’t have to dream of it anymore.

You called me fearless the other day, but you’re wrong. I’m terrified. I’m terrified that history is going to repeat itself, that another home will slip through the cracks between my fingers and there will be nothing I can do to stop it. And that’s why I’m so hesitant towards you, towards whatever this is, because I don’t want to go through that ever again.

So the thing I need to tell you is that I care about you. I care so much that I’m scared speaking it into existence will make it real and vulnerable to all the worst parts of the world. But it’s not speaking it into existence if I’m drunk, right? Maybe I have no idea what I’m talking about. Maybe you’ll never even hear this. So it doesn’t count. That’s how that works, surely.

Sorry if this was totally nonsensical. And sorry that I’m so bad at feelings. You must think I’m impossible, and I don’t blame you.

Good night, Hyunjin. Thank you, again.

One month ago. Los Angeles, United States. 12:37 A.M.

When Hyunjin steps out of the hotel’s tall glass double doors, he’s wearing a teatree facemask, and his bags are draped over the crooks of his elbows like he’s an upper-echelon socialite on his way back from a lavish shopping spree. And then he sees you standing next to the curb, and the situation dawns on him in bits and pieces.

You’re the only one here. The vans that were supposed to take you to the airport are nowhere to be seen. Boarding begins in four minutes.

A soft flinch crimps his features. Oops.

“Tomorrow night,” you’re saying into your receiver, but your attention is on him only, your penetrative gaze putting the dead in deadpan. “The absolute earliest. You’re sure?”

When you finish listening to the manager’s response, you heave a sigh that sags your shoulders and end the call with a jab that should’ve splintered your screen protector.

Then, you start walking towards him.

“Hi,” Hyunjin says, his eyes pleading for mercy. “You are so talented and beautiful. I don’t tell you that often enough, do I?”

He expects you to grab him by the cuff of his ear again, to throw him a retort that’s twice as mean as it is witty, something along those lines. But you merely push your suitcase in his direction, and it is then when he notices that your face is hard enough to chip enamel; that your eyes are eerily, entirely empty. The tendril of warmth that’s always dancing among the subtleties of your expressions, that he’s always pursuing to the very borders of his dreamscapes, is nowhere to be seen.

A shiver travels down Hyunjin’s spine as he curls his fingers around the plastic handle.

Something’s not right.

“We’re gonna have to stay here another day,” you say. “Can you check us in? I have some calls to make.”

“Us?” Hyunjin repeats.

“Junghan could only reserve one room,” you reply, your phone already glued back to your ear. “The hotel is fully booked for the next few months.”

With that, you’re already preoccupied with the next thing, turning to the side to reschedule a meeting. But Hyunjin can only stare blankly at your profile, trying and failing to grasp that he’s going to spend a night with the subject of his every daydream. Though you might be leaning more towards the nightmare end of the spectrum at the moment, considering the way your head snaps back in his direction like a woman possessed.

Go, you mouth, and he obliges.

A few minutes later, Hyunjin is in the elevator by himself. He speculates it’s an ingenious, intentional choice that the lights are turned off, so that whoever’s inside can watch the psychedelic lights of Los Angeles sprawl further and wider the higher they go. But he can’t think of anything except for the subzero nothingness where your irises should’ve been.

Hyunjin’s initial guess was that he crossed a line with this missed plane, but the more he thinks about it the clearer it becomes that this isn’t an isolated issue. It’s the culmination of something bigger. Something continuous.

You have become as familiar to him as the lines of his eyes or the ridges of his knuckles. He’s learned where to look for your feelings when he can’t find them in your face; studied your words and the undertones of your voice like they’re verses of scripture. Yet, it was around two months ago when Hyunjin looked at your side profile and couldn’t recognize you. He’d blinked, startled, and then you’d asked why he was looking at you so strangely, and everything returned to normal. He wrote it off as a side effect of sleep deprivation and paid it no more mind that day.

Except it happened again a few days later; again, not too long after, and Hyunjin began to suspect that he was losing his mind. You didn’t seem all that different—a bit more taciturn than usual, maybe, but you’d been busier than usual, too, your workspace always full of empty coffee cups by the end of the day, the pages of your planner more colorful and crammed than ever. The minor variances never struck him as a reason for worry.

“Stupid,” Hyunjin whispers bitterly.

He replays your interaction one more time. You, shoving your suitcase against his palm, telling him to go check in. Him, fastening his hand around the handle, sensing the bottomless void within you, feeling like he’d been dismissed from before your throne.

As he steps off the elevator and walks towards your designated room, he doesn’t understand how or why—but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s failed you.

Nearly an hour passes. The room only has one bed, so Hyunjin turns off the lights, folds himself onto the armchair by the floor-to-ceiling window, drapes a complimentary robe over his shoulders, and tries to sleep. He doesn’t know why he even tries. He’s exhausted, but he knows damn well there’s no hope of him getting any rest until he has you in his proximity again.

He doesn’t look at the door when he finally hears it open, but the knot of tension in his chest comes undone as soon as your silhouette appears in the hallway. He takes out his first real breath since leaving you at the hotel’s entrance.

You hear the sound it makes. You fall still.

“Hyunjin?”

His heart physically aches at how tired you sound. “Yeah?”

“Oh, you’re awake,” you answer. “Move to the bed. You’re not sleeping on that thing.”

He remains where he is, his chin resting on the side of his fist, his eyes glued to the flickering panorama of neon lights below him. You crouch to unzip something, and there’s a heavy thud of metal meeting cloth, presumably your laptop being tossed onto the bed’s mattress.

“Hello? Did you—”

“Is everything okay?”

A short pause follows his interruption.

“I still have a few emails to write, but everything’s been rescheduled, so as long as you don’t miss tomorrow’s flight, too, we should be—”

The robe slides off his lap as he pushes himself to his feet. “That’s not what I mean.”

The only source of light in the room is the lone light above the entrance, but it’s enough for him to see your face and the surprise etched upon it. You open your mouth, utter one syllable, and stop yourself immediately after, stunned into silence by the sobriety in Hyunjin’s expression.

“Enlighten me, then,” you say finally.

“You really don’t know?”

“What is there to know? That you missed a flight and pissed me the fuck off? Trust me, I’m aware.”

“No, that’s not—”

“So what are you talking about, then? Why are you talking in riddles? Fuck, what is it that you want from me?”

There’s real frustration in your voice, and it’s the first time you’ve shown him any emotion in pure, unadulterated form. With this, Hyunjin understands that he was right; this conversation is heading towards a culmination of some kind, and so are you, with the devastating force of a natural phenomenon.

He wonders if you’re prepared to destroy yourself, too.

“I know how you are around me,” you whisper. “You’re always acting like you’re trying to unearth something, and I figure this ‘something’ must be wonderful, because you look at me like I’m made of stars; you speak to me like you’re serenading a lover. But I am constantly, ceaselessly haunted by the possibility that this ‘something’ doesn’t exist, that you’re looking for the wrong thing in the wrong person.

“I know it’s selfish to ask for anything more than what you’ve already given me—you’re so kind, Hyunjin, and you’ve been nothing but since the day we met. But grant me one more wish, even if it is the last time you ever do.

“Tell me what you see in me,” you plead. “Otherwise, I will spend the rest of my life mourning the months of yours that you wasted on me.”

With that, it occurs to Hyunjin, falls upon and cracks open his mind like a piece of firewood, that you have never been aware of—never asked for—the throne you sit upon.

For an indeterminate amount of time, the two of you stay there, standing in silence on opposite sides of your dark hotel room. You haven’t felt anything like this in a long time, your chest heaving with your heavy breaths, your vision muddied by both the lack of light and the desperation searing through your windpipe.

When Hyunjin finally begins to speak, his words wrest the oxygen from your lungs.

“After you moved to Seoul, you used to get these bouts of homesickness.”

Your mind careens; your heart reels.

“They came in a way that felt like a hole had opened up in the ground below you.” He takes a tentative step towards you. “You thought it was going to swallow you alive. You would’ve been happy for it to.”

You never got to listen to your voice note. You were blacked out when you recorded it and horrified when you discovered it in your chat logs the next morning; the wretched thing was unsent so quickly that you couldn’t check for a read receipt.

But there’s not a doubt in your mind that these are your words falling from Hyunjin’s lips.

“You haven’t felt that way since you met me, though.” He is only a few feet away from you now, and getting closer still. “You’ve never felt seen the way I see you. You’ve never been known the way I know you.”

God, you said that? Did you propose to him too?

“You’re terrified that another home will slip through the cracks between your fingers and there will be nothing you can do to stop it.” Hyunjin flattens his left hand upon the drywall next to your ear; pushes you back ever-so-gently against the hard surface. “I must think you’re impossible.”

And he brings his face so, so close to yours; looks at you with so much adoration, so much tenderness, that you feel the final bulwark around your heart fracture—

“I don’t,” Hyunjin breathes, cradling your cheek, “because you’re not. And I want to prove it to you, even if it takes me the rest of my life. That’s what I see in you.”

—and crumble.

You form fists in the lining of his hoodie. Hyunjin’s hand tightens where it lays over the curve of your jaw.

When you crash your lips upon his, he tastes the metallic sheen of electricity and the salt of tearwater both; he witnesses crying lightning, for the first time in human history.

Present day. Cannes, France. 9:15 P.M.

Hyunjin never thinks when he fucks you.

One part of it is that he physically can’t; his cognitive facilities shut down when he has you quivering beneath him, like his desire to pleasure you is too overwhelming for his mind to bear. The other part is that he doesn’t want to. He’s afraid that the voices of cynicism and trepidation that plague his mind every waking moment will taint the actualization of his wildest dreams.

Lucky for him, you manage to erase his mind on a daily basis with only one accidental touch or an apparition of a smile, so he doesn’t stand a chance whenever you let him between your legs.

“Trust me?” He whispers, imprinting the words upon the inside of your thigh.

“More than anyone,” you breathe, and just this has him tenting against his satin slacks.

Hyunjin used to see you scolding managers or moving racks twice your weight and think that was you in your element—tonight, he learned otherwise. You were so confident that even just the way you puffed your chest out prompted heads to turn and low voices to ask for your name; so charming that even by the end of your self-introduction you had every guest you spoke to eating out the palm of your hand.

Eating out your pussy, though, is Hyunjin’s privilege alone.

He wraps his fingers around the hem of your dress and pushes it upwards, creating a halo of red fabric around your midriff; slides your panties off your legs and tosses them over his shoulder. All obstacles out of the way, Hyunjin winds his arms around your thighs and pins your hips to the mattress, slotting himself between your knees as they fall apart. Your ankles fold over the top of his head, and you’re about to ask if he’s okay like this, but then you feel the hot muscle of his tongue trace over your dripping folds—and every word of every language you’ve ever known is dispelled from your brain and your mouth in the form of a stuttered, euphoric moan.

He teases you first, drags his mouth over you so that he’s lapped up all of your slick, and just when you feel your patience thinning he pulls you apart with reverent hands and begins to suckle on your clit, as attentive to your every solicitation as always. You arch your back so high off the bed that your ankles knock Hyunjin’s head down a few inches, but the new angle is even better; grants him access to more of you.

He reinforces his grip around you, presses his torso right up against the side of the mattress, and gorges: sluices your labia until you’re spilling from his chin onto the sheets; flicks against your bundle of nerves until it’s pulsating and swollen on his mouth; fucks his tongue against your favorite spot until you’re curling your toes, seeing the whole solar system.

“Coming,” you blabber after some time. Tell me something I don’t know, he thinks to himself. “Coming, Hyune. I’m—fuck—”

Hyunjin is aware of the way you clench so hard around nothing that your pelvis hurts. He is aware of the way you’re so dilapidated from pleasure that you’re genuinely struggling to breathe. He doesn’t care. He wants to get the cadences of your climax tattooed into the gray matter of his brain, and there can’t be rests in the sheet music, can there?

He presses a hand flat on your stomach in preparation for your body’s protest, then returns his face to its place between your thighs; starts to leave kitten licks around the edges of your puffy folds before you can finish riding out your high. You press your tongue against the back of your front teeth, emitting a pained hiss as you draw a sharp breath, tears stinging at your eyes.

“Son of a bitch—”

“Trust me?” He asks again, his voice vibrating against your sore cunt, and your complaints quiet into whimpers as you bring a hand over your quivering mouth, and nod.

At least Hyunjin bridles his thirst the second time he eats your pussy open, his lips smacking openly and slowly over your every inch except the one that would be truly unbearable for you right now. He’s so rough and so fucking careful at once like he can’t decide between obliterating and worshipping your cunt.

He’ll end up doing both.

Within a few minutes, your legs have gone slack on either side of Hyunjin once again, and another coil has begun to tighten behind your bellybutton, equal parts pain and pleasure—but he knows your pussy just as well as he does your person by now, and it’s not long before the former is compounding with the latter.

Round two has a faster ascent and a steeper drop. He finds your spot again with the precision and ease of a trained marksman and fixates upon it like a man starved. It has your cries devolving to incoherent profanities and, to his unfettered delight, your foot actually shaking, your heel tapping against the back of his neck every time it comes down.

As if referencing a metronome, Hyunjin matches the rhythm of his tongue to your accelerando. Only when your leg is nearly convulsing does he wrap his lips back around your clit; slide two fingers into the place he leaves empty and pumps them into you until you are liquifying, igniting around him, your mewls lamenting the second orgasm he plucks from your core.

After your body has stilled, Hyunjin lifts his head, his face drenched in perspiration and saliva and you. His eyes travel over the slopes of your arms and the hills of your breasts, over the tears streaming from your eyes and staining the pillow you lie on. It is this last bit that has him shrugging off his shirt and undoing his dress pants with one hand, palming his throbbing cock with the other.

He clambers over you, and the kiss that follows is filthy, your mouth falling apart when he rolls your nipples between his fingers, strands of spit suspending between your tongues before dripping down onto your collarbone. You can sense what he wants in his craving lips, his pleading tongue—and you know he won’t ask for it. He’s tested you enough tonight; he’d rather your comfort than his pleasure.

But you guide his leaking head to your entrance, returning his stupefied look with a watery smile.

“Love me?” You ask this time, for the first time.

There is not even a nanosecond of hesitation when he answers, “with everything in me.”

He comes inside you the moment he bottoms out, your name leaving his lips in breathless, desperate repetition like a broken prayer as he topples off the same cliff he’d dropped you from moments ago. You curl a hand in his hair as he stutters against you, bring your lips flush against his ear, and whisper that you love him too—and the sight of you beneath him blurs he also starts to tear up.

This is the reality Hyunjin lives in, presumably because he was a saint in his past life, and it would be his utmost pleasure to see it through.

Two years later. Milan, Italy. 11:28 A.M.

For the last half hour, a ray of sunlight has repeatedly struck the diamond that sits between the second and third knuckle of your ring finger, and the Vogue journalist on the other side of your desk thinks he is slowly losing his vision. But when he asks his final question, your hand comes to a much-appreciated stop, the fountain pen you’ve been twirling around clattering to your tabletop.

“Where do you find your inspiration?”

As the journalist blinks the phosphenes from his eyes, he finally manages to get a good look at the face of Versace’s newest designer, and he detects something ineffable and warm in your expression.

“My inspiration, hm?” You fall silent for a short time, thinking. “If you asked me this at the start of my career, I’d have said ‘people.’ Their postures, their expressions, their wardrobes. I knew I was a goner when I watched a fashion show for the first time and noticed how the models’ attire helped them harness their innate power and grace—I wanted to orchestrate that kind of symbiosis, too. In that aspect, nothing has changed, actually. I still find wonder in human beings, and not just the ones on the runway. I think it would be difficult not to, don’t you?

“Some time ago, a good friend of mine was having trouble with an outfit for her client. She asked me a similar question, and only then did I realize that it was no longer just people that inspired me most, but a singular person. I had always been skeptical of the idea of a ‘muse’ until I met him. But I could only spend so long denying how he ventured closer to my soul than anything ever had, how he knew me and saw me like nobody ever could. He understood my art. He was my art, so—”

Your eyes dart over your ring, and the journalist would’ve flinched out of habit if he wasn’t so mesmerized by your eloquence.

“—where better to find inspiration than inspiration himself?”

A few seconds elapse, and then you clear your throat and straighten your back, returning to your office from your trip down memory lane.

“That’s the long answer, anyways. The short answer would be my fiancé.”

The journalist laughs, and he doubts you’ll give him this next piece of information—but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try.

“And who would that be?”

He’s right. You don’t answer the question. But you do flash him an enigmatic smile, and for some reason it reminds him of lightning.

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