#book rack for study room

[tejuskumar13]

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[robotslenderman]

Every time I think I can't possibly fit more furniture in my room my brain goes "challenge accepted" and I shove another thing in.

[eff4freddie]

Sittin'

Joel Miller x F!Babysitter Reader No outbreak Joel Miller AU - Words: 10k

Rating: Explicit, Minors DNI

You're working your way through medical school, supporting yourself by taking the occasional babysitting gig. One local single Dad needs someone to look after his 10 year old daughter Sarah on nights when he's late back from the jobsite. And it's all fine and good until your neglectful boyfriend decides to crash the party. Warnings: small age gap (Joel is 32, reader is in medical school), reader is babysitting Sarah as a side hustle to support her studies, Sarah is cute, reader has a shit boyfriend, Joel is trying really hard to resist, exhibitionism, thigh-riding, praise, dirty talk, thigh-humping, oral (f receiving), fingering, general defiling of a perfectly good granite countertop, Joel has opinions about how a woman should be treated as is not afraid to demonstrate them.

A/N: My attempts at writing PWP almost always end up like 10k lol. Whatever, I like a good slow burn. If you enjoy, comments and reblogs are always appreciated. Thank you - Freddie x

It was a hot night, the latest in a long line. You knew you were lucky getting to spend some of your evenings over at the Millers, simply because it meant you got to sit under Mr Miller’s air conditioner, the box wedged firm into the window in the living room, little droplets of water condensing and running down the pane of glass underneath it. You’d put a dishtowel down to protect the carpet.

You knew you were lucky, too, because once Sarah went off to bed you could spread your books over Mr Miller’s kitchen table, listening to the buzzing of the fridge as you tried to memorise the functions of the lobes in the brain. In class, your biomedicine professor had blown up balloons and handed out sharpies, inviting her students to draw the lobes in the right place, and yours had popped when you pressed too hard on the occipital lobe, and your lab partner had laughed and said that it was ironic, but you couldn’t figure it: the motor cortex would have been ironic, this was just startling.

You cracked your neck, rolling your shoulders and looking over to the clock on the wall. Nearly 10:30 PM. Mr Miller would be coming back soon.

Sarah was a good kid, and some nights she stayed up to ‘help’ you study, mostly by pointing to pictures in your textbooks and asking you to explain them to her. She’d hated the full-page coloured illustration of the eye, but had been fascinated by the heart, trailing her finger along the arteries, into the chambers, tracing the pathway in and out again. You’d make a cardiologist of her, yet.

Tonight, she’d only made it to twenty minutes past eight, her eyes growing heavy as she turned the pages of your book. This one didn’t have as many pictures, and you could sense her fatigue in the stuffy air.

‘What kind of doctor do you want to be?’ she’d asked, and you’d pulled your hair up off your neck to try and get some air on your skin. You weren’t sure how to explain it without sounding gruesome, without giving her nightmares. She was only 10.

‘When people have emergencies and they have to go to the hospital right away, they need to see a doctor to patch them back up again…’ you’d said, and she’d stared at you with a tiresome expression on her face.

‘I’m not a baby,’ she said, disapproving. You smiled at her.

‘Trauma surgeon,’ you replied. She nodded her head, deeming your answer satisfactory, and taking herself up the stairs to bed.

She was one of the easiest kids you’d ever babysat for, and over the years you’d racked up quite a roster. You’d started in high school, first saving up enough for the prom dress right in the storefront window, and then later keeping yourself fed during your undergrad. When you’d moved to Austin you’d rented a studio apartment in the back garden of a little old lady, a woman who had revealed herself to be an excellent cook if militant about her hydrangeas. You’d letterboxed the neighbourhood and picked up a few odd jobs but nothing lasting, until the evening you’d got a call from a very frantic Mr Miller, who was so beside himself he only asked how quick you could get there and didn’t even ask about your rates.

It turned out Mr Miller got caught up at the jobsite some nights, staying back later than he expected with his little brother to finish framing, or guttering, or wiring. He was running out of favours with his neighbours, he’d explained, and Sarah was still too little to feed herself. You hadn’t minded, his deep southern drawl doing something to you even over the phone, such that you found yourself cancelling plans just to go and sit on his couch that very evening, textbook over your knees.

Some nights with Sarah tucked up fast asleep you’d stand and stare at the pictures of the two of them, her holding up a soccer trophy nearly twice her size, him standing with his hand in his pocket, his other over the shoulders of a younger man you assumed was Tommy. If you were feeling particularly bold, or were procrastinating especially hard, you’d extend a finger and run them up and down the strings of Joel’s guitar, resting sentinel against the windowsill. You imagined his fingers pushing into the fretboard, the strings indenting the flesh.

It wasn’t even that he was handsome, although he definitely was. He was a young father, doing it almost entirely alone, and on any other man that would have made for grumpy, for overly tired, for entitled. On Mr Miller it made for kindness, for a nurturing type of strength, corded tight under his skin. For a single dad always thinking about his daughter, only ever wanting the best for her. For a man focussed on doing right for his family, small as it was.

You rolled your shoulders, the pre-frontal cortex just about beating you for the night. Just as you were wondering if the Millers kept any ice cream in the freezer, you heard the key in the front door. You listened as Joel followed the same routine, first toeing off his boots, letting out a little grunt as the second one hit the floor. You heard him huff as he stretched his back, rolling his hips in a little circle to try and get some stretch into them, before dropping his keys on the table and padding, surprisingly light on his socked feet, into the kitchen.

‘Hey, Sweetheart,’ he said, his pet name for you emerging on only the second time you’d sat for him and still, even after this many months, causing your stomach to do a little flipper.

‘Evening, Mr Miller,’ you said, and he tutted at you, moving over to the fridge and extracting a beer.

‘Told ya not to call me that,’ he muttered, but you could see the grin behind it. ‘How was my girl tonight?’

‘Perfect, as always,’ you said, smiling at him as he poured you a glass of sweet tea from the jug in the fridge without bothering to ask if you wanted any. You accepted it gratefully, suddenly noticing how dry your throat had become.

‘She’s a good kid,’ he said. He sat down, heavy, in the chair opposite you. The ceiling lamp buzzed above you both, and the light bounced off the fine sheen of sweat accumulating on his arms, on his cheeks. He glowed, even if it was under a layer of exhaustion.

‘You look tired, Mr Miller,’ you said, and he cocked a little grin.

‘You sayin’ I look like shit, Sweetheart?’ he asked.

‘No, never,’ you said, instantly regretting how quickly, how fervently, you had responded. He continued to grin at you, lopsided, the dimple on his right cheek popping out to greet you.

‘What is it tonight?’ he asked, and you held up your book to him. ‘The bio-mech-an-ics-of-thought: phys-ee-ol-o-gee of the brain,’ he intoned, before letting out a low whistle. ‘I don’t know how you do it,’ he said.

‘It’s interesting,’ you defended, unsure why. ‘So long as there are diagrams,’ you added.

‘So that’s where the magic happens?’ he asked, gesturing to the illustrated image of the brain in the centre of the page you had been working from.

‘This is where thought happens,’ you nodded. ‘Kind of like…where decisions are made.’

‘Must be a woman’s brain,’ Joel deadpanned, taking a swig of his beer. ‘Can guarantee men make their decisions someplace else.’

You caught a glimpse of something dark in his eyes as he glanced over you. You blushed, swearing it was just the heat, and furious with yourself. This wasn’t like you; you weren’t some shrinking violet type. You’d had boyfriends, you’d had fun in college. You had no idea what it was about Mr Miller that made you immediately go all giggly, all girly, but whatever it was you wished it would fuck off.

The two of you lapsed into a comfortable silence. You were used to this from him, the way his mind seemed to drift, the way he seemed content enough to let it. Gently, so as not to jolt him out of his thoughts, you closed your book, gathered your pens together. Everything tucked away in your bag you were surprised when you looked up to see he was watching you.

‘Apparently Sarah’s taken an interest in science,’ he said after a moment, his warm eyes watching yours for a second. You felt a tingle of pride in your chest.

‘Oh yeah?’ you asked.

‘Mmhmm, apparently after she pushed Simon Strzelecki off the monkey bars, she offered to patch him up again.’

You grinned before you were able to catch yourself.

‘That’s…very, umm…’ you trailed off and he huffed out a little laugh.

‘It’s very Sarah,’ he agreed.

‘M’sorry, Mr Miller…’ you started, but Joel stood up, waving you off.

‘Don’t be, Strzelecki’s a little shit’f the highest order,’ he said. ‘You gonna let me give ya a lift this time?’ he asked, and this time you shook your head at him.

‘No, I can walk it.’

‘Y’know I don’t like ya walkin’ around out there on yer’own,’ he grumbled, and you felt the insane urge to reach your hand out to rest on his bicep, to ease his evident discomfort.

‘I can handle it,’ you said, instead.

Something stole over his face for a moment, a sharpness in his eyes. For a moment you gazed up at him, the furrow in his brow deepening, the muscles in his jaw twitching as his eyes roamed over your face. Standing this close to him you were reminded how tall, how broad he really was. You dropped your eyes to his arms, crossed over his chest, and imagined him holding you with them, circling them around your back as you leant, safe, into his skin. You blinked yourself back to reality, worried for a second he could read your thoughts.

‘Know you can handle it,’ he said, his voice low, ‘just don’t like it, is all.’

You did this every time, this stand-off. You worried one night you would waver.

‘G’night, Mr Miller,’ you said, over dry lips. He nodded, once, at you, still evidently displeased something dark, something haunted, passing over his features before he brought them back into line.

He stood on the front porch, light still on, until you rounded his driveway and disappeared past the oak tree by the front lawn.

--

Mick was a guy from your Tuesday morning bio class, and you only realised he was your boyfriend when he introduced you to a few of his friends that way. You’d just gone with it, because it had seemed easier, and he was nice if a little full of himself at times. He was the son of the one the big ranching families, had been almost guaranteed a position at whatever college he chose on the day of his birth, hadn’t ever really considered that money was something you saved, something you worked for.

But he would never let you pay for dinner, and often he showed up to class holding a coffee just for you. You’d been on your own for a long time, had been self-sufficient well before you had any business to, and it was kind of nice to let yourself be cared for, if that’s what this was.

On nights when you had to work he would pout and complain, and you told yourself it was because he cared about you, because he wanted you around, even if some part of you knew he just didn’t like to be alone. Every once and while he would ask if he could come with you, ‘feel you up on the couch like it’s eighth grade’, and it made you feel exactly fourteen years old, like this was a summer job you had failed to grow out of. It didn’t help that he more than once referred to your sitting job as ‘cute’. His mother had stayed at home the moment she fell pregnant with Mick’s older brother, and as far as you could tell was yet to leave. You never asked about a future with Mick, terrified of what kind of picture he would paint.

On one such evening, after he’d been particularly insistent that you blow off your job and come and hang out with him and his friends, he’d starting blowing up your phone just as Mr Miller sat down beside you, weary-boned and sleepy-eyed, at his kitchen table.

You ignored the calls, tried to carry on reading even as Mr Miller arched his brow at your insistently vibrating device. You huffed, knowing at some point Mick would get bored.

‘You’re popular tonight?’ Joel prompted after a while, making you lose your place in the paragraph you’d read over at least ten times already.

You huffed out a sigh, reaching out and scrolling through the stream of notifications. He’d started texting, sometimes just sending a single emoji, sometimes entire paragraphs about how badly you were letting him down. You felt an ache bloom behind your right eye socket, and you reached up to your temple to try and massage it away.

‘It’s my boyfriend,’ you told him, and with your eyes still closed you didn’t see him scowl. ‘He wants me to come out to some bar with him and his drunk friends.’

Joel considered this for a long moment. When you opened your eyes they blurred under the sudden light, and you blinked away sleep to see him clearly again.

‘You should be out with your friends, it’s a Friday night…’ he said, almost looking guilty for a moment, and you rushed to reassure him.

‘No, no trust me…this is better. They’re boring when they’re drunk. And also when they’re sober.’

Joel smiled, straining just slightly, at this.

‘He a good man?’ he asked, and you scoffed a little.

‘He’s barely a man at all,’ you said, automatically. Later you’d reflect on this moment, feel it turn you inside out and scold your skin with the heat of your own shame. For now, though, you were too tired, and it was too hot in the kitchen, for you to catch it.

Joel caught it, though. He cleared his throat.

‘We met at college, and he’s…well, he’s kind of set up for life. He doesn’t have to worry about grades, or proving himself. He’s almost guaranteed his residency.’ You were aware you were starting to sound bitter, and maybe you were just a little. Something about Mr Miller, sitting at his kitchen table late in the evening with a beer, muscles wrapped in a plaid, his soft brown eyes watching you carefully, made you think he’d understand.

‘He doesn’t make you feel good enough for him?’ he asked, after a while.

You considered this, eventually shrugging your shoulders. ‘I don’t know if he makes me feel anything,’ you said, truthfully.

Joel leaned forward, elbows on the table, his chin resting in his hand as he watched you, gazed at your face.

‘What do you want him to make you feel?’ he asked.

‘Seen,’ you said, without hesitation.

‘Just seen?’ he asked. His voice was deathly quiet now, almost entirely gravel. His eyes were burning, sharp. You watched as they darkened, stealing your breath out from under you.

‘Desired,’ you almost whispered. He dropped a hand to the table, his fingertips only inches from yours, resting casual on your textbook.

‘What man’s out there runnin’ round this town not desirin’ you?’ he asked, almost as though he couldn’t believe it, and you felt scorching heat on your cheeks, rushing down your sternum, pooling heavy in your core.

You blinked, terrified to move in case you broke whatever spell had befallen him. He turned thoughtful, his eyes dropping to the woodgrain of the table.

‘Y’been working a lot here…can’t imagine hanging out with me and a ten-year-old girl is the same as bein’ out there, living your youth…’

You felt something heavy shift in your belly, something essential curdle and erode.

‘I like it here, Mr Miller,’ you said, all big eyes and almost quivering lower lip. Joel moved away, sitting up straight and peeling the label off his beer.

‘Pretty thing like you, shouldn’t be spendin’ all night waitin’ on us,’ he said, almost to himself. You shook your head again, but he was closing off on you, you could see it in the way his shoulders were folding, the way his mouth was tugging down at the corners.

Without even considering it, operating almost entirely on instinct, you reached your hand out to rest on his bicep. You watched as his eyes drifted close, a long exhale through his nose. He grimaced, almost like you were hurting him, until he lifted his hand and held yours fast to him, wrapping his paw around you.

‘I really love spending time with Sarah,’ you said, just over a whisper, as he stared hard at the table. You could sense he was avoiding your gaze, and you wanted to say something to draw him to you, wanted to give him a little nugget of truth that he could take into himself, hold deep and quiet in his depths. ‘I love spending time with you,’ you said.

He raised his eyes to yours. His hand was so warm over yours, your cheeks so pink in the sleepless heat of the late evening. You saw his eyes fall to your lips and you slipped your hand from under his, reaching up to trace the contours of his jaw with your fingertips.

‘Baby…’ he whispered, ‘I been’ resistin’ you so long, don’t know if I can…’ and you pushed a finger to his lips. You didn’t want him to break whatever spell you were both suddenly under. Didn’t want him to take this from you both, whatever it was turning out to be.

‘Don’t argue,’ you instructed, quietly. With brows saddled, he nodded his head.

And he didn’t argue. Not when you moved your finger from his lips and traced it down over the hollow of his neck, over to his pulse where it thundered under your tough.

Didn’t argue when you leant forward, pressing your nose to his, giving him time to pull away, to move from your lips.

Didn’t argue when you pressed them to his, a little soft and quiet thing, earning you a wanting gasp from him, a prize you would hold in the cavity of your chest so long as your heart stayed beating.

Later, when you had gathered yourselves, when he had gazed at you and you had felt the want in him mixing with the regret, with the necessity of the un-having corrupting the want to take and take and take, you had simply gathered your books, tucking them quiet and neat into the bag at your feet. He didn’t argue with you about driving you home that night, suddenly quiet in a way that set your teeth on edge, and you felt an ache in your belly you couldn’t account for when he closed the door. You waited behind the trunk of the tree at the end of his driveway, counting the minutes he left the light on for you after you’d slipped from view, giving up when you got past 15.

--

You were unsettled. Joel hadn’t called for two weeks, and you were starting to worry that you’d ruined things, your silly little kiss bubbling corrosive at the base of your spine. You couldn’t help going over the whole evening again and again in your head.

You should have told him you preferred spending the nights at his house, that the way it smelt like play-dough and sometimes sawdust, sometimes pine, was so unique to the both of them that you felt your nerves settle the moment you stepped over the threshold. That the house was warm and quiet, that you could spread out your books and something essential to you, that in this space with them you felt more yourself than anywhere else on the planet, even locked away in your little studio apartment, even just you and your reflection in the bathroom mirror.

You wanted to tell him Sarah was funny, and smart, and kind, and being around her made you nostalgic for the childhood you never had but ached for, that you felt all that time with her she was giving you something precious and absent, something simple and something sweet. That there were nights you weren’t sure who was sitting who.

You wanted to tell him you didn’t expect anything from him, that it didn’t matter to you if nothing ever happened, if he regretted letting you kiss him, if it had just been that it was too awkward in the moment to say no. Just that you wanted to keep sitting for him, just that if all you got was a casual conversation at the end of the evening and an argument about driving home that would be enough for you, because it would have to be, and so you could make it so.

You begged off seeing Mick for the second Friday night in a row, wanting to be available in case Joel called. You felt silly but you could use the cash. Your textbooks were $400 a piece, and next semester you were taking three classes. Just feeding yourself was enough to stop your studies in their tracks.

Two things happened in the span of ten minutes. A knock at your door stirred you from your lecture notes, and your phone rang. By the time you had it in your hand you were holding Mick back from your face, your palm to his chest, as you craned your neck away from him to speak.

‘M’sorry, Sweetheart, it’s just…I know, it’s a Friday…’

‘It’s fine, Mr Miller,’ you said, ignoring the way Mick was making smoochy faces over your shoulder. ‘I don’t have any plans.’

When you got off the phone Mick was pouting again, and you sighed.

‘I thought I was your plans?’ he said, and you shrugged at him.

‘It’s good money for easy work, babe,’ you said, the nickname sitting heavy on your tongue.

‘I can give you money,’ he said, pulling you towards him by your belt loops and nipping at your jaw. You cringed away from him.

‘That would make me your whore, right?’ you said, and he grinned at you, wiggling his eyebrows.

‘Never seemed to bother you before…’ he said, and you bristled against him.

‘The fuck does that mean?’

“Oh, fuck me, babe, make me yours…” he imitated, his voice high in a general approximation of yours. You blushed, furiously. ‘You think good girls beg like little whores?’ he asked, and you knew he was kidding around, knew that he wasn’t smart enough to do it without outright insulting you, knew that you’d put up with this shit before so there was no reason why he wouldn’t assume he couldn’t get away with it now. You knew the way he spoke to you was basically your fault, and you couldn’t yell at him now that the precedent had been set. You felt yourself crumple, landing with a thump on the edge of your bed.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ he was saying, grinning at you like he’d won his prize. ‘You put the kid to bed, and I’ll come by and keep you happy ‘til Dad gets home.’

You hated the idea, the thought of Mick in that space you’d almost come to think of sacred making your stomach churn.

‘No,’ you said, and you watched as he arched his eyebrows in surprise. ‘You can’t come in…’

‘Say no more,’ he said, grinning again, and for whatever reason, you didn’t.

--

He arrived, just after 9 PM, already drunk. You winced as he parked his car in the driveway, right in Mr Miller’s spot, worried for a moment he was going to swipe the mailbox when he took the angle too fast. He skidded to a stop mere inches from Mr Miller’s garage door and you exhaled, realising you were bracing for the sound of splintering wood. He ambled over to where you stood on the front porch, tugging at your shirt sleeves in the cool night air.

‘Babe!’ he called, and you shushed him almost instantly. He was carrying a sixpack of beers, three of them already gone. His breath reeked and you wrinkled up your nose when he slung his arm over the back of your neck and pulled you in for a sloppy kiss.

‘This feels like high school,’ he said, and giggled.

‘This is my job, y’know,’ you corrected him, but he wasn’t hearing you, backing you up against the side of the house. You thumped into the brick, wind temporarily knocked from your lungs before he was on you, slipping his entire tongue into your ear in a way that made your skin crawl.

‘Easy…’ you said, and he ignored you, his hand not holding the beers rising up to paw at your breast over your shirt.

‘Mmm…such a tasty little slut,’ he said, and you closed your eyes. ‘Little naughty baby-sitter.’

‘Keep your voice down,’ you stage-whispered, not sure how well your voices wouldn’t carry over the breeze in Mr Miller’s cul-de-sac. He leant down, resting the beers on the front porch so that he could grope you with both hands.

He groaned as he rubbed his cock at your clothed centre. You moved your face to the side, letting your eyes slide closed again.

You tried to think of a romantic movie. Tried to remember some of the fragments of the romance novels your mother had kept stowed under the bed and that you snuck into the den to read to your giggling friends. Tried to imagine a different man, a stranger’s hands on your chest, a stranger’s fingers pinching at your nipples. Tried to imagine what it would feel like if they found the sweet spot, if they sent electric shocks into your belly, into your cunt. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to push the sound of Mick’s heavy breathing out of your mind, focusing instead on rough and calloused fingers, the scruff of a beard teasing along your skin. Heavy accent and sweet pine, a groaned little ‘Sweetheart…’ as he slipped your shirt up over your shoulders.

‘The fuck’s going on here?’ you heard a gruff voice as your eyes sprang open, pushing Mick from you hard enough that he stumbled, backwards, landing on the grass.

‘Mr Miller!’ you exclaimed, shame burning bright on your cheeks as you righted your clothes. ‘M’so sorry, he just dropped by…’ you started but Joel was striding up his driveway, as you realised with a new flash of guilt he’d had to park on the street.

‘Hey, man…’ Mick was saying, his hands up in front of his face. ‘Just checkin’ in on my girl…’

You cringed, this particular pet name always feeling more like ownership when it came from him.

Joel looked up at you, his brows saddled. ‘You OK, Sweetheart?’ he asked you, and you realised for the first time he wasn’t angry but concerned, his fists balled up like he was ready to spring to your defence.

‘It’s Mick,’ you explained, glancing down at him as he tried to climb to his feet, getting as far as his knees and settling there for a second to plan his next move. ‘He…he wanted to…’

‘Yeah, I saw what he wanted to,’ Joel huffed out, reaching down to pull Mick upright by the back of his shirt. ‘Saw the way you were bracing away from it too,’ he said, looking directly into Mick’s grinning face.

‘What else you see, old man?’ he asked, and Joel dropped him back onto his knees.

‘You got your keys?’ he asked him, and waiting for the younger man to root around in his pockets.

‘Don’t steal my ride,’ he said, handing them over and not noticing when Joel slipped them into his pocket.

‘M’going inside, and I’m gonna call you a taxi, and you’re getting in. She can drive your car back to you tomorrow mornin’…if she doesn’t decide to drive it off a cliff,’ he said, abandoning Mick on the front lawn and coming towards you, grabbing your wrist gentle but firm in his hand and pulling you inside. ‘C’mon, darlin’,’ he said, and you followed, almost entirely on autopilot.

‘I’m so sorry, Mr Miller,’ you started but he waved you away, placing a call for the taxi while keeping you fixed in your spot with his glare. When he was done, he rolled his shoulders, sighing.

‘You sit,’ he said, striding into the kitchen and emerging moments later with two glasses of sweet tea. You realised, as you lifted your hands to take your glass from him, that you were shivering.

‘I didn’t know he was going to do that,’ you said, and Joel shook his head. You felt the waves of disappointment rolling off him and you worried for a moment you might cry.

‘He always touch ya like that?’ he asked, palming at the back of his neck.

‘Like what?’ you asked, your cheeks burning again.

‘All…clumsy and…disrespectful,’ he said, quiet. He stared at the floor between you while you perched on the edge of the couch.

‘Well…’ you started, but you weren’t sure how you wanted to finish that sentence. Sometimes he doesn’t even bother to touch me at all, you thought.

Joel scoffed, his jaw squeezed tight. ‘Guys like that are all the same, Sweetheart, just…selfish. Even in the bedroom. No lady should be touched like she’s a piece of meat.’

You considered, for one crazy moment, if Joel wasn’t so much disappointed in you as he was in Mick’s prowess. Suddenly you had to stifle a giggle.

‘What’s so funny?’ Joel asked you, surprised.  

‘Just…I mean, they all go to such fancy schools, get all that college for basically free…’ you started, trailing off when you saw him starting to smile. ‘He can’t even boil an egg, and I don’t mean mine,’ you said, and he laughed then, free and loud, and the sound of it made a little fizzle of joy spark up your spine.

This was fun, you realised, shitting on your terrible boyfriend with the most handsome single Dad you’d ever laid your eyes on. This was really, really fun.

‘So, I take it he don’t make you breakfast in the mornin’,’ Joel joked, and you snorted. ‘What you eat for breakfast, anyway?’ he asked, turning to you now, his eyes crinkling at the corners. You swallowed. ‘No, wait,’ he said, ‘let me guess.’ He pretended to look you up and down, his brow arching as he considered. ‘You’re not a waffles kinda girl,’ he said, thoughtfully. You grinned and shook your head. You’d never liked the sponginess. ‘But you’re too fun for plain old oatmeal,’ he said, and you felt a blush crawling across your chest. ‘You’re a pancake princess,’ he decided, finally. ‘Am I right?’

You pretended to consider it for a second before nodding happily at him. ‘Maple syrup and berries,’ you agreed.

‘Maple syrup and berries,’ he said, grinning in his victory. He paused, something passing between you. Suddenly he shifted forward, his knees just barely brushing yours. You found yourself mirroring him, leaning in enough that you had to put your hand out to steady you, landing it on the cushion only inches from his thigh. You could feel his warm breath on your cheek when he whispered in your ear, ‘tart…but a little bit of sweet for m’sweetheart.’

You felt heat scorch its way up your chest, reduced to kindling beside him.

‘Bet he don’t kiss ya like ya should be,’ he said, and you thought for a second of Mick, grinning and drunk out of his mind on the front lawn. You wondered if the taxi had come for him yet, and had absolutely no interest in going out to check on him.

‘Mr Miller…’ you whispered, and he groaned, then, his eyes rolling back in his head.

‘Please, baby, when you call me that…’ he trailed off, eyes blown wide and you felt, then, the thundering in your chest. From this distance you could see his racing pulse in his neck, the same pace as yours.

‘Mr Miller…’ you said, again, staring now at his lips. You wanted to reach out and just take a little nibble.

And he was on you, grasping the back of your head and bringing it down to him, crashing his lips into yours as you gasped, swallowing the echo down into his throat. His tongue, scorching hot, exploring your mouth as he teased it open, the scruff of his beard tickling your cheeks.

‘Thought about you…’ you said, without even thinking, and Joel pulled back a second to appraise you; your swollen lips, your doe-eyes gazing up at him.

‘Say that again,’ he mumbled.

‘When he’d take me, I’d think about you,’ you said, and you watched as his eyes fell shut, taking the moment to glance down at his heaving chest, the aching bulge between his legs. ‘Thought about your hands on me, Mr Miller, about your mouth.’

‘Fuck, Sweetheart…’ he said, almost as if it pained him, before his eyes snapped back open to gaze at you.

‘Kiss me?’ you asked, sweet as you could for him while you tried with both hands to hang on to the moment, to stay here in it with him. You would need to remember this, every corner of the room, every detail. Would spend nights reconstructing his face in your mind, the way he was looking at you now, wanting and red-cheeked, dark eyes and a hot little huff as your words landed their blows on him.

‘Canna touch you, baby?’ he asked, and you were nodding, pulling him towards you as he slid his hands over your waist. Threading your hands through his hair he brought you over him, straddling him on the couch as he stared up at you, brows arching high, as if he couldn’t quite believe it was happening. You smiled at him, feeling like his prize, as you brought your hips down on him and watched his eyes ease shut, heard his breath stutter. He was big, you could feel it even as the seam of his jeans rubbed at your core. You could feel yourself aching for him, hot and pounding where you ground yourself down.

‘Fuck, Mr Miller…’ you gasped as you felt him push his cock up into you, his hands on your hips and pulling you down.

‘So beautiful, baby,’ he whispered, reaching up with one hand to cup your breast, squeezing the nipple between his fingers that, even through your shirt, shot lightning bolts to your cunt. You gasped, a high-pitched little sound you were sure you’d never made before, and he soaked it down into his skin, kept it held tight and precious in the core of him, to keep him warm on cold evenings.

You felt yourself shivering, even as his warm fingertips dropped to lift the hem of your tee and trace their way back up to your tits along the skin. His enormous hands almost completely captured it, and you felt small, then, and shy, but when you looked down into his warm, brown eyes you saw only safety there, only naked desire for your pleasure.

You let your hips roll, that building ache in your core. You’d only ever felt this alone, had never had another person bring it out of you, and you felt the sharp edges of it as you felt a shard of panic slice through your gut. No one had ever done this for you, before. You weren’t sure if your body would allow it, weren’t sure if you could let go enough to fall.

‘Hey…’ Joel said beneath you, his eyes roaming your face. ‘Relax, Sweetheart,’ he whispered, reaching his hand from your hip to your jaw, pulling you down to rest your forehead on his. ‘Just you n’me, baby,’ he whispered as you rocked on top of him. ‘You can take what you need,’ he promised. ‘I got you.’

‘Joel!’ you gasped, the shiver in your body now ratcheting up your spine, your thighs burning as you rolled your hips on his lap, his cock still tucked away in his jeans. ‘I don’t know if I…’

‘Sssh…’ he cooed, raising a thumb to your lips and slipping it between your teeth. You sucked instinctually, swirling your tongue over the tip and letting your eyes drift closed. ‘Just feel it, baby,’ he said, ‘don’t force it. Let it grow.’

Never in your life had you felt like this. You took his thumb between your teeth as you ground, the spark of fear in your belly engulfed by the roar of your desire. You could feel your hips stuttering, could hear yourself starting to pant.

‘Good girl…’ Joel encouraged, slipping his thumb from your mouth now and smearing it across your lips. ‘Right here for ya, baby,’ he said. ‘Wantchya to feel so good.’

You cried out, smacking your hand over your mouth to stifle your cries. He was going to kill you, and you would let him again and again, let him bring you back to life just to kill you this way all over again. You had no idea bodies were made to feel this good.

‘Oh!’ you gasped, all the warning you could muster as he grabbed your hips with both hands, slamming his bulge up into you as he pulled you down, the seam of his jeans rubbing hard into your clit. ‘Yes!’ you whispered, your body shuddering as you felt yourself crest, the pleasure roaring from your cunt to your chest, exploding out of your skin as you rolled, roiled, boiled on top of Mr Miller.

‘Jesus, there she is…’ he whispered, and you opened your eyes to gaze down at him, your breath still coming in gasps as he watched you, awe and desire on his face. ‘There she is,’ he said again, like a prayer, a benediction.

--

You woke slowly, the dappled light streaming in through the oak tree beside Joel’s window. It took you a moment to orient yourself, to remember that you were in his bed because he’d considered it too late for you to take yourself home, even if you had Mick’s car. Because the pleasure he’d wrung out of you on his couch had left you boneless, because the idea of ripping yourself from his smell, from his heat, was unthinkable in that moment.

You stretched, noting that the other side of the bed remained made, that he had spent the night on the couch. You remembered that you had wanted to ask him to stay, that the words had formed on your lips, and that in that moment you saw the regret on his face, the longing to tuck himself in beside you and pull you into his chest, let the weight of the night take him and you with him, but that he wouldn’t allow it, that he was holding back. You weren’t sure why, but you assumed out of decency, out of respect. Out of some vague employee-boss professionalism you would both cling to in an attempt to paper over the grasping maw of desire opening up between you.

You had wanted him, and you had denied him, allowed him to deny you. You rolled to your back in a frustrated huff, surrounded by the scent of him, of his cologne and the scent of his skin imbued in the sheets beneath you.

After a while you heard noises in the kitchen and you left your cocoon, pulling your clothes on and padding down the stairs constructing a cover story for Sarah as to why you were still there. When you rounded the corner, though, you saw only Joel –in a pair of sweatpants and nothing else, standing at the stove.

‘Hey, Sweetheart,’ he said casually, as if you hadn’t come on his lap less than twelve hours before, ‘Sarah’s headed off to soccer practice, so you and me’ll have to take care of all these.’

He gestured over his shoulder to the kitchen table, where a stack of cooling pancakes stood proud. You felt a shiver of shock run though you at the sight of them, turning to Joel with the curl of tears tickling the back of your eyes. ‘No berries, sorry darlin’,’ he said, without looking up. ‘But we got enough syrup to make it up to ya, I hope.’

You weren’t sure anyone had ever done anything like this for you. You wanted to sob, wanted to walk over to the table and pick up the pancakes in your fists and mash them into your skin, wanted to drown them in syrup and eat until your belly distended, wanted to force feed them into Joel. Instead, you stepped forward, your arms opening all of their own accord, wrapping yourself around his back like a Koala. He huffed out a surprised laugh, growing serious when he turned you in his arms to face him, seeing the gathering tears at your waterline.

‘Hey, what’s this?’ he asked, and you grinned, watery, up at him.

‘No-one has ever…’ you started, catching your words before they spilled too much of the truth. Understanding passed over Joel’s face.

‘Oh, my sweet girl…’ he said, and you glowed for a minute, the words reaching down into your chest and igniting something long extinguished.

He leaned down towards you, pressed his nose to yours, his forehead resting gently on yours. You inhaled him, his scent and the sweet smell of the pancakes on the stove, tried to imprint the memory deep in your DNA.

‘What the fuck is this?’ an angry voice sounded from behind you, and you snapped away from Joel, taking several steps back. Mick, still in his same clothes from the night before, stood furious in Joel’s kitchen.

‘The fuck, you let yourself in?’ Joel asked, matching Mick’s anger with his own. ‘This is a private residence, man.’

‘That’s my girlfriend, man,’ Mick spat, his face twisting into an ugly mask you weren’t sure you’d ever noticed on him before. ‘The fuck you doing feeling her up? You stealin’ my car and my girl?’

‘Mick…’ you started but he was ignoring you, advancing on Joel. You stepped towards him, hands up to placate, but Joel was suddenly beside you, tucking you behind him and shielding you with his broad chest.

‘Back up, buddy,’ Joel said, a whispered warning.

‘Me, back up?’ Mick seethed, about to go on before Joel interrupted him.

‘Yeah, you back up. You need to sit your arse down and learn yourself somethin’,’ he said, advancing on Mick so that the younger man took several steps backwards, heading towards the kitchen table. You wondered if anyone had ever actually stood up to him, if usually his wealth was enough to make people cower. He backed into a kitchen chair, slamming down into it with a thud as he stared up at Joel, the older man red faced and pointing a finger at his chest. ‘You think that little display last night was any way to treat a woman?’ he grit out. You watched as Mick shook his head no. ‘You think she enjoyed that, being pawed at in the dark like a fuckin’ street walker?’ he asked.

‘She looked pretty whorish a few seconds ago,’ Mick responded, petulant and stupid. You could see by the way Joel braced his shoulders, his back expanding in resplendent fury, that Mick had made the wrong fucking choice.

‘Ya little shit,’ Joel said, stepping back from Mick and towards you. He held his arm to you, beckoning you into his chest and you went to him, tucking yourself against his side.

‘You have a woman like this, you fuckin’ cherish her,’ Joel muttered, tracing his fingertips along your side and making you shiver. ‘Look at these pretty little tits,’ he said, moving to cup them as you blushed, tucking your face into his neck. You heard Mick’s sharp intake of breath, mirroring your own as Joel rolled your nipples through your shirt. ‘The way you were grabbin’ at ‘em last night, you think that felt good? You make her groan like this?’ he asked, applying just the right amount of pressure on the sensitive nubs, eliciting a moan from you, unbidden.

‘Listen, man, this is…’ Mick started but Joel cut him off with just a look, stern and disapproving, before his face shifted back to adoration when he turned to you.

‘Let’s show him, baby?’ he asked, his brows saddled high. You knew you were safe with him, that at any moment you could call it off, but you wanted this. You wanted Mick to see what Joel could do to you, the sounds you could make. Wanted him to feel small and insignificant in the presence of a real man, of real pleasure. Wanting him to see what money couldn’t buy.

You nodded your head at Joel and watched as the grin bloomed over his face. ‘M’good girl,’ he said, quiet enough that only you could hear it, and you felt the bolt of want shoot down into your core. Your cunt already aching, already dripping for him.

‘Show me where,’ he said, stepping back as you surveyed the space. You nodded towards the kitchen island, the bench just above your hip height. Joel nodded, lifting you up easily to perch on the edge, your body facing Mick as he sat, frozen, at the table in front of you.

‘Slip these off, baby,’ Joel said, tugging at your sweatpants and you lifted your hips as he slipped them, your panties along with them, out from underneath you. The granite countertop cold on the top of your thighs you revelled in the sensation of it, the hard, cold surface so different to Joel’s hot body as he hovered at your side.

‘Show him,’ he said, tapping you on the knee. You spread your legs, hooking one thigh over the edge of the counter and the other widening out to your side, your cunt unfolding before the two men in front of you. You watched as Mick’s face turned pink, sweat appearing on his brow. You turned to look at Joel, the hunger in his eyes as he devoured every inch of your skin. He reached over, running his fingertips over the inside of your thigh, moving closer to you, leaning over your body to whisper into your ear.

‘You’re dripping onto my countertop, baby,’ he said, and you could hear the glee in it, the wanting.

‘For you, Joel,’ you clarified. ‘Not him.’

‘Nah, never for him, I reckon,’ Joel agreed, his fingers slipping further towards your slit. You felt totally exposed and wanton, whorish, as Mick had put it, and your cunt was pulsing, aching from the desire of it. You felt like a priceless piece of art admired in a big city museum, like a stripper opening up her legs for hoards of braying men, like a girlfriend letting her disappointing boyfriend know in no uncertain terms he would no longer neglect her. You felt power coursing through your veins and into your cunt, your slick pooling on the top of your thighs as the most beautiful man you had ever seen stood beside you and teased the pleasure from every nerve.

‘Fuck…’ you whimpered as Joel’s fingers landed light and dexterous on your clit, the little bundle of nerves sending the pleasure roaring through your core and into your chest. You bucked your hips, nearly slipping from the countertop, Joel coming forward again to brace you against his chest.

‘God, look how much she wants it,’ Joel said over your head to Mick. ‘Bet you’ve never made her jump like that.’ You opened your eyes, not even having realised they’d closed, to watch Mick swallow hard and heavy. You beamed back at Joel, letting the pride in his face radiate warmth down upon you.

‘So good f’me, so good t’me,’ he said, spreading your lips apart with his fingers and pushing a fingertip inside. You gasped, shock on your face at the intensity of the need for him burning where he touched.

‘Please…’ you whimpered, just wanting more and just wanting him to never stop, just wanting him to reach inside you, to wring the pleasure out of you, to make you come so hard you forgot your own name.

‘Sshh…’ he cooed to you, ‘your boyfriend needs to concentrate so he can learn.’

You emitted a squeal of frustration, bucking your hips on his hand to try and draw him in, earning you only a chuckle from Joel.

‘Ok baby, m’sorry. Just like teasin’ ya,’ he grinned at you, before sliding two fat, rough fingers hard into your cunt.

For a second you lost touch with reality, your head flying back to the ceiling as sensations strong enough to take your breath roared from your cunt. The stretch was delicious, the heel of Joel’s hand rubbing hard at your clit as his fingers reached deep inside you, opening you up for him, your slick gathering in his palm.

‘Look how wet she gets,’ Joel noted, over his shoulder to Mick. ‘Such a shiny little cunt when she’s drippin’ like this. You ever work her up like this?’

You heard Mick grunt, a pleading note of displeasure, and you sighed as Joel started pumping, stoking the fire in your cunt that threatened to eviscerate you and everyone within the vicinity.

‘Joel!’ you gasped, rolling your hips again, trying to shove him deeper into your greedy little cunt as it grasped at him.  

‘Could lick ‘er up, whatchyu reckon?’ Joel asked, already getting down on his knees as you groaned, certain now he was going to send you into the stratosphere. ‘Can I, baby?’ he asked, and you nodded, frantic, unable to form words.

‘Bet she tastes sweet,’ Joel said to Mick, who was inching closer in his chair, peering over Joel’s shoulder as your cunt swallowed his thick fingers. ‘Like watermelon on a hot summer day. You ever taste her, Mick?’ he asked. You watched as the shame bloomed over Mick’s face. Joel scoffed. ‘Course not, ya fuckin piss weak little prick,’ he spat before turning, diving in to lick a fat stripe at your folds, settling in to lap at your clit as his fingers worked you.

You screamed, sucking in huge lung-fulls of breath just to let them keen out of you, your hips slamming shut on Joel’s head as he sucked at you, every nerve ending screaming now as you felt the blooming heat of release.

‘Oh, he’s gonna make me…’ you said to Mick over Joel’s shoulder, watching you with owlish eyes.

‘Don’t talk to him,’ Joel admonished you, pulling your focus down to him as he perched between your legs, ‘you talk to me,’ he said.

‘Sorry, Mr Miller,’ you said, watching as his eyes rolled shut, a shiver passing over his shoulders.

‘Be the death of me…’ he muttered, returning his attentions to your pulsing cunt. You gripped his hair, rolling your hips on his face and rocking into him, chasing the release now gathering at the base of your spine.

‘Jesus…oh, fuck…’ you cried, trying desperately to warn him, your eyes slamming shut only to open in shock as he found new ways to wring the pleasure from you.

Joel worked you up, his tongue never fatiguing, setting up the perfect rhythm to hold you just on the edge. You could feel your sweat pooling on your skin, the heat in your cunt spreading down your legs, the pull of the knot in your belly.

To your utter dismay Joel stopped, lifting his face to address Mick at his shoulder. ‘You ever make her squirm like this?’ he asked, and you cried for him, then, scrabbling to grip his shoulders, his chin, to push him back to your desperate cunt. He laughed, nipping at your fingertips as they passed by. ‘Look at her graspin’ for me. You seein’ this? This is what real pleasure looks like.’

You cracked open an eye, the room spinning around you as you fought to regain control of your limbs. You saw the look of shame embedded deep into Mick’s face now, the sight of it somehow intensifying your pleasure, the building pressure in your cunt.

‘Fuck me,’ you gasped, turning your attention back to Joel, his eyebrows shooting up. ‘Show him how to fuck,’ you groaned, pushing off the countertop and spinning up onto your toes, laying chest down on the granite now hot to the touch from your writhing body on top of it. You spread your legs a little, knowing that your puffy little cunt lips would be revealed to them both, and you heard them both groan, Joel’s chesty moan full of grit, Mick’s high pitched and brimming with regret.

‘Don’t do this, man…’ he pleaded, and you heard Joel’s little scoff.

‘That’s the thing, buddy, the lady always gets what she wants.’

You felt him come to stand behind you, heard the rustle of his sweats as he pulled his cock over the waistband. It took everything in you not to turn and admire it, knowing in that moment you would have plenty of opportunity.

‘Fuck, she’s got me weepin’,’ Joel said, and you heard the unmistakable sound of skin on skin as he wrapped his hand around himself and tugged. ‘Got me harder than a railroad spike, this little cunt…’ he muttered. You whined, swivelling your hips to try and entice him, begging him to move faster as the walls of your cunt fluttered for him. You heard him sigh, a happy little sound. ‘Ok, baby, I’m here,’ he said, running a hand up your spine to hold you gentle and firm at the back of your neck, the head of his cock nudging at your cunt. ‘Gotta be gentle with my sweet little pussy,’ he said to you, leaning over you to place a chaste kiss in the cup of your shoulder blade.

‘Please, let him see it stretch me,’ you said, and you felt Joel shudder, notching himself at your entrance.

‘Keep talkin’ like that and I’ll chain him up in the basement, make him watch me fuck you every day,’ he muttered, pushing gently at first, the tip enough to make you gasp.

He was big, you realised. All of this time working you up he’d been leading to his moment, preparing to tease you open. ‘Oh, shit…’ you gasped as he pushed.

‘You ok, baby?’ he asked, pausing until you nodded, frantic, hands gripping at the edge of the counter for purchase as you pushed back into him, sliding in a few extra inches, as Joel moaned.

You were dimly aware that Mick was moving, coming to stand in front of you, a look of sorrow and unabashed heat on his face.

‘Please, can I?’ he asked, rubbing himself through his pants and you swatted him away.

‘No, fuck you,’ you said, emboldened by Joel’s desire for you, by his cock currently splitting your folds. ‘You never get this pussy again,’ you hissed at him, and you felt a bloom of pride at the look of hurt crossing his face just as Joel cheered from behind you.

‘That’s my beautiful girl!’ he gasped, bringing a finger to your clit and rubbing tight circles into it, making you gasp as you let your head fall, resting on the countertop. ‘So good f’me.’

The burn in your cunt from the way he stretched you abated, the pleasure Joel was giving you from your clit causing more slick to gather, your cunt grasping him again, your walls fluttering as you felt the ache turn to sweet pleasure, to a blooming rapture.

You lost touch with the ground, Joel’s harsh thrusts pushing you further up the counter, completely at his mercy as your legs hung useless beneath you, hands braced against the granite to give him purchase. In this moment, spread out on his cock, your cunt open and dripping for him, the pleasure ripping the words from your brain, gasps racking your throat, you felt completely under Joel’s spell, his touch, his heat. Mind-numb, thoroughly fucked out, gripped in this moment between the build up and the threshold of release.

‘Oh, you’re gonna make me…’ you warned but Joel had you, was there already with you.

‘I know, baby, I know,’ he grunted between thrusts. ‘Can feel it, can feel that sweet little cunt grippin’ me.’

You cried out, nodding your head furiously, entirely at his mercy now. ‘Yes, yes…Joel, it’s gonna…’

‘Let it go, baby,’ he moaned, and you felt none of the panic, none of the terror at your impending release, wrapped up safe in Joel’s body, in his groans of rapture, in the pull of the knot as it threatened to snap entirely.  

‘Watch me make her come,’ he spat out over your head, and you were only dimly aware of what he was saying as your release sped towards you.

You writhed, your breath stolen from you by the roar of the wildfire across your chest. The push of your orgasm slipping you under, crashing your body into the shore, rolling and quaking underneath it as indescribable lust coursed through your veins.

‘Oh, fuck, there she goes,’ Joel spluttered, his hips stuttering as he started to deepen his thrusts. ‘Gonna fill up ya girl,’ he grit out, his final movements sloppy and desperate as he approached the edge.

‘Do it, baby,’ you whimpered beneath him, words finally able to escape the cage of your throat. ‘Need you.’

He did, then, his come exploding into you and washing you clean, cleansing you of Mick, of all your disappointments, of all your fears. You looked back over your shoulder at him as he crested, his eyebrows saddled and his eyes trained on you, a look of reverence and hunger, of sweet shock, as though he couldn’t believe how good it felt either, as if everything for him was also slotting into place, as if he knew in this moment he would never let anyone separate you, would never let anyone take you from his side, that in his moment you were his just as much as he was yours, that this was a forging of something solid and essential, something vital and something precious, something that was just for you.

--

You didn’t remember Mick leaving. Didn’t care to say goodbye.

Joel had peeled you off the counter and carried you upstairs, drawn you a bath and lowered you gently into the water, sat beside you and washed your body as you lulled in and out of a light sleep.

Drying you off he wrapped you up in his clothes, swamping you in cotton and his scent, before promising to make you a fresh batch of pancakes. You hadn’t let him, whimpering when he tried to leave your side, pulling him down beside you on the bed and wrapping his arms around you.

Later you would figure out lunch, and then Sarah, and then the rest of your lives. For now, you had each other, and cool sheets, and the light patter of rain as a welcome cool breeze blew new life over the garden beneath Joel’s window.

[plethorawrites]

can I request Damian x reader but reader is like the opposite she’s clumsy and messy (NOT DIRTY SHES JUST NOT REALLY ORGANIZED) and at first Damian is like no way I could ever like someone like that but then he’s like oh shit I think I like her you don’t have to do it but it was just an idea

(A/N- This has been sitting in my drafts for a bit because people are STILL calling me racist, so I've seriously considered wiping Damian from my page completely. But I love him as a character way too much to do that, so here we are!) (Requests are open again, btw!)

---

Despite being rather pretentious because of his upbringing, I think anytime Damian Wayne is assigned to do a group project, he'd want to go to someone else's house. They usually live in squalor (Middle class) but he deals with it for a few hours because it beats having his classmates fawning over his older brother's or asking his dad if he really used to date Harvey Dent or if that's just a rumor.

Usually, despite the condition of the house (Aka having a dish rack on the counter.) the room they'd work in was pretty clean. But you? Oh, no, no, no. He almost had a heart attack when he saw the state of catastrophe your study room was in.

Books on the ground instead of on the shelves, chair pulled out from the desk instead of tucked in, tons of sticky notes scattered on the walls and reminders pinned up. No one could have that short of a memory, could they? You seemed to.

The number of loose papers on the desk, the open notebooks with illegible writing, fidget toys to relieve stress or increase your focus, cups from when you needed coffee for a late-night study session that hadn't made it all the way to the dishwasher yet. (But it was on the sticky note! Right under the reminder to check your email.

Was that a thing people needed to remember to do?

He was utterly perplexed by the chaos you seemed so comfortable in. What he found most odd though, was how you never made any effort to fix it. He had been to your house three times thus far, trying to make a dent in the project that would take at least another week and each time, your room was the same. He even offered to help you organize (For his own sanity) but you turned him down, claiming you liked it how it was.

"How could anyone possibly like studying like this?" he questioned.

You shrugged. "I find having a pristine desk makes me uncomfortable, like I'm not actually doing work in a space I can relax in," you explained. "Plus, research shows environments like this increase brain productivity."

Damian wasn't sure if he believed that for a single second. But you clearly seemed to.

"But it's so messy," he muttered, motioning to your desk, so covered in God knows what that he couldn't even see what color the wood was.

"It's disorganized, not messy," you retorted. "And I know where everything is. Pencil sharper is by the white out because I use both rarely, erasers are where all the pencils are because I stab the led into them when I'm bored, highlighters are the ruler, which is.... under the syllabus I printed at the start of the year."

You pointed at everything as you said it and he slowly came to the realization that you weren't lying when you said you weren't messy. You kind of, in some weird way, had a system that worked.

Still, it felt uncomfortable for him. For a while. He'd watch you chew on your pencil and reach for tape that came from he didn't even know where, seemingly materializing things out of thin air. You barely even sat in the chair, he realized. He was always the one sitting in it, watching you sit or lay on the floor.

The only time Damian was ever on the floor was when Titus knocked him down or he got beat by his brothers during sparring. (Not that it ever happened..psh, no, don't be absurd.)

He slowly got a bit more accustomed to your room, even starting to find a bit of comfort whenever he stepped into it. It was welcoming, in a way, he'd come to think. When had that happened?

"Aren't you supposed to leave by eight?" you asked him, stretching your arms over your head as you sat on the floor across from him.

Damian frowned, looking at the time. He realized it was already 7:55. Had it already been four hours? It seemed like he just sat down on your rug, which, was surprisingly comfortable.

He hated to admit how much more productive he felt sitting on the floor than at a desk. "Uh, yes, right," he nodded, standing up and stretching as well. "I think we can probably get this finished by Tuesday," he added, feeling a weird pang of disappointment by the thought.

You nodded. "Alright, I'll see you tomorrow at four, then," you told him, watching as he packed up his books neatly, the pages fitting back in the nice folder perfectly. "Unless you wanna stay," you suddenly found yourself offering. "For dinner, I mean. If...if you want to. No pressure."

Damian paused, caught off guard by invitation. He stared at you for a few minutes, lips parting but words not leaving his mouth. Dinner? That was probably going to last at least an hour or two. Longer if your parents were the kind to serve dessert or chat a lot. He might not get home until ten or later.

"Sure," he agreed abruptly, though logically he knew he should refuse. He was supposed to be asleep by nine so he could get some rest before patrol. "I'd love to stay for dinner," he remarked, setting his bag back down for what wasn't one or two hours like planned, but four and a half.

How he would explain getting home past midnight to his father, he wasn't sure yet. But he'd find a reasonable excuse. After all, his dad was the one who told him to find normal friends and he was just doing what he asked.

...You were just his friend, right?

[luna-thecreator]

Paring: Smoke (Elijah Moore) x Black OC (Mae) Plot: Smoke becomes captivated by the way she sounds, smells, and tastes, each encounter pulling him deeper into a dangerous and irresistible desire that threatens to unravel everything. Word Count: 4k Tags: 18+, MINORS DNI, oral (female receiving), p in v, cervix kissing, mentions of war, Power Dynamics

“There goes my heart again…” Mae hummed, low and sweet, as she clipped the last damp slip onto the drying rack outside her apartment. The cotton clung to her knuckles, sun just startin’ to stretch over the rooftops like it didn’t want to wake up yet. She kept humming—barefoot, warm mug on the porch rail, curls still damp from the morning rinse.

It was always like this: Wash the past out her clothes. Dry what little she owned. Read a little of the Lord’s book for balance. Then coffee. Strong and dark. Just how she liked her mornings.

She was halfway through folding the first dry piece when the rumble of tires on gravel made her pause. A black Packard pulled up slow, the kind that whispered money but screamed trouble.

The driver door swung open and out stepped Stack—grinning like he never had a reason not to.

He leaned against the car, cool as ever. Black suit, red tie, his gold teeth flashing brighter than the devil’s promise. The brim of his hat dipped low before he took it off and walked toward her, slow and sure.

“Pretty lil’ Mae,” he drawled, voice syrupy and full of mischief. “How you been, girl?”

Mae looked up from her drying rack, eyes narrowing, but not unkind. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth before she let it stretch all the way out.

“Lord, Elias Moore,” she said, wiping her hands on her dress. “Ain’t seen you in a minute.”

“Ain’t changed much though, have I?” he winked, giving her a once-over like he was still sweet on her. “Still fine as Sunday sugar.”

She laughed, dry and low. “Still runnin’ your mouth, I see.”

He grinned, wide now. “Only when it’s you I’m talkin’ to.”

They stood there for a breath. Wind picked up just enough to rattle the drying rack and lift a corner of Mae’s hem. She stepped forward and plucked a shirt off the line, folding it tight.

“Heard you and your brother bought out that old juke,” she said, casual as smoke. Her tone had weight though—like she was fishing for something deeper.

Stack tilted his head. “News travels quick, huh?”

“Quicker than you,” she said with a smirk. “’Cause I been heard about him. Just never seen his face.”

Stack’s smile faded a hair. Not gone—just less loud.

“Smoke keeps to himself,” he said, straightening a little. “But he’s around. You’ll meet him soon enough.”

Mae glanced down at the clothes in her arms, then back up at Stack.

“Mm. Hope he ain’t like you.”

Stack laughed loud, head thrown back. “Girl, you wound me. I came all this way just to say hi, and you already throwin’ shade.”

Mae raised a brow. “You came to say hi? Or you came to ask me to sing?”

Stack’s grin returned—cooler now. More business than sweet talk.

“Maybe both,” he said. “We openin’ Friday. Place needs fire, Mae. That voice of yours? You’d light the whole damn room up.”

She studied him a beat longer, then looked out past him, past the car, toward the street that led away.

“I’ll think about it,” she said softly, turning back toward the rack. “You boys still run like you used to?”

Stack’s gold glinted as he tipped his hat back on.

“We run quiet now,” he said. “But Smoke’s got a way of makin’ noise when it counts.”

Mae folded the last slip and didn’t say a word.

The days passed slow, like molasses in a cold jar. Mae kept her head down, did her washing, read her verses, counted her coins. Not many left. Rent was due by Sunday, and her stomach had started making little noises in the night like it was praying too.

So when she finally made up her mind to sing at the juke, it wasn’t for old ties or friendly faces.

It was survival.

She pulled out her favorite laced dress—the burgundy one that hugged her hips and dipped just enough in the back. The one that smelled like the bottom of her perfume bottle and a night she never quite forgot. She’d kept it hidden in the back of the closet like a secret waiting to be needed. Tonight, she needed it.

Then came the heels—silver, cracked in the light, but still capable of catching eyes. She stepped into them like armor.

By the time she looked at herself in the mirror, the girl staring back was someone she almost remembered: all gloss and polish, chin up, eyes daring the world to say something sideways.

Mae slicked on her lipstick, slow. A deep red—bold enough to lie with.

"Don't look too hungry now," she whispered to her reflection. "Let 'em think you chose this."

She locked the door behind her and stepped into the night.

The juke was alive—sweat and smoke rising like steam off the floorboards. The air was thick with the scent of fried catfish, bootleg whiskey, and perfume too cheap to name. Laughter spilled out into the street, tangled with trumpet wails and the low thump of bass that made the walls breathe.

Mae walked up steady, her silver heels clicking soft against the dusty steps. The door was thick and red, and sitting in front of it like a hound on watch was James, broad-shouldered and half-asleep in his chair.

He blinked once, then did a double take.

“Lil’ Mae, that you?” he said, smile spreading like butter on a hot biscuit.

Mae grinned. They both cracked a laugh.

“Shol is,” she said, pulling her coat tight for a beat before letting it slip off her shoulders. The chill kissed her skin, but her dress did all the talking now. “Not too lil’ no more.”

James gave a low whistle, standing up from his post.

“What you is now? Like... twenty-one?”

She shook her head, lips quirking. “Twenty-four,” she said, stepping past him. “Now move, I got singin’ to do.”

He chuckled and opened the door wide, tipping his hat as she passed.

“Don’t go meltin’ nobody in there,” he called after her.

Mae didn’t look back. “Ain’t up to me if they melt.”

Mae’s hips swayed with each step, catching rhythm from the floorboards and the slow jam crooning through the speakers. Heads turned, but she didn’t pay ‘em no mind. She was already locked in—mind on the mic, breath in her belly.

From her right came a familiar voice, loud and grinning:

“Ooooouuuuuu!”

She turned, grinning before she even saw him. There was Stack, sliding between tables like a man born of smoke and charm, toothpick hanging from the corner of his mouth like punctuation.

“Aight now,” he said, eyeing her up and down with no shame. “Don’t have me actin’ up in front of company.”

Mae rolled her eyes, but her smile stayed. “Now you know we don’t go that way, Stack.”

“I know, I know,” he said, tossing his hands up like surrender. “Still don’t mean I can’t enjoy the view.”

She let that one slide, scanning the room. The band was wrapping up a set, folks clapping, glasses clinking.

“When you want me on?” she asked, brushing a curl behind her ear.

Stack looked around, lips twitching at the corners.

“Shit… now’s good as any,” he said, tilting his head toward the stage. “Go on, play that lil’ song I like. Don’t be shy now.”

Mae gave him a playful side-eye as she stepped past, voice low.

“I ain’t ever been shy, Stack. That’s your problem.”

He let out a laugh, deep and amused, as she walked off toward the mic—heels tapping like a warning bell.

As the band eased into the soft hum of her song, Mae stepped up to the microphone. The lights hit her shoulders like warm hands, catching the shimmer in her dress, the curve of her lip, the quiet in her eyes.

She held the mic gently—like it was something breakable.

The crowd leaned in, breath caught between drinks and secrets. But Mae… Mae looked up.

Just a little.

Eyes scanning past the dance floor, past the sweating men and swaying women, past the heat and haze, until they landed on him.

Smoke.

Elijah Moore.

Stacks’ twin.

He didn’t stand like other men. He leaned in shadow, one hand tucked in his coat pocket, the other holding a glass he hadn’t touched. His eyes were darker than the room, heavy with something that didn’t blink.

And for a second, he was the only one she saw.

The music curled around her, lazy and low, like it was made for the space between them.

She didn’t smile.

She just sang.

The bass rolled in first, thick and honey-slow. Then the keys followed, soft and slurred, like somebody whispering dirty secrets through a silk curtain.

Mae took a step closer to the mic, her voice smooth as bourbon sliding over ice.

“There goes my heart again…”

The room fell still.

“All this time I thought we were pretending.”“You show me love…” she crooned, one hand trailing down the mic stand, her other brushing her waist. “You show me love…”“You show me everything my heart is capable of.”

Goddamn.

Smoke watched from the corner like a man starved. His eyes never left her. Not once.

Her hips rolled slow with the rhythm, each sway of her body dragging his gaze lower—hips, legs, the dip of her waist, the glisten of sweat tracing down from her throat to where it disappeared between her breasts.

She didn’t dance. She didn’t need to. Her voice did all the touching for her.

And still—she didn’t look at him.

Not once.

That only made it worse.

Smoke shifted his weight, jaw tight, his gold tooth flashing just once as his tongue slipped out to wet his bottom lip. He leaned forward slightly, closing the distance inch by inch, his drink untouched in his hand.

His eyes burned a path across her body—lingering on the curve of her thighs, the shine of her heels, the dark center of her mouth when she hit that low note like she meant it.

He closed his eyes for a breath, nodding once, slow and deliberate—like he was tasting her voice.

Like he already knew how she’d sound under him.

And when he opened them again, he didn’t look away.

Not for a second.

Mae’s final note melted into the air like sugar on flame. Applause swelled, whistles cut through the haze, but she barely heard it. Her fingers tightened on the mic. Her chest rose and fell, slick with sweat, the satin of her dress clinging like second skin.

And then—finally—she looked at him.

Smoke.

Still watching her like a man holding back a storm.

His gold tooth glinted when the corner of his mouth lifted, slow and dark. He tilted his head, eyes narrowing, lips parting just slightly—like he could taste her from across the room.

Mae didn’t smile.

She stepped off the stage like she owned it, each heel click dragging him deeper under.

He moved too, one hand brushing past the nearest table as he stalked toward her, smooth and silent—predator calm.

They met somewhere in the middle of the chaos. Music still played behind them, but this—this wasn’t noise. This was the sound of something breaking loose.

“You puttin’ spells in that song?” he asked, voice low and rough, like a match being struck.

Mae tilted her chin, close enough now to feel the heat rolling off him. “You actin’ like you ain’t already hexed.”

His fingers grazed the bare skin of her arm, just a brush—like he was checking if she was real. Her breath caught. His touch was warm, but his stare?

That was danger.

“You sing like you been touched,” he said.

Mae’s voice dropped to a hush, her lips inches from his. “You listen like you wanna be the one to do it.”

That look in his eye sharpened—possessive, primal. Like he wanted to pin her against the nearest wall and see if her voice cracked the same way her song did.

His hand found her waist, slow and firm, and pulled her just a breath closer. He didn’t kiss her. Not yet.

“I don’t play with things I ain’t ready to keep,” he murmured.

Mae leaned in until her mouth nearly grazed his. “Then don’t touch what you can’t handle.”

And just like that, she pulled away—slow and dangerous—leaving him standing there with his breath stuck in his throat and his hands already missing her heat.

Smoke was a man who didn’t waste words or movements. Everything he did had weight. Purpose. He didn’t reach for what he didn’t intend to keep.

He slid into the stool at the bar, his presence quiet but heavy. Stack leaned in behind him, whispered something low—too low to catch—before clapping a hand on his shoulder and disappearing into the night.

The rest of the juke slipped by in a blur of bodies and laughter, sweat drying on skin, cigarette smoke twisting through the haze. Until, one by one, they all filtered out.

All but three.

Mae. Smoke. And the girl behind the bar.

Smoke pulled a roll of bills from his coat, dropped them in front of her without looking. “You did good tonight,” he said, his voice low and dry. “Go on now.”

She nodded, quick and quiet, grabbing her coat and slipping out the back door, heels tapping like a clock winding down.

Silence fell—thick, slow, intimate.

Mae stood near the edge of the stage, her back half-turned, gathering her things. Her heels were off, her dress clinging damp to her hips, curls falling loose from the long night. She knew he was watching—she felt it. The weight of him. That heat.

Smoke sat still for a while, elbows on the bar, shoulders hunched like the night pressed too hard on his back. He reached into his coat for his cigarettes, pulled one out, tried to light it.

His fingers trembled.

The match scratched against the box once, twice—no flame.

Mae saw.

She slipped her coat on slowly, eyes never leaving him. And then—quiet as the hush before a storm—she walked over.

“Stack usually does it for you,” she said, voice soft but not pitying. Just knowing. “That’s what he told me.”

Smoke didn’t answer. His eyes were locked on her fingers as she reached for the matchbox in his hand.

She struck it clean on the first try, the flame casting a flicker between them. She held it out. Close enough that her knuckles brushed his jaw. Close enough to smell her skin—sweet and faintly spiced from her perfume, or maybe just her.

He leaned in. Lit the cigarette. Eyes never leaving hers.

A drag. A pause.

Smoke exhaled slow, the curl of smoke rising between them like a question neither of them wanted to ask.

He stared straight ahead, at nothing, and whispered, almost like it wasn’t meant for her: “Some nights I don’t even feel ‘em comin’. The shakes. They just take me.”

Mae slipped onto the stool next to him. Her coat shifted open, revealing the lace of her dress beneath—creased from the night, but still clinging to her like second skin.

“You always get ‘em this bad after the crowd leaves?” she asked, her voice low, like she didn’t want to scare the truth away.

Smoke blinked, jaw clenched, his hand twitching again as he tried to hold the cigarette steady. The glow trembled at the tip. He dropped it into the tray. Let it die.

Then, quietly: “It’s the quiet that gets me. Makes it louder in here.”He tapped two fingers against his temple. “Ain’t no music in the war, Mae. Just the ringing.”

Her chest tightened. She turned to him fully, one hand finding the back of his neck, slow and careful. Her touch wasn’t pity. It was permission.

“Come here,” she said softly.

Smoke looked at her like he didn’t trust himself to move.

So she helped him.

Guided him gently forward until his head rested between the soft weight of her breasts. Her coat slipped further open. He stayed there, still as stone, and for a long time, didn’t say a word. Just breathed.

Mae’s fingers slid into his hair, curling at the nape of his neck. His breath hitched once against her chest—then again. And again.

She felt the moment it broke. The way his body shuddered. The way he gripped her waist like she was the only thing keeping him tethered.

“I ain’t weak,” he muttered.

“I know that,” she whispered, pressing her lips to his temple.

“I just get tired of holding it all in.”

“I know that too.”

His breathing slowed against her. The shaking in his hands hadn’t stopped completely—but she held him like he wasn’t trembling at all.

He looked up at her—and that was all it took.

Mae didn’t think. Didn’t breathe. She just moved.

Her lips crashed into his, hot and full of something that’d been simmering since the second she stepped onto that damn stage. Smoke didn’t hesitate. He kissed her like he’d been starved for her—like tonight was the first time he could finally take what he'd been denying himself.

His hands gripped her hips, dragged her flush against him, and she gasped into his mouth at the thick press of him already straining through his pants. Her leg slid up around his waist, and he growled—growled—as her slick thigh wrapped around him, letting him feel just how much she wanted him.

“Fuck, Mae…” he rasped, lips trailing down her jaw, her throat, sucking just below her ear as his hands slid beneath her dress, pushing the soft fabric up to her waist. “You wearin’ this for me?”

“I wore it for the money,” she whispered, voice breathless as her back hit the wall. “But you can take it like it’s yours.”

He cursed against her skin, hands exploring every inch of her—palming her ass, sliding up the backs of her thighs, brushing between her legs.

“You’re soaked,” he muttered, pressing the heel of his hand to her heat through the thin lace of her panties. “You been singin’ for me like this all night?”

She bit her lip, head falling back as he rubbed her clothed pussy slow and hard, his mouth returning to hers like he couldn’t stand to be apart. “I seen the way you looked at me,” she breathed. “You undressed me with your fuckin’ eyes.”

Smoke’s mouth curled at the corner, dangerous and dark. “Now I’m gonna do it for real.”

One tug and her panties were down around her ankle, one hand lifting her higher as he slid two fingers inside of her meaty pussy—deep, slow, curling just right. Her nails dug into his shoulders as her breath caught.

“Don’t be quiet now,” he said, voice low and thick, his lips brushing hers again. “Sing for me, baby.”

Mae moaned—open, raw—as his fingers moved inside her, thumb circling her clit with precision that made her eyes roll back. She rocked against his hand shamelessly, thighs trembling around his hips, dress bunched high.

“Please,” she whispered, grinding down on his fingers. “Smoke, I need—”

“I know, baby,” he murmured, voice thick with heat. “I’m gonna give it to you.”

Then he dropped to his knees.

Lifted her leg higher onto his shoulder.

Mae’s breath caught—sharp, heady—as his hands gripped her thighs and his mouth met her pussy between her legs. His tongue moved slow at first, like he was tasting her name, like every flick and press was deliberate. She braced herself against the wall, eyes fluttering closed, hand weaving into his hair. He groaned low at the contact, like her touch was gasoline on fire.

“Smoke…” she breathed, hips jerking as his tongue circled, then plunged, mouth working her like a man on a mission. “God, don’t stop—”

He didn’t. He couldn’t. He was consumed.

And so was she.

Her moans were soft at first, needy, but they grew louder, bolder, shameless. Each sound was a surrender. Each tremble in her thighs a confession. When her body tightened around him and her cries turned to choked gasps, he only gripped her harder—kept her steady through it all.

When she finally came, it hit like thunder rolling through her body—her fingers tight in his hair, her thighs clenching around his head as she cried out into the empty room, dizzy from pleasure and something far more dangerous: need.

He stood slowly, her slick still shining on his lips like cocoa butter, his jaw tight like he was barely holding it together. Their eyes met, and neither of them moved for a long, heavy second. She was breathing hard, chest rising and falling under the cling of her dress, lips parted.

“I want you,” she said, voice low and raw, “but I want you—not just your hands, not just your mouth.”

Smoke exhaled like it pained him. He brought a hand to her face, his thumb brushing her cheek with surprising gentleness.

“You sure?” he asked, voice strained. “Ain’t no takin’ this back, Mae. Once I get a taste, I ain’t lettin’ go.”

She leaned in, resting her forehead against his. “Then don’t let go.”

His lips found hers again—hungrier this time, all tongue and teeth and desperate heat. And when he finally lifted her into his arms and carried her backstage, toward the velvet-draped room behind the curtain, it was with the reverence of a man claiming something that’d always belonged to him.

Smoke walked with purpose, Mae in his arms like she was weightless, her legs instinctively wrapping around him as he kicked open the door to the small, dimly lit room they used for storage. The faint smell of dust and stale whiskey mixed with the scent of her—sweet, warm, intoxicating.

He set her down on the edge of the worn leather couch, the motion fluid, as if he'd done this a thousand times before. His hands moved to her dress, pulling it up over her head with deliberate care. Every inch of exposed skin sent a jolt through both of them. He couldn’t help but trace the curve of her waist, the line of her back as he pulled her to him, his lips finding the soft curve of her neck.

“Look at you…” he muttered against her skin.

She met his gaze with a fire of her own, her breath shallow but confident. “You gonna show me what’s next, or just keep looking?”

Smoke smirked—dark, predatory. “I was planning on doing both.”

He kissed her again, slower this time, taking his time as his hands slid down her sides to unfasten the last of her clothes, leaving her bare before him. She arched into him, pulling at his shirt, desperate to feel him against her skin. His shirt went next, his broad chest pressing against her softness. 

She could feel his pulse, thumping under her lips, steady and wild, like he was a man barely hanging on. She kissed it, sucked gently, feeling him shudder beneath her touch.

“Mae…” he rasped. “You’re killin’ me, baby.”

She smiled against his skin, her teeth grazing his collarbone, and for the first time, it wasn’t just the wild hunger—there was something deeper, something that clung to the air between them.

He lifted her again, this time laying her back onto the couch with a tenderness that belied the urgency of the moment. The space between them closed as he covered her, lips claiming hers in a searing kiss, their bodies finally aligning, skin meeting skin in a union that felt as inevitable as it did raw.

“Smoke…” Mae gasped as he slid his hard dick into her dripping pussy, their bodies coming together in a fluid motion. “This what you wanted?”

His breath was ragged, his forehead pressed to hers as he fucked her insides, slow at first, the rhythm building with every passing second.

“More than I wanted,” he growled, voice rough with the weight of something unspoken. “Always more.”

She pulled him closer, legs wrapping around him as her nails dug into his back. Her body responded to him with a need that shook her—slow, steady, but with a desperation that matched his own. It wasn’t just physical; it was emotional too. She could feel him in places she never wanted anyone to reach, and yet—this felt like where she was meant to be.

The tension between them grew with every kiss, every thrust, the room filling with the sloppiness of their fucking. His pace quickened, and Mae couldn’t help but meet him with every desperate push, the need for each other becoming overwhelming.

When she came, it was with a cry of his name—deep and powerful—and Smoke followed right after, his own cum flooding her as he buried his face in the crook of her neck, breathing her in like he was starved.

They stayed like that for a moment, both of them lost in the afterglow of their bodies out fucked. The world beyond the small room felt so far away. His forehead rested against hers.

He kissed her again—tender this time, almost reverent. “I’m not lettin’ go,” he whispered. “You hear me, Mae? I’m not lettin’ go.”Mae smiled softly, fingers tracing the back of his neck as she pulled him closer. “I wouldn’t let you even if you tried.”

[yungistiny]

bed chem ═ chapter one

[ J. YH + S. MG ]

chapter one: the photographer

╚═════════

summary: yunho is trying to make a name for himself as a new up and coming photographer, he has no room for distractions, but model couple, y/n and mingi, seemed to want to tempt him

warnings: dom yunho, dom mingi, switch reader, possessive mingi, choking, overstimulation, fingering, eventual throuple, threesome, more to be added

genre: romance, drama, smut

pairings: photographer yunho x model afab reader x model mingi

word count: 5.8k

chapter two

masterlist

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The studio was already alive by the time Y/N and Mingi arrived, the familiar buzz of a major fashion shoot filling the massive space. Bright lights hung from trusses overhead, casting soft glows across the pristine white backdrop. Racks of Calvin Klein pieces, cotton briefs, black denim, cropped tanks, lined one wall. Steam hissed in the air. Assistants moved quickly, speaking in clipped, purposeful tones.

Mingi slung an arm lazily around Y/N shoulder as they stepped inside, both of them dressed down in sweats and sunglasses, casual royalty. They had done shoots like this dozens of times, Calvin Klein loved the two of them, loved the way their chemistry came through on camera, the way people couldn’t look away.

Seonghwa, their longtime manager and friend, spotted them instantly. “Finally,” he exhaled, checking his watch. “You’re late.”

“We’re always late,” Y/N said with a grin, slipping her sunglasses off and tossing them into her tote. “The shoot doesn’t start without us.”

Seonghwa didn’t argue, she was right. Instead, he turned on his heel and waved them over. “Your photographer’s already here. Brand new guy. Vogue’s been whispering about him for weeks. I met a little while ago. Very up and coming. Very talented.”

Mingi lifted an eyebrow. “They couldn’t book someone we’ve actually heard of?”

“He’s good,” Seonghwa said firmly. “Fresh eyes. You’ll like him.”

Y/N exchanged a look with Mingi. She could already tell he wasn’t thrilled, they were used to working with legends, not rookies, but she squeezed his hand in that subtle way that grounded him. Let’s just feel it out.

Around the corner of the backdrop, a tall figure stood quietly adjusting his camera. He wore all black, slim jeans, a tucked in tee, boots worn in from use, not fashion. His dark hair was slightly tousled like he’d been too focused to fix it. There was an easy confidence in his movements, nothing flashy, but something about him pulled focus, clean, understated, dangerously calm.

“Yunho,” Seonghwa called out. “Come meet your models.”

Yunho looked up. His eyes swept over Y/N, then Mingi, quick but precise, like he was already framing them in his mind. He stepped forward, camera strap slung across his chest, hand outstretched.

“Jeong Yunho.”

Mingi shook his hand first, giving it a firm squeeze and holding it just a second longer than necessary. Not a threat, not exactly. More like a quiet test.

Y/N took his hand next. His grip was warm, steady. His hand so big, yet delicate at the same time swallowing her own. Her gaze lingered on his face for a beat longer than she meant to, his lips slightly parted like he’d just been mid thought, the faintest dimple tucked into one cheek. Up and coming, huh?

“You done many shoots like this?” she asked.

“Not like this,” Yunho said, his voice smooth but grounded. “But I’ve studied your work. I know how to bring out what you both do best.”

Mingi glanced at Y/N, catching the way her lips quirked slightly. She was intrigued. That quiet flare of curiosity in her eyes always came before something… intoxicating and messy.

He slid his arm back around her waist, claiming without words. “Hope you’re ready for us, then.”

Yunho nodded, calm as ever. “I am.”

Backstage, a team of stylists descended on them with practiced ease. Y/N sat in front of the mirror, a makeup artist already brushing primer across her cheekbones while another worked through her hair. Mingi was in the next chair over, one hand lazily scrolling his phone while a stylist fitted him with a Calvin Klein tank and briefs that clung to his body in all the right places.

“Can you tighten this waistband?” Mingi asked, lifting his shirt slightly to reveal the toned cut of his abs. The stylist adjusted it quickly, giving a nod of approval.

Y/N caught the movement in the mirror and smirked. “Show off.”

He shrugged. “Brand wants sexy. I’m giving sexy.”

“You’re giving cocky,” she teased, then glanced toward the open doorway where Yunho stood, casually flipping through his shot list, camera hanging from his neck. He was talking with the lighting director, nodding at something, his body language calm, centered, like he belonged there even if this was his first major campaign.

Mingi caught her staring, not the first time in the last ten minutes. His reflection in the mirror raised an amused brow.

“You’ve looked at him, like, five times in the last three minutes.” He said casually.

“I’m observing,” she replied, though the flush rising in her cheeks said otherwise.

He leaned toward her, lips brushing just behind her ear. “You forget how well I know you?”

Y/N didn’t answer, but she bit back a smile.

Mingi chuckled softly, voice lower now. “That look you get when you want something? I invented that look, baby.”

She tilted her head, eyes on his in the mirror. “What if I do?”

He grinned, hand sliding to her thigh under the cape of her robe, his pinky finger ghosting, tracing at the lace of her panties. “Then I guess I better figure out if he’s any fun.”

Her heart skipped at that, not just at the idea, but at how easily he said it, like he’d already made the decision.

“So you’re going to let me have him?” she asked, lips curling with mischief.

Mingi shrugged. “I mean… we’ve tried before. Didn’t work out.”

“Yeah, but he’s not like the others.”

“I noticed,” he said, eyes flicking back toward Yunho, who looked up at that exact moment, meeting Y/N gaze through the mirror like he’d felt it, his gaze lingered down where Mingi’s hand was still under her robe. He quickly avoided his eyes and met Y/N own once again.

Their eyes locked. He didn’t smile. He just looked. Measured. Not backing down.

Mingi leaned in again, low and teasing. “You’re wondering how he looks when he loses control, aren’t you?”

Y/N hummed, noncommittal. But her grin gave her away.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The lights were warm. Soft, directional, angled just right to cast shadows down sculpted bodies. The set was minimalist, just a mattress on the ground, white backdrop, and Calvin Klein’s signature black and white color palette everywhere.

Yunho adjusted his camera lens, checking the light meter. His fingers were steady, but his jaw was tight.

“Alright,” he called out. “Let’s start with Mingi lying down. Y/N, kneel behind him, hands on his chest. Don’t overthink it, just let it breathe.”

They moved like pros, muscle memory kicking in, slipping into place like they’d done it a hundred times. But even so, Yunho could tell, there was a natural heat between them, something that didn’t need direction. It just was.

“Good,” he murmured behind the camera. “Mingi, look up at her. Y/N, look at me.”

And she did.

Right into the lens. Head tilted just enough to show the curve of her throat, fingers lightly dragging down Mingi’s chest like it was nothing. Her expression was soft, parted lips, eyes slightly narrowed, flirtatious in that subtle, calculated way that made the viewer lean in closer.

Yunho’s throat bobbed as he clicked the shutter.

“Switch it up,” he said, a little rougher than before. “Y/N, lay back this time. Mingi, hand on her thigh. Pull her toward you.”

Y/N slid down, arching her back just enough to make it artful, deliberate. She tugged her Calvin Klein briefs higher on her hips, smoothing the fabric. Her eyes never left Yunho.

“Like this?” She asked, voice syrupy sweet, one hand braced beside her and the other toying with the waistband at her hip.

Mingi caught the tone immediately. His hand slipped up her thigh, dangerously close to the fabric line. “You’re doing it again,” he muttered, low enough that only she could hear.

“Doing what?” she whispered, knowing damn well what she was doing.

Driving the photographer crazy.

Yunho lowered the camera for just a second, blinking hard like he needed to reset his focus. “You can keep eye contact,” he said. “That’s fine.”

Y/N bit her lip, giving him a look that walked the line between innocent and wicked. “Whatever the artist wants.”

Click. Click.

Yunho kept shooting, but the way his fingers tightened on the camera gave him away. Mingi noticed. Every inch of it.

And he wasn’t mad. He was curious.

“Let’s try one more,” Yunho said, voice lower now. “Y/N on your knees. Back to the camera. Mingi behind her, arms around her waist. Pull her in like you’re trying to hide her from the world.”

Y/N moved into position slowly, glancing over her shoulder as she sat back against Mingi’s chest. She reached up and tangled her fingers in his hair, letting her head rest on his collarbone.

“You’re thinking about it now, aren’t you?” She whispered to Mingi, so soft he almost missed it.

He smirked, brushing her hair off her shoulder. “You really want him?”

Y/N looked at Yunho again, gaze direct. Lethal.

“I want to see if he cracks.”

Yunho almost did. The camera trembled in his hands for half a second. And Mingi, watching from behind her, just smiled like he was already one step ahead of the game.

Yunho lowered the camera slowly, letting it rest against his chest. His voice came out quieter this time, tight with restraint.

“Alright. That’s…. yeah. Let’s take a break.”

Mingi immediately rolled off the set mattress, stretching his arms behind his back. Y/N moved more slowly, deliberately. She stood and smoothed her hair, then adjusted her briefs with a casual flick of her fingers that drew Yunho’s eyes before he could stop himself.

She saw it. Of course she did.

“Everything okay?” She asked, brushing past him to grab a water bottle from the cart. She stood close, too close for how warm she was, how good she looked under those lights. The sweet smell of vanilla and strawberries.

Yunho nodded once. “You two shoot well together.”

“You mean we look hot.” Her voice had a lilt to it, light but laced with purpose.

Yunho glanced toward where Mingi stood, now shirtless and joking with one of the stylists. The man was beautiful, tall, maybe only an inch shorter than Yunho himself, broad, carved like sculpture.

“It’s part of the job.” Yunho replied evenly.

Y/N leaned back against the table, sipping her water. “You always get that serious when you work?”

“I’m focused.”

“You’re tense.” She stated, tipping her head. “Bet you didn’t think this kind of shoot came with this much… heat.”

Yunho looked at her then, fully. “No. But I’m not surprised.”

Her lip curled slightly, pleased. She leaned in a little closer, dropping her voice so low it felt like a secret. “You gonna break, Yunho?”

His breath caught, but he didn’t flinch. Instead, his lips quirked.

“I don’t break that easy.”

From across the room, Mingi’s voice rang out, teasing. “You flirting without me again?”

Y/N turned just as Mingi wandered over, slinging a sweatshirt loosely around his shoulders. He looked between her and Yunho, eyes glinting with mischief and curiosity. “You two getting along?” His arms snaked around Y/N waist, pulling her against him but her gaze never left Yunho.

“We’re feeling each other out.”

Mingi raised a brow, catching the tension, smirking. “You always do this when you want something.”

Yunho’s eyes narrowed slightly, trying to read what this was, if it was a trap, or an invitation. “What are you doing?”

“Maybe she’s curious,” Mingi brushed a kiss to her neck. “Or maybe we both are.”

Y/N didn’t say a word. Just smiled, slow and knowing.

And Yunho… well, he didn’t break.

But it was the first time he blinked.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The final set was the most intimate yet.

White bed sheets draped across the mattress now, rumpled just enough to suggest something happened there. The lighting had shifted, warmer, softer, golden like morning after light.

Y/N emerged from behind the divider first, now wearing only a Calvin Klein bralette and matching underwear, the red sheer mesh clinging perfectly to her skin. She walked barefoot, movements unhurried, sultry without trying. Mingi followed, equally stripped down, red briefs hugging his hips, his skin glistening faintly from a light oil mist the stylist had applied to bring out definition.

Yunho adjusted the settings on his camera, jaw tight, breath measured. Professional. That was the mantra. Stay professional.

“Same setup.” He said, voice low. “This time… Y/N, lay on your back. Mingi, over her, hold yourself up. Almost like you’re about to kiss her. Keep it close, but don’t touch lips.”

Y/N paused, standing at the edge of the mattress. Then she turned to Yunho, lips curling into a wicked smirk.

“Oh?” she said sweetly. “And what if we do touch lips?”

Mingi chuckled under his breath behind her, clearly enjoying this.

Yunho didn’t move, didn’t blink, just stared at her, dead on. “Then we retake the shot.”

Y/N held his gaze for a beat longer, a silent little dare in her eyes, then turned and lowered herself to the mattress like silk. Mingi followed, bracing himself above her, their bodies close enough for their heat to blur the line between real and posed.

Yunho lifted the camera.

“Perfect…” he muttered, voice tight, strained.

Click. Click.

“Good. Mingi, hand on her waist. Drag it down her side.”

Click.

Y/N let out a soft, breathy sound, not scripted, not rehearsed. It made Yunho’s throat go dry. His finger hovered on the shutter before he remembered to press.

“Y/N, tilt your chin. Close your eyes.”

She did. But the smirk lingered, just enough to say, I know you’re watching me.

Click.

He moved to a new angle, just to get away from the way her legs hooked around Mingi’s waist, how her fingers dragged slowly up his arm. It was instinct, chemistry, passion, and none of it helped Yunho keep his mind clear.

Click.

He told himself they were just performers. A couple. Comfortable. Maybe even messing with him. Trying to throw him off his game.

But when Y/N turned her head just enough to look at him through her lashes, lips still slightly parted from the pose, heat rolling off her skin like perfume, it wasn’t a game anymore.

And Mingi saw it. Smirked.

Yunho lowered the camera.

“That’s… enough….” his voice was hoarse. “We got what we need.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. Just turned toward the monitor station, pretending to review the shots, pretending he hadn’t just spent the last hour holding back the urge to walk onto the set and ruin every take.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The studio had emptied out quickly once Yunho called wrap. Assistants began tearing down light stands, stylists packed up racks, and Mingi had disappeared behind the divider to change back into his streetwear. Seonghwa stood by the exit, already on his phone, murmuring something about traffic and a Diesel fitting they were due at within the hour.

Yunho stayed at the monitor station, flipping through the shots without really seeing them. He needed the cool down. He needed the distance. His hands weren’t shaking, but they didn’t feel steady either. His pulse hadn’t dropped since Y/N looked him dead in the eye mid shoot and practically dared him to break.

He heard her before he saw her.

Soft footfalls. Bare feet against the studio floor.

“I figured I’d find you here,” Y/N said casually, leaning one shoulder against the edge of the station. She was still in the Calvin Klein robe someone had tossed her after the shoot, loosely tied at her waist, makeup slightly smudged, giving her a sleepy, just rolled out of bed look that did nothing to help Yunho get his head back in the right place.

“You’re not dressed yet.”

“Neither are you.” She quipped. “You look like you just walked out of a fever dream.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re flushed.”

“It was warm under the lights.”

Y/N tilted her head, eyes scanning him like she didn’t believe a word of it. Then she leaned a little closer, her voice dropping.

“You know,” she said, “Mingi’s always been really good at giving me what I want.”

Yunho’s breath stilled in his throat. He turned, just enough to look at her, her eyes glinting under the soft glow of the screen. She wasn’t being subtle. But she wasn’t throwing herself at him either. It was… dangerous. Calculated. Fun.

He raised a brow, steadying himself. “That right?”

“Mhm.” She toyed with the edge of her robe, not quite opening it, but not exactly tightening it, either. “Clothes. Travel. Great sex. Other people.”

His jaw tightened. “Is that what this is?”

She blinked, all wide eyed innocence. “What?”

“You messing with the new guy? Seeing how far you can push before he snaps?”

Y/N gave a slow smile, stepping just slightly closer. “If I were messing with you,” she smirked, “you’d already be begging.”

Yunho’s fingers curled into his palms, still pretending like he wasn’t tempted. But she saw it. She felt it.

From across the room, Seonghwa called out, “Y/N! We gotta go!”

She didn’t look away.

“Coming,” she called, then gave Yunho one last lingering glance. “See you around, Yunho.”

And then she was gone, bare feet slipping across the floor, robe swaying behind her as she disappeared behind the divider again.

Leaving Yunho alone. Still flushed. Still burning.

And very aware that whatever she wanted… Mingi would give it to her.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The sun had barely started peaking through the clouds, light casting shadow as Mingi trailed kisses up the back of Y/N legs, biting at her thighs as she lay on her stomach, moans muffled into the pillows as two of his fingers worked at her.

“Are you thinking about him?” He pulled his fingers back, sucking them clean as Y/N whimpered in protest. He used the same hand to guide himself to her soaked and aching cunt, tip pressing just barely into her.

Mingi ran a hand up her back, fingers tangling into her hair and pulling her head back so he could look down at her. “You are, aren’t you…”

Y/N managed a smirk, voice shaky and a little breathless. She stared up at him, hands reaching back to grip at his hips, pulling herself back, making his entire length stretch her, walls tightening around him as she moaned.

“Maybe…”

Mingi grinned, letting her hair go, pushing herself back down into the mattress, hands gliding down to her hips, gripping and then finally moving, thrusts deep, fast pace, a little rough. “Say it…”

He let her hips go, reaching up, chest pressing against her back as he laced his fingers with her own, pinning her arms above her head, their bodies pressing together making his thrusts a little slower. “Say his name.”

Y/N was at that point where whatever Mingi told her, she would do it as long as it meant he would fuck her, harder, let her come. “Yunho… fuck…” she was becoming incoherent now, voice falling into nothing but broken sobs and moans.

Mingi let her go, pulling out just as she was about to reach that beautiful high… “Again.” He turned her over, hand on her hip as she panted, a dazed look in her eyes. “Say it again and I’ll let you cum.” He’s never done this before, he actually never liked hearing her moan one of their little lover’s names.

Y/N blinked up at him, reaching down, voice hoarse, body flushed as her hand gripped him, guiding him herself back inside her, Yunho’s name leaving her in a broken moan.

And Mingi had no idea why her saying the photographers name turned him on so much, his hips snapped as soon he was fully back inside her, placing her legs against his chest, feet at his shoulders, one hand reaching up to grip at her throat, his other reaching to bring two of his fingers down to meet where his dick was filling her, fucking her, slipping them in along easily with how wet Y/N was.

His fingers thrusted right along with him, Y/N a fucked out mess under him, legs shaking, and when he pulled his fingers out, clear liquid tried spraying but kept getting sloshed back from his dick.

“You gonna make a mess for me?” Mingi growled as she tightened around him repeatedly, his thumb finally rubbing at her swollen clit and that was like breaking the dam. She came with a scream, incoherent, and one, two more thrusts, Mingi followed her, coming so hard he felt himself shake, but he kept going, overstimulating them both, his eyes almost rolling into the back of his head as the aftershocks hit, both of them coming again.

Mingi had to pull out, the feel of her too much, Y/N squirting all over him when he did, the clear liquid no longer suppressed by the size of him, soaking the sheets and the mattress.

The bell rang loudly throughout the apartment and Y/N groaned, still trying to catch her breath. “If that’s a delivery, I’m kicking someone.”

“It’s Seonghwa,” Mingi muttered. “He’s the only one who knocks like he pays rent.”

Another knock. Sharper this time.

Y/N rolled out of bed with a lazy stretch, grabbing Mingi’s shirt from the floor and tugging it over her head. Her hair was a mess, her legs still bare, a little shaky, but she didn’t care. She padded barefoot to the door and cracked it open.

“Seonghwa.”

The man himself stood there with his usual black on black fit and a tablet in hand. Unbothered. Unshaken. Completely unfazed by the sight of her in nothing but Mingi’s shirt and the obvious glow of post sex haze lingering in the apartment.

“Morning,” he said, walking in without waiting to be invited. “You two done defiling the sheets? Good. I’ve got updates.”

Y/N rolled her eyes and flopped onto the couch as Seonghwa wandered into the living room like he owned the place. Mingi emerged a second later in just his boxers, yawning and rubbing at his chest.

“You’re early.”

“You’re predictable.” Seonghwa replied flatly. He scrolled on his tablet, not bothering to look up. “You’ve got a new shoot. Vogue. Tomorrow morning. It’s a big one, global cover.”

Y/N perked up. “Vogue?”

“Yeah,” Seonghwa said, still scrolling. “And Yunho’s shooting it.”

That got Mingi’s attention. “Again?”

Seonghwa looked up now, eyes flicking between them, then sighing dramatically as he leaned against the kitchen island. “Yes, again. And before either of you start, no, I’m not an idiot. I know what you’re doing.”

Y/N blinked innocently. “Doing?”

“Don’t,” Seonghwa cut in, holding up a hand. “I’ve been your manager for four years. I’ve also been your closest friend longer than that. I was there when you tried adding Wooyoung to your little situationship circus, remember?”

Mingi snorted. “He begged to join.”

“And he ran off two weeks later.” Seonghwa reminded him.

Y/N sighed, stretching her arms over her head. “He was too bratty.”

“He cried because you didn’t text him back for a day.” Mingi added, sitting beside her.

“Exactly,” Seonghwa said, like he was still processing the emotional damage from that era. “So before you decide to start slow burning another poor soul just because he has great bone structure and big hands..”

“Really big hands.” Y/N murmured with a smirk.

Seonghwa didn’t flinch. “Just remember, Vogue isn’t into behind the scenes drama. You keep it sexy on camera, fine. Sell the fantasy. But if this turns into another mess, I’m not babysitting your chaos again.”

Y/N grinned, unbothered. “We’ll behave.”

“You’ll try,” Seonghwa corrected. “Anyway. We’re leaving at 8:00.”

With that, he turned and let himself into the kitchen, completely unbothered, like he hadn’t just walked in on the aftermath of hot sex and delivered a verbal slap to both their faces.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The Vogue studio had a different kind of energy. Bigger. Sleeker. Expensive in a way you could feel in your bones.

Tall windows flooded the space with natural light, diffused by sheer white curtains that billowed gently in the breeze of strategically placed fans. Stylists, lighting techs, and assistants moved with practiced efficiency. Every step, every click of a heel, was part of the well oiled high fashion machine.

Yunho was already there, standing near a monitor with his camera slung over his shoulder. He wore black dress pants and a fitted charcoal shirt, sleeves pushed to his elbows, collar open just enough to show a sliver of collarbone. His dark hair was slightly tousled, like he’d run his hand through it one too many times.

He didn’t notice the door open at first.

But he felt it.

Y/N entered first, long beige trench coat belted at the waist, dark sunglasses pushed up into her hair. Her legs bare beneath the coat, a flash of thigh visible as she walked. Mingi followed behind, tall and relaxed, dressed down in a gray hoodie and black joggers, his face free of makeup, hair styled into soft waves.

Yunho turned, just as Y/N unbelted the coat and shrugged it off into a stylist’s waiting hands.

Underneath, she wore a silk camisole so delicate it looked like moonlight on her skin, and lace trimmed shorts that barely covered her thighs. Nothing vulgar, everything intentional. Soft. Dangerous.

His eyes skipped straight to her, then back to the monitor like he hadn’t seen a thing.

“Yunho,” Seonghwa’s voice came from behind, perfectly timed as always.

He walked in holding a clipboard and an iced americano, dressed in sleek black as if he, too, was part of the editorial staff.

“Seonghwa,” Yunho greeted, adjusting the focus on his lens. “they’re early.”

“They’re never early,” Seonghwa said, without missing a beat. “they just know how to make an entrance.”

Mingi was already chatting with a makeup artist. Y/N gave Seonghwa a kiss on the cheek and whispered something that made him roll his eyes.

Then she turned her gaze onto Yunho. “Miss us?”

Yunho didn’t blink. “Nope.”

Y/N smiled like he’d said yes.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Hair and makeup took time. The styling for the shoot was elegant, minimalist, but suggestive. Mingi was first into wardrobe, returning shirtless with his hair slicked back, dress pants hugging his hips, polished shoes tapping softly on the floor.

Y/N stepped out in sheer black thigh highs, an oversized cream blazer with nothing underneath, and hair falling over her shoulder. Her lips were painted a flushed rose, her eyes smoky and dangerous.

They looked like sin and silk and high fashion had a baby.

Yunho adjusted the lighting.

“You good?” Seonghwa asked beside him, chewing on the edge of a straw as he watched the monitor.

“I’m fine.” Yunho muttered. Lying to himself and Seonghwa.

“You’re lying.” Seonghwa muttered back, grinning without looking at him. “They’re messing with you again.”

“I’m aware.”

The shoot began.

Yunho directed with sharp professionalism, calling out instructions with a tone that said, do not play with me today, but his eyes betrayed him every time Y/N looked directly into his lens.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

Every pose was deliberate. Every lean into Mingi’s side, every teasing curl of her finger at the edge of her blazer, every flick of her gaze past the camera to Yunho himself.

Mingi was cool as ever, moving with model precision. His expressions, equal parts sultry and confident, were flawless, but every once in a while, he’d glance at Yunho and smirk. Not to provoke. Just because he knew.

Yunho kept it together.

Barely.

Then came the final setup.

“Same lighting,” he muttered, voice a little lower now. “Y/N, lay back on the couch. Mingi, over her, hover like you’re about to kiss her. Close. No touching lips.”

Y/N’s lashes fluttered as she dropped onto the plush velvet sofa, the blazer slipping open just enough to reveal the dip of her collarbone.

Mingi raised a brow but followed Yunho’s instructions, lowering himself over her, bracing his forearms on either side of her head. Their faces were inches apart. Breaths mingling. Charged.

Yunho looked through the viewfinder.

His fingers tightened around the shutter.

Click.

Click.

Click.

She turned her head slightly, just enough to drag her nose along Mingi’s.

And looked straight into Yunho’s eyes.

He pulled back from the camera.

“Good.” He said, too fast. “That’s a wrap on that set.”

Seonghwa blinked. “Already?”

“We got what we needed.”

No one argued, though Seonghwa did smirk like he knew exactly what just happened.

As the team started packing up, Y/N lingered on the couch a moment longer, stretching with a satisfied little sound. Mingi wandered off to change. Seonghwa busied himself at the monitor.

Y/N stood and smoothed down her blazer, walking slowly toward Yunho. Calm. Confident. Dangerous.

“You always get so tense when I’m in front of your camera.” She murmured, voice just low enough for only him to hear.

“I’m always tense when I’m working.” Yunho replied coolly, eyes on his camera screen.

“Mmm,” she hummed, stepping closer, brushing invisible lint from his shoulder. “You sure it’s the work? Because…. your eyes watch me, watch us, like you’d rather be between us than behind the camera.”

Yunho’s throat bobbed with a quiet swallow.

Y/N smiled.

Then walked away like she hadn’t just dropped a grenade.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The studio was slowly emptying, the buzz of production fading into the hum of soft jazz from someone’s bluetooth speaker. Lights dimmed, assistants packed up cables and reflectors, and stylists disappeared behind racks of clothes.

Yunho stood by the monitor, reviewing a few last shots, fingers still wrapped around his camera strap like a lifeline.

Seonghwa approached from the side, iced coffee in hand, looking completely unfazed as usual. “That went well,” he said lightly.

Yunho gave a short nod. “Yeah. They’re naturals.”

Seonghwa hummed. “They’re something.”

He watched the screen for a moment, Mingi hovering over Y/N, lips nearly touching, her eyes locked with the lens like she knew exactly who she was aiming for.

Yunho clicked to the next frame, jaw tight.

Seonghwa took a slow sip from his straw, then said, “Can I offer a little manager to photographer wisdom?”

Yunho glanced over, wary but polite. “Sure.”

“I know we haven’t known each other long,” Seonghwa began, setting his drink down beside the monitor, “but I’ve worked with Mingi and Y/N for years. Been with them through campaigns, rumors, a couple of… interesting personal experiments. Been their best friend longer than that.”

Yunho stayed quiet, but the weight of his stare shifted.

“They’re good people,” Seonghwa continued. “but they don’t do anything by accident. Especially not on set. Especially not with you.”

Yunho’s jaw ticked. “I know what I’m doing.”

“I’m sure you do,” Seonghwa said calmly. “But just so we’re clear, what they did today? That wasn’t random chemistry. That was targeted heat. And you were the target.”

Yunho exhaled, looked back at the screen, then muttered, “You’re not worried?”

“I’d be worried if you were anyone else,” Seonghwa said. “but…. you’re composed. Serious. Professional.” He paused, then added, “Unless they get under your skin.”

“They’re a lot,” Yunho admitted quietly. “together.”

Seonghwa smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “They’ve had thirds before.”

“Yeah?” Yunho asked, trying to sound detached. “How’d that go?”

Seonghwa shrugged. “Depends on who you ask. Wooyoung, the last one? He didn’t last long.”

Yunho raised an eyebrow. “What happened?”

“He got overwhelmed. Thought he could keep up, but… they weren’t looking for someone to keep up. They were looking for someone to play with.”

A beat of silence passed between them.

Yunho swallowed.

“I’m not looking to get involved.”

“I believe you,” Seonghwa said. “But I also saw the way Y/N looked at you before she walked out. And I saw the way you looked back.”

Yunho didn’t reply.

Seonghwa pushed away from the table, grabbing his coffee again.

“Just be careful,” he said casually over his shoulder. “They don’t chase people often. But when they do? They usually get what they want.”

And with that, he was gone.

Yunho stayed by the monitor, staring at the paused image of Y/N beneath Mingi, her mouth parted in a secret smile like she knew he was still watching.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The apartment was dark except for the soft flicker of the TV, the scent of takeout wafting through the air. San was curled up on the couch in an oversized hoodie, one leg slung over the back, mindlessly flipping channels.

Yunho stepped inside and let the door close behind him with a quiet click. He didn’t move for a second, just stood there, face tilted up toward the ceiling, breathing like he’d just run a marathon in hell.

San looked over. “Rough day?”

Yunho dropped his camera bag and keys without a word, then walked straight to the kitchen, grabbing a beer from the fridge and downing half of it before finally speaking.

“They did it again.”

San blinked. “Who?”

“Y/N and Mingi.”

“Ohhh.” San sat up straighter, interest piqued. “This was that Vogue shoot today, right? Weren’t they the ones from that Calvin Klein campaign last week?”

Yunho gave his best friend a long suffering look. “Yes.”

San’s grin spread slow and devious. “Let me guess. More writhing. More half naked posing. More intense eye contact that made you forget your own name?”

Yunho dragged a hand through his hair. “Yes. And worse.”

“Worse how?”

“The first time,” Yunho started, pacing a little, “the Calvin Klein shoot? That was already pushing it. It was all dark lighting, sweaty skin, low moans in the background music. She kept glancing at me like she could see every single thought I was trying not to have.”

San looked absolutely delighted.

“And Mingi didn’t help,” Yunho went on, voice getting more exasperated. “He was calm, chill, like he was used to people drooling over them. But today…. Vogue went more artistic. Silky sheets, skin on skin….”

Yunho groaned, collapsing onto the couch beside him. “And she smirked the entire time like she knew I couldn’t say anything because I was behind the camera.”

“Wow,” San said, tossing him a throw pillow. “you are so screwed.”

Yunho muffled his face into it. “I hate them.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I’m trying to.”

“Is it just her?” San asked curiously, nudging him with a socked foot. “Or him too?”

Yunho hesitated, which was answer enough.

“Oh my god!” San gaped at him. “You want both. You’re officially in trouble.”

“I don’t want….” Yunho sat up, frustrated. “It’s not about wanting. They’re models. This is their job. They’re good at it. Too good.”

He closed his eyes, sighing. “Their manager, Seonghwa, basically warned me, said they’ve had thirds before.”

San’s eyes sparkled. “Then if you’re not going to be their third, please let them know I’m available. I’ve got nothing on my schedule but leg day and a Tinder date I already regret.”

Yunho threw a pillow at him.

San dodged it easily and flopped back against the cushions with a satisfied sigh. “I’m just saying… if they’re hunting, you’re already half in the trap.”

Yunho didn’t reply.

Didn’t need to.

His silence was loud enough.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

permanent tag list: @straycat420 @autieofthevalley @dejatiny @hannahlilibet411 @xh01bri @jintastic-yuyu @maddycline @ultrapinkvoidbouquet @wooyoungsbrat @lucid-galaxys-world @ecriggs1990 @straytiny127 @sannies-tiddies

[c0s-lettuce]

hopeless - fiyero tigelaar x reader

synopsis: fiyero is an interesting, if not irritating, presence in your life. but he surprises you most when he asks you to tutor him.

word count: 1132

warnings/tags: gender not mentioned, reader is friends with galinda

a/n: jumping on the fiyero bandwagon hehehe. timeline may be a bit off, forgive me. hope you enjoy and thanks for reading! <3

You were surprised when Fiyero began caring about his academic progression. It was out of character from what you had come to know of him. You saw a lot of him when he first arrived at Shiz, thanks to Galinda wanting desperately to befriend the Winkie Prince.

Nothing about him impressed you all that much, especially after his awful treatment of those poor books in the library. Sure, he was good-looking and seemed to have the entire student body at his heel, but looks can only get you so far.

You went to the Ozdust that night at Galinda's behest. Fiyero was there, of course, looking far too smug for your liking. He seemed to take an interest in you. But when your indifference was made evident to him, he simply reminded you that his plan to corrupt his fellow students included you.

And from that day on, you could never manage to shake him off.

Everywhere you went, he was there, trying to distract you, following you around or rambling on about something that you couldn't bring yourself to pay attention to. It was bothersome at first, but eventually became a part of your daily routine.

It wasn't until much later, with the approach of midterms, that Fiyero suddenly started begging you for help. He wanted you to help him study. He even called you clever, beautiful, and kind somewhere in the process of his pleading, no doubt trying to flatter you.

He mentioned something about finally having a reason to stay and not wanting to get kicked out of another school. You agreed begrudgingly, mainly because you knew he wouldn't stop asking if you didn't. But also because you couldn't fathom the thought of him going away. Much to your chagrin, the prince had grown on you.

And so, you made plans to meet, deciding on the quad at first. A good decision; you still didn't trust Fiyero being in the library. As the first study session approached, you started growing a little nervous. You hadn't spent time with him in such a manner before. You suspected it was just the 'Fiyero Tigelaar Effect' that so many Shiz students suffered from and reminded yourself it was no big deal.

However, it was definitely a big deal to Galinda. She pranced into your room unannounced the morning before your first meet-up with Fiyero, later prompting your roommate to talk to you about boundaries. Galinda insisted on helping you prepare for your 'date', lending you a pair of over-the-top shoes and attacking your hair with a brush.

Despite the girl's efforts, it made no difference to Fiyero later that afternoon, who just smiled and told you that you'd been 'galinda-fied'.

As the days passed, Fiyero managed to stay consistent with you, only sometimes changing locations based on his heart's desire. The two of you move to the garden, the cafe and even the Oz-forsaken library. At first, you suspected this whole arrangement may have been some ploy for him to 'corrupt' you, but after a few sessions, Fiyero does the unexpected.

He turns out to be completely serious about this. He listens to you, he tries to understand, and he very, very rarely decides to distract you.

You're almost impressed.

That brings you to now, just a few days before midterms start. You and Fiyero are cramming in one last study session.

The two of you are currently situated on the floor of his dorm room. He sits with his back against the the side of his bed as he racks his brain over a linguification paper. You sit facing him, your arm resting on the mattress, propping up your head.

Fiyero furrows his brow and mumbles some words to himself. You should be helping him, you think to yourself, but your attention has been entirely diverted in the last ten minutes. You're not focused on the paper but on Fiyero and his adorable facial expressions instead. To your defence, the two of you have been at this for over an hour.

"Can we take a break?" he speaks up after a while.

You blink, momentarily caught off guard, but you quickly recover. You decide you could do with a breather yourself.

"Yeah, of course," you tell him.

"Thank Oz," he mutters, unceremoniously dumping the paper on the floor.

You watch as it joins the multitude of textbooks and worksheets that are scattered about.

Fiyero slumps against the bed, tilting his head back to rest on the mattress. "This is hopeless. I'm never going to get it."

You turn your attention back to him, smiling reassuringly. "Sure you will. Don't give up now."

"You have too much faith in me," he replies.

"And you have not enough," you tell him.

He lets out an exasperated sigh in response, covering his face with his hands. You watch him as silence falls between the two of you. It's unfair how he makes being distressed look so good.

A few more seconds of silence pass before Fiyero speaks again. "I just thought of something that might help."

"Oh? What would that be?" you ask.

"A little motivation, that's all," he shrugs, sitting up slightly. "If I pass my midterms, will you let me take you out?"

You raise an eyebrow, slightly amused by his idea. "You mean on a date?"

"Of course," Fiyero smiles. "We can go somewhere proper. A nice dinner or something."

"Right, and we'll just conveniently ignore how we're not allowed to go out at night."

His expression becomes mischievous as he leans closer, "Well, you do remember what I told you at the Ozdust all those weeks ago, don't you?"

You hum in response, catching his drift. So maybe this was one big ploy after all.

"Please?" he asks again, his voice softer. "I'll be good. I promise."

You let out a sigh of your own. Yours is of a different kind of exasperation than Fiyero's. After all, how could you ever say no to that face?

"Alright," you agree, "A date, as long as you pass everything."

He beams brightly, your answer pleasing him more than he's letting on. "Yes, great! Thank you. You won't regret it."

You smile in return and decide not to tell him you would still want to go out with him regardless. Perhaps actually having to work for something might do the prince some good.

He's still grinning as he picks up the linguification paper and dutifully resumes reading it. It's a stark difference from his earlier befuddlement, and you're not sure if he's only pretending to understand or if your agreement to his terms was really the push he needed.

Either way, it meant you could go back to your staring. And with nothing left to do but wait, that's precisely what you do.

➸

[specsthesecond]

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°

It’s only a split second longer before you and your orc jump apart and start frantically running around your small living room.

As you run to the kitchen, you hear him frantically gathering the pieces of paper on the table as he shoves them and the translation book under the couch.

You yank his now dry, blood crusted tunic and the bloody cloth off the drying rack in the kitchen and sprint back into the living room, tossing the tunic at him and shoving the cloth under the couch.

You search around the room for anything else to hide while your orc struggles to pull the tunic over his head, grunting as the effort causes him pain. You both freeze in place when you hear the faint but deafening sound of the old wood of your porch creaking under the weight of a boot. You jolt into action and pull your orc further into the cottage away from the door.

The look he’s giving you is terrifying, not at all unlike an animal being hunted. You’re sure you share a similar expression. You keep pushing his massive body into the hallway opposite the door, he’s obviously very conflicted, he doesn’t know if he should hide or stay with you. If he isn’t with you he can’t keep you safe, but if he doesn’t hide that will just leave you both in danger.

After a moment of deliberation he relents to your desperate pulling on his arm and follows you further into the hall until he reaches the only two other doors in your small cottage, the bathroom and the bedroom. Seeing his massive frame in your small hallway might have been funny any other time but now it only fills you with more dread, how the hell are you going to hide an entire orc?

You feel the orcs muscles tense and you grip harder on his arm when three deliberate knocks sound from the other side of the front door. You both stare at the door from the dark hallway, fear frozen, almost debilitated by the inevitability of the situation.

You squeeze past him, open the bedroom door and rush him inside. Motioning for him to just wait and be quiet, he looks back at you with eyes so apologetic, so worried, it makes your heart ache as the door clicks shut.

Another three knocks spike your nerves. Every step towards the imposing wooden door is taken with regret. You place your hand on the knob, breathe a deep breath in and then turn it to open the door.

The rush of cold air is definitely not the only reason your skin prickles. The knight from before stands on your porch, except this time he brought two friends, with their own horses and crossbows.

He eyes you with barely hidden disdain and you stare back as emotionless as you can muster.

He gauges your reaction for awhile, clearly wanting to see all the regret on your face from how you disrespected him earlier. You try to give him nothing but a blank expression, legs trying not to shake and hand clutching the doorknob. You break the silence by muttering,

“How can I help you, Sir?”

It’s hard to meet his gaze because when you do it's terribly obvious that it isn't just hatred in his eyes, he’s studying you. He makes it so clear that he knows you're hiding something and he isn't being fooled for a second about exactly what it is you’re hiding.

“Orcs have been spotted in this area, My lady. We are here to ensure your safety. May we come in?”

He states formally, his pleased expression lets you know how little both of you believe that. A tense moment passes before you harden your voice enough to say,

“Why would you need to come in my home?”

He only looks more pleased with himself, like he knows something you don’t. His condescending gaze lingers on you before he moves it over to the snow covered ground just a few meters away from your home.

Your nerves ignite again when you catch the blood stained snow on the ground, marking exactly where your orc was shot, your eyes follow the red trail in the snow all the way to your front door. You can barely will yourself to look back at the knight knowing he has noticed your breaths quicken and your posture tense even further.

When you do look him in the eyes, all amusement in them has disappeared and nothing but contempt and disgust remain. You try and slam the door shut but the knight is faster, he’s got you in a corner now, you’re desperate actions are as predictable as a game animal.

He overpowers you and slams the door open with his shoulder, you fall to the ground, only able to watch as the man steps into your home and closes the door behind him. You catch the apathetic gazes of the other two nights as the door clicks shut, ceiling you in your own house.

You kneel in front of the knight and do the only thing you can think to do now, you beg.

“Please, please. He's not dangerous, Please!”

Your tear soaked pleading awards you nothing but a vile look of disdain from the man standing above you, which only makes you sob harder. A crack sounds out in your home and your shoulder hits the floor, hand clutching your stinging cheek.

As the knight mumbles something about a "Filthy wench", all you can think about in that moment is how truly pathetic love makes a person, how pitiful it’s clutches render you. You don’t even brace for the boot that slams into your stomach, only cry out in pain at both the impact and the stab to your heart. There is a sudden jerk heard from further in the house, and you smother your cries with your hand but it’s too late.

The knights gaze is fixed to the hallway. He doesn’t look back at your body on the floor as he unsheathes his sword and stalks closer.

Animalistic fear spikes in your veins the closer he gets to the bedroom door. A cold rushing in your bones as your nerves fire. What does an animal do when it’s cornered, when all other options are exhausted? You’ve never felt so much hatred for a living thing before in your life. His steps get further and your instincts grow louder, you look around for anything to help you and your gaze fixes on the bow you left on the floor next to the door. You dropped it there while helping your orc inside, your orc who was bleeding out because of this man. You crawl towards the weapon and wobble to your feet, grabbing a lone arrow from the floor as well.

The knight must hear the staggered movements because he finally looks at you, body trembling, chest heaving, aiming an arrow right at his face with a carnally intense gaze.

The knight clicks his tongue, your ragged state must not scare him as much as it scares you. He doesn’t say anything but he doesn't need to, you can see all his emotions plain on his face, he knows he was right to treat you like an animal.

The knight doesn't take his gaze off you as he slowly places his hand on the doorknob and turns it, waiting for you to make a move. Your hands shake, the string isn’t pulled taught enough and your stance is wrong. Even if you had enough will to shoot you’d probably miss. The knight scoffs and opens the bedroom door.

A barrelling force slams the knight to the wall opposite the door, before he can yell, in pain or for backup, a green skinned hand covers the entire bottom half of his face, muffling any sound he could make. Your orc now stands in the hallway, knight held up to his chest, one arm restraining the knights arms and torso and the other hand covering his mouth.

The man struggles and struggles, letting out muffled yells as you stand stock still, arrow positioned to fire. Your orc looks into your eyes, as he holds the man tighter. He can see the turmoil in your eyes as the arrow shakes in your hold. Your orc tightens his hold on the man stopping his struggling and giving you a clear opening. Your gaze moves from the man to the orc, he looks at you with all the love he did before. You'll never know how he conveys such deep emotions with his eyes but it grounds you, stabilizes your nerves and steadies your aim. There is such love in his eyes but there is also pain, he looks sad, the saddest you’ve ever seen him. He thinks this is all his fault, he’s made his love a killer.

You pull the string taught, breathe one last breath as an innocent woman and let the arrow fly across the living room into the man’s chest. You don’t miss the heart like he did, he dies quickly, chokes and gargles muffled by your orcs hand as he falls limp.

The orc slowly lowers the body to the floor. Closing his eyes before mumbling something to the warm body. He then picks up the knights dropped sword, stepping towards you. You grab your quiver and the rest of your arrows, you don't meet the orcs gaze.

You put two fingers up and motion towards the door, he nods and takes position behind the closed door. You perch yourself behind the kitchen counter, some distance from the door.

A sizeable time is spent waiting in your positions, your muscles sting with the tense position as you try not look at the body in your hallway. You finally hear a knock on the door and a voice call out,

“Had your fun yet? It’s getting late.”

As the door is creaked open and the man steps inside, your orc strikes a blow to the back, stabbing the heart right through the ribs. The other knight yells for his friend and runs inside like a fool, he leaves himself wide open as he runs up the steps of the veranda and you shoot an arrow through his heart.

It’s cripplingly quiet for a long second after his body thuds to the floor at your doorway. The ease at which you've ended these men’s lives leaves a horrible surge in your stomach and a dull pain in your heart. You should feel at least comforted that you've saved your own in the process but the comfort never comes.

You walk to the middle of the living room, meeting your orc half way, he drops the sword and embraces you gently. You drop your bow and sob in his chest. There is no celebration, there is barely a sense of relief between you. Sighing, you rub your eyes and pull away to look into his eyes, and say softly,

“Leave together.”

He smiles sadly down at you and lightly kisses your forehead. He silently picks up the body of the last man killed and takes him outside. You watch the blood drip from the body as he carries it away.

You turn and walk to your room, taking a moment to stare at the body in the hallway before stepping over it. You open up the massive trunk in your bedroom that you use for storage and start taking out anything you don’t deem worthy of taking with you.

The lack of sentimental items in your house often made you sad, no gifts from family or friends, no souvenirs from far places or little useless trinkets, just the necessities. You never once thought this would be a good thing.

Opening your cupboard, you start pulling out clothes and shoving them in the massive trunk. You don’t have many clothes that aren’t essential so most of it gets tossed inside. As you're doing this, the thought of just how permanent this decision is weighs heavily on you. You can hear shuffling in the living room as your orc drags the other bodies out of your home and outside to be buried, you assume. It will take him at least an hour to dig the hole, the dirt should be just melted enough to dig without much issue, at least for him.

You head to the bathroom grabbing your toothbrush, medical supplies, products, lye soaps. You can hear the rhythmic sound of shovelling dirt just outside the small bathroom window. He must have found the spade you keep at the back of the cottage. You give the small room a final scan before closing the door.

You drag the heavy trunk across the floor into the living room and place a few too many books into the trunk, you doubt it’ll be easy for your orc to find Human Common books in orcish markets. You collect all the papers hastily shoved under the coach and retrieve your translation book. A throw blanket, various notebooks, pencils and everything that catches your eye for more than a second gets thrown into the trunk.

You head to the kitchen where you grab you favourite mugs, some hand made, some bought from the market, your red ceramic pot, your flask and some of your dried meats and teas before dumping it all inside. You look down at the pile of all your most loved possessions and feel an emptiness in your chest. This really was a rather empty life you’ve lived. You sigh and heave the lid of the trunk closed, latching all your belongings inside.

You grab the two coats on the coach, sling on your bow and quiver and lug the trunk onto the porch, dragging it down the few steps onto the snowy ground. The knight's horses must have trotted away by now, heading back home without their riders. You wonder if they had anyone waiting for them at home, a lover, children maybe? You won't be missed but will they?

You throw on your coat as the orc pats down the last pile of dirt before making his way to you. You meet his gaze with an apologetic look, reaching up to hold his cheeks. He bends down a little so you can reach and welcomes your touch. Your gaze moves down to his blood crusted tunic, a reminder of the inevitability of this outcome. You hold out his heavy coat and he takes it with a smile. He picks up the heavy trunk and makes it clear he will be carrying it the rest of the way.

You give one last forlorn look at your home before turning away, following your orc into the treeline and into your new life.

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°

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[sarahghetti]

moving day; m.k.

pairing: marc spector x reader, steven grant x reader, jake lockley x reader

summary: how marc and steven learn to live together, how you come to live with them, and how jake finally lets himself live at all.

warnings: basically a BIG character study into our boys, fluff, hurt and comfort, angst, insecurity, mentions of marc's childhood, mentions of violence, suggestive content but nothing explicit.

word count: 9.9k

notes: this one got away from me and might also be the best thing I've ever written (i'm very proud of it 😭). part of the @MOONKNIGHT-EVENTS bingo! prompt: “'is that my shirt?'”

MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST | ALL MASTERLISTS

Even though it was (and still is) under Marc’s name, the flat was Steven’s first. Marc just helped set it up a little.

He rented out the first decent unit he found in the city and kept every piece of mismatched furniture the previous tenant left behind. The essentials had to be filled in himself—a bed, couch, and desk. A table to go with that rickety stool to eat meals on, a coat rack near the doorway. The only belongings of his own that Marc left behind were his old Egyptology texts, unceremoniously shoved into a corner of one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that he hoped Steven would like.

(The fish was unexpected, though. Steven already had everything he would need, and it was Marc’s mistake to be scrolling through Facebook Marketplace on one of his last days before he handed it all over to his alter. A complete aquarium set was being offered for next to nothing; attached: a photo of the original poster’s late goldfish. Backlit from the tank light, blank faced and innocent.

He just couldn’t move on.)

But it was Steven who then took Marc’s—their—card and ran with it. Every free surface was prime real estate for another journal, another tomb. The used bookstores of London never stood a chance; it was almost impressive to watch him scour the shelves for the most esoteric topics and still come out with his arms full of what he was looking for. Marc would wake up in the body to find Steven’s collection a little bigger than before and ghost his fingers over the spines during those brief moments of respite before having to put on the suit.

It didn’t stop at the books. Of course, it didn’t. Steven’s always had an affinity for oddities. Marc wasn’t the least bit surprised to see the new paper lantern hung over the living room, or the pumpkin-esque footstool that was coloured as though it was plucked off the vine just a tad too early.

The pieces were quaint at best. If there were any psychological meaning as to why his alter gravitated towards dingy, threadbare upholstery instead of an IKEA like a normal person, it was beyond Marc.

However, he couldn’t not admit that it all kind of worked once put together; the clashing mix of materials and colours sort of became its own style when combined under the wooden rafters. Even when the books started overfilling the storage capacity and ended up in piles on the floor—it only added to the charm.

Marc was sure to erase every trace of his presence around the flat to avoid interfering with Steven’s life, but that didn’t stop the sense of longing to return to their—Steven’s—home during missions.

It was still a mess. A mess where everything has its place, yes, but there was no way that Steven could trip over several odds-and-ends in one day and claim that he was any degree of neat or tidy. Marc silently griped to himself about it all the time, but he’d sooner eat that dusty-ass rug Steven got for free before he saw anything get thrown away.

(It was like this back when they were kids, too. Marc’s childhood bedroom in Chicago—a room he never finds himself thinking about outside of his nightmares—was filled with joy. Medals from peewee baseball. Posters from his favourite movies, carefully smoothened out and taped to the walls by his dad. Drawings by him and Randall piled at the corner of his desk.

Right after the—the accident, all his stuff remained, immortalized in place. As if keeping everything the same would somehow also make Marc’s life the same as it was before, and Randall would come bursting through his door at any moment to ask him to come play. It was an overarching belief in their household. Even on her worst days, his mother’s anger never touched their home. Only him.

But then things began to change. His old action figures, collecting dust, would be strewn about the floor, waiting for someone to continue the battle. A collection of particularly smooth rocks began appearing on his windowsill despite the fact that he hadn’t gone outside in days. He’d wake up to grass-stained jeans and a scraped knee which Marc didn’t know how he got, for once.

Steven has always been like a crow, bringing all these little gifts for Marc to enjoy—these signs of life—even when he wasn’t aware of it.)

-

Coming back from Cairo feels like it should’ve been a bigger deal than it was, but after the dust settled on Harrow and Layla decided to return stateside alone—a decision that seemed a long time coming, if Steven’s being honest—there was nothing else to do other than to go home.

They have one blissful, uninterrupted day of sleep. Steven was the one to wake up sixteen hours later, mouth dry, and instinctively panicked at the thought of losing days again before realizing that Marc was also (and still is) out cold.

When he finally woke up a few hours later, half-asleep even in the reflection of the mirror, Steven couldn’t help himself from asking, “What now, Marc?”

Because Marc was the original. Marc was the one with a real life and legal status. He might never want to walk the streets of Chicago again, but that didn’t change the fact that he only came overseas to run away. Everything around them was a temporary measure.

Marc straightens. “I won’t bother you too much, I promise.”

“You still have your own life,” Steven reminds him.

“Still—”

“Oh, don’t start—”

At least they agreed on one thing: they were going to stay in London.

Marc cleans out his storage unit, bringing home an array of bins and duffel bags and that shitty fold-up cot that he still refuses to toss. Steven immediately got him his own dresser when Marc tried to insist that he ‘didn’t have much’; that was a blaring warning that he was about to do something stupid and sacrificial, and Steven had to put his foot down before a nearby charity got a donation of some well-loved button-downs.

It’s almost funny, how predicable Marc was when unpacking. Steven watched as he pushed all their new furniture against the walls then methodically unpacked bin by bin, stacking the empties inside one another like Russian dolls. Like Steven, everything he owned had a place, even after months spent stored away. Marc was just a lot more neat about it.

“Move my stuff if you want,” Steven pipes up. Marc doesn’t react, only continuing to store his notebooks on top of a filing cabinet. “Really, I’ve already read everything on that middle shelf there—we can put them somewhere else.”

Marc glances around the bookshelves. “Aren’t these alphabetized?”

“Well, mostly, but give me an hour or two and I’ll free up some space.”

It’s like a puzzle, and Steven’s always liked puzzles. Marc’s gone quiet in their head, out of excuses as to why he can just shove all his belongings out-of-sight so that Steven wouldn’t have to go through the effort. Now, if he would just believe Steven, then he’d know that reorganizing his books was hardly any effort at all.

And even if it was—he’s been meaning to do this for a while. An alphabetized collection is great until he gets a new book, because then everything has to be shifted over, and—well. There’s a reason why there were so many books languishing on the floor.

They pass off the body like that for the rest of the day, moving things around in the flat in order to accommodate Marc. It looks no less hectic in the end, despite Marc’s best efforts to tidy up a little, but it also doesn’t look any worse, which Steven sees as a win.

There are still so many things they need to talk about. Scheduling, routines, the fact that they’re currently both out of a job—either one would be lying if they said that this new life didn’t make them a bit nervous. But when Marc finally flops down onto their bed, a movement as easy as breathing, the pieces begin to settle into place. The last of his bins have been put away. His jacket hangs beside Steven’s as if it’s always been there.

In the headspace, Steven beams. Whatever comes, however hard—they’ll face it together.

.

.

.

Somehow, Steven wakes up one day and feels great.

There are a few minutes more until his alarm goes off, but he turns it off early. The usual grogginess that accompanies him this early is completely absent, and he rolls up to a seated position without a single mental or physical protest. He feels so good, in fact, that he even considers skipping his morning cup of tea.

(He doesn’t, of course. They quickly figured out—well, Steven did, Marc already knew—that they differed in their caffeinated beverages of choice. Steven, a strong cup of Yorkshire Gold with a healthy splash of milk and a teaspoon or two of sugar. Marc, a simple drip coffee, black, made from the most generic-looking brand of medium roast beans.

Not to say that he wishes to be separate from Marc or anything of the sort, but Steven imagines his feelings to be like that of a sibling who was always dressed in matching clothes as his brother. Marc might’ve graced Steven with an interest in Egyptology from his mercenary work and Gus from his—their?—brother’s drawing a lifetime ago, but as far as they know, his preference for tea was just a quirk.

Steven likes having something just for him.)

Marc had the body last night—he must’ve gone to bed early. Must’ve drank camomile tea and avoided blue light the entire time he was fronting because Steven could run a marathon like this and still go into work afterwards. He’s about to ask Marc for his secret when he spots an unfamiliar rumple of fabric on the pillow where he laid his head.

“What’s this now?” Steven murmurs, gathering the soft material in his hands. A woman’s sweater, obviously, with its feminine cut and style and faintly sweet scent that short-circuits his brain for a moment.

It doesn’t take a genius to realize how it got inside their flat, what with how there’s a whole other person living in his head, and it would explain the strange marks he found on his neck the other day—

Heat blooms in his face and Steven nearly drops the sweater back onto the pillow in embarrassment. Distantly, he knows that he should’ve seen this coming. Marc is Marc; Steven’s witnessed the quiet confidence the man extrudes from inside their headspace and the resulting, ah, attention it attracts.

In the corner of his eye, his reflection stills. Steven doesn’t even bother turning around—just holds up the offending sweater and asks, “Fun night?”

Marc, strangely, is quiet. It’s not like he’s one to talk about his romantic pursuits, but Steven at least expected a dry comment or two. He shakes the sweater like a bag of treats until Marc scowls. “Stop that.”

“Not judging,” Steven says, “but don’t suppose you got a number? Should I make a run to the donation bin for you?”

“No.” There’s an edge to Marc’s voice, and he purses his lips when he realizes that he responded a little too fast; Steven’s questioning look is pointedly ignored. “Just leave it on my desk for now.”

“Is she coming back or is this just like a—” Steven makes an ambiguous gesture, full of innuendo “—thing for you?”

“What? No—what?”

“Okay, okay,” Steven finally lets up because the groove between his alter’s eyebrows has become something fierce. He slips out of bed to place the sweater on Marc’s desk as requested, then throws one more comment over his shoulder for good measure, “Bring her home for dinner one day, would you?”

“Steven!”

-

“Is that my shirt?” You move towards the armchair, a smile tugging at your lips as you pick up the folded garment. It’s been freshly laundered. Marc wouldn’t burden you if he could help it.

“Mhm.” He doesn’t stir from his seat on the couch, tracking your movements with fondness in his eyes. You’ve been to their place plenty over the past few months and quietly, he relishes in the domesticity.

They’re simple things, like knowing your preferred spoon in their drawer or how you like your toast; the ease in which you curl into the cushions next to him—your spot, he can’t help but note—draws a contented little sigh from him.

“You know, if you want me to do your laundry, you can just ask.”

He would. Steven would prod endlessly as he does with all things related to you, but Marc’s managed to get this far with vague explanations and stubborn hand-waving. He’d endure the nosiness if it were for you.

“Although,” he continues, giving you a once-over. His eyebrow quirks at the familiar cotton long-sleeve enveloping your torso. “I’m not even sure you have laundry anymore.”

“Well, maybe if your clothes weren’t so comfortable, I’d stop stealing them,” you tease.

(His clothes aren’t boring, Steven, just—utilitarian. Between Khonshu and his mercenary work, Marc needed plain, flexible pieces; ones that made him blend in anywhere and ready for anything. Nothing that he could get too attached too, either. Everything he wore was at risk of getting ruined by grime and/or blood and/or tearing from various weapons. Of course, he doesn’t own anything ‘nice.’

Not like Steven. Not with his hodgepodge closet filled with colours and patterns, everything just a tad too large on their frame. Marc groans about it every time he takes over in the middle of the day—just a size down, just one. But the issue is that Steven likes it like that, likes the comfort and roominess he finds in his thrifted pieces, and so Marc dropped it as a serious topic, even though he still doesn’t quite get it.)

“This why you had to wear my jacket the other day?”

Steven’s sudden appearances don’t phase Marc anymore, even when you’re around. He just gives him a slight nod without missing a beat. “At this rate, I won’t have any clothes left for you to take.”

“Guess I’ll just have to borrow something from Steven then, hm?”

Before Marc can even begin to think about what to say to that— “I think my white jumper would suit her really well.”

He shoots a glare into a nearby mirror and just barely catches a glimpse of Steven’s grin in the reflection. Part of him wants to tell Steven to stop hitting on his girlfriend, but hesitates when you look at him expectantly, still waiting for his response.

He’s not ashamed of Steven, far from it. Still, a sliver of self-consciousness worms its way into his chest at the thought of talking to him in front of you. He’s done it before, but—he knows how it can look.

You’re more perceptive than he’d like. Marc sees the moment when it clicks in your head. “Is he here right now?”

Excitement bleeds into your voice. You’ve been wanting to meet Steven for a while. Marc showing up to a date with tousled curls and a colourfully-printed button-up instead of his usual streamlined style, a slew of scribbled papers piled onto the armchair you like to lounge on, a sticky note left on one of your books (‘oooh good choice! x’)—all these things that sent panic strumming through his veins were only ever endearing to you, for some reason. It’s lessened his worry by orders of magnitude.

Still. Letting you meet Steven is one step closer to talking about his childhood. His mom. His brother. He’s given you a high- high-level view of things (“It wasn’t great.”), but the thought of going any further makes his throat tighten. There’s a whole failed marriage that proves his inability to be vulnerable.

So, it must truly be a bout of madness that makes him say, “The white one.”

“What?”

“What?”

“The white sweater,” Marc continues, because he’s already thrown himself off the bridge—there’s no use trying to backtrack now. “He says you’d look good in his white sweater.”

Your face slowly morphs into an expression of pure joy; you do nothing short of jump off the couch to bolt to their bedroom. Steven chatters excitedly in his ear, only pausing momentarily when you slip off Marc’s shirt.

“Oh! Um! She’s—she’s very—wow—" Marc feels the strangest urge to punch himself in the face again—

—And then you reappear into their field of view, a dream in fine knit. Steven’s sweater be damned, your beaming smile is more than enough to render them both speechless.

“How do I look?”

The sweater isn’t his, but it stirs the same syrupy feelings in Marc anyway. You’ve spoken about it before—and him privately with Steven—where Steven stands in your relationship with Marc. All he’s ever let himself hope for was for you and Steven to be cordial, maybe even friends. Of course, he’d have to actually let you guys speak to each other for any of that to be possible, but you two seem to have grown comfortable with each other regardless.

Now, he sees you in Steven’s clothes and his thoughts run rampant. Ours. He tests out the word and his heart skips a beat. It’s always been a possibility; one you all were open to if it ever happened. But he could never ask either of you to try to love each other on his behalf.

God, that word does something stupid to his brain—Steven’s rattling off compliments and other things of his you should try on and invites to go thrifting—and Marc just sits there, dumbfounded by his own hypothetical scenario. “Come on, Marc, say something!”

You move to stand in front of him, and his thighs part automatically to have you close. It takes your hand on his cheek, gentle as you stroke your thumb over his skin, to pull him back to reality. “You okay?”

“You look incredible.” His voice dips in the way he knowsmakes your stomach swoop, and is promptly rewarded with your flustered smile. The moment doesn’t last—not with Steven cooing in his ear over you.

A pang of possessiveness runs through Marc. That smile was for him, thank you very much.

His mouth works faster than his brain. “Steven has something to tell you.”

You light up. “Really?”

“Wants to tell you himself, actually.”

Steven splutters, nerves coming on in full force. Marc bites his tongue to keep a straight face. “Well, now, hang on a minute—”

Steven’s introduction was always going to be a well-thought-out but casual event, as to not make a circus out of it. It was just who they were, after all. They wouldn’t switch in front of you—Steven would change into his wardrobe and ‘do’ his hair beforehand; Marc worried it might be too much for you to see him but hear Steven. He would’ve prepped you both plenty in the preceding days, regardless of how necessary it was.

It definitely would not be the stunt he’s pulling right now.

Your eyes narrow at the placid look on his face, too casual to not be suspicious, but meeting Steven must outweigh the want to catch Marc in the act of whatever he’s planning because you don’t call him out, hands frozen on his face. It’s cute, watching you struggle between overt enthusiasm and not wanting to pressure them into anything.

Marc would even enjoy it a little longer if it weren’t for the confused and alarmed word vomit spilling out in his head.

“Stop messing about—I mean, it’s not—not odd, yeah? For me to front a little? Just a little chat, can’t be all that bad. Please be messing with me, but I can do it, s’not a big deal. Yeah, yeah, it’s whatever—oh, boy."

Taking pity on the poor guy, Marc quiets him with a steady glance into the mirror. “You sure, buddy?”

Slightly shrill but no less serious, “Are you sure, Marc?”

And then Marc’s fun little charade teeters on its head—is he ready for this? You and Steven wouldn’t hold it against him if he pulled the plug on it all right now, but this is the closest he’s ever gotten. The band-aid has to come off, lest he lets this fester for the length of another relationship.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, his flare of panic comforted by the patience in your eyes. More confidently this time, “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Steven’s smile is clear in his voice. It mirrors your own.

“About time, innit?”

-

Moving into their flat isn’t a decision you make all at once, but rather a slow, steady conclusion that you’ve been unintentionally working towards ever since you first visited.

The clothes were just the start. It’s not like you didn’t have perfectly good clothes before you met Marc, but his were just better somehow. Soft and simple, all in that neutral colour scheme he seemed to gravitate towards. The warm, woodsy scent of his aftershave clings to the fabric, making you want to bury your nose into the garments and go right back to the source—

You just couldn’t help yourself from borrowing something whenever you came over.

(That pleased, half-lidded gaze you receive each time you slip on his shirt, or his heated touch whenever he drapes his jacket over your shoulders during chilly morning afters—well. Those are just a bonus.)

So, maybe you left a shirt or two behind in the process. And maybe you realized that you should probably have a pair of sweatpants there as well, and a good book to read during quiet nights in. Once, you forgot your toothbrush only for Marc to pull out an extra from their medicine cabinet; now you have a toothbrush in their bathroom.

After you finally met Steven and his adorable, eclectic self—all bets were off. You bond while scouring vintage shops and finding new pieces for the flat. A little basket of throw blankets gets added to the living room (always neatly sorted by Marc, without fail). Candles—tall and stout, festive and fruity and spiced—start to litter the shelves. A particularly good haul at a used bookstore, a bit heavy for you to carry home, is instead slotted amongst their collection; the contemporary fonts and colourful covers are a stark contrast against the yellowing older texts, and you love it.

Your fingerprints are all over the place by the time Marc officially empties some space in his dresser for you, uncharacteristically avoiding your eyes as he speaks, “Just in case you wanted to keep some more stuff here.”

You were already using their closets before then (in both the storing-your-clothes sense and the stealing-their-clothes sense); you’ve practically taken over one of his drawers. But to give you one outright, to admit that he’s carved out some space just for you instead of silently accommodating your things as he always has—

“Thank you, Marc,” you whisper, brimming with emotion that you wonder if you’ll ever be able to fully express. He’ll flit about and clean and care for you because words will never capture the depth of his feelings. You see this for what it is, like all the gestures that have come before: a declaration.

“Thank you,” you repeat, and press a soft kiss onto the corner of his mouth. “I love you, too.”

It’s not much long after when Steven comes home from work grinning like a madman, one hand held behind his back. He beelines towards you, not even bothering to put his bag down.

“Hey, you.” You peck his lips and feel his smile stretch impossibly wider. “What’s got you all riled up?”

The words come out in a rush. “Havesomethingforyou.”

“Oh?”

“Close your eyes.” You can’t help but laugh a little as you follow the direction; Steven’s excitement is utterly infectious. “Okay, now hold out your hand.”

“If you give me a bug, I swear to God—”

“I would never.” His seriousness is a bit too heavy-handed, and you get a feeling you’re going to need to be on guard for a while.

You’re distracted, however, by the brush of his skin as he places something small and rigid into your palm. The metal is warm from being clasped inside his hand, but the shape is so familiar that you recognize what it is immediately.

“You can open—”

You’re already looking down—at the silver key to the flat nestled in your hand. Lonesome without the Koala plushie on Steven’s keyring, without the little charm you got for Marc’s—no, it’s meant to be your copy.

“We were thinking, right,” he starts before your heart has the opportunity to beat right out your chest, “Marc and I—well, you’re here with us most of the time. You should have your own key. Beats having to come grab mine from the museum, right?”

You let out a choked little laugh, too caught up to remind him that the only reason why you went to the museum was because else he would’ve dropped everything to deliver the keys himself. Spent his entire break and then some to commute back home so that you wouldn’t have to wait for his shift to be over, even though you could’ve amused yourself just fine outside until then.

“Yeah,” is all you manage to get out before stepping forward, burying your face in his chest as you wrap your arms around his torso. Steven’s love is unbridled; he holds you close, going on about how glad he is—how glad they both are—to have you, how he was practically bouncing off the walls at the locksmith, waiting for the key to be cut.

They’ve been your home for so long now that while the new addition onto your keyring makes you giddy and smile stupidly whenever you get to use it, it also just feels right. You go grocery shopping with Marc and watch him scrutinize apples like they personally offended him. Steven tangles your legs together as you wind down in the evenings, and always always smiles whenever he catches you looking at him. You rank the restaurants around the neighbourhood and line your favourite mugs beside each other on the shelf; you sit in the comforting quiet of the flat and wonder how you got so lucky.

When it’s eventually time to renew your lease, there’s no decision to be made. You’re relieved from dinner prep to write the email to your landlord on their couch. It’s sent off with no fanfare and quickly forgotten about when Marc’s voice rings out, asking what you want to eat.

“Anything,” you say, the ghost of a smile on your lips; he hates it when you say that. Marc grumbles a little, but you mean it this time. You have them and they have you. Curled up in one of Steven’s sweaters, Marc’s playlist on low in the background—anything is just fine by you.

.

.

.

You are the bane of Jake’s existence.

First, you meet Marc. Terrible. Khonshu is riding his ass about a mission in Liverpool—they’ve now been geolocked to stay under the radar—and Marc plans a date. An actual, Godforsaken date with a set time, throwing a wrench into their plans because Steven’s been scheduled to work on the surrounding days as well. How is he supposed to sneak off to the other side of the country now?

Even worse, you stick around. There are more dates between the two of you. For how much he hates texting, Marc responds promptly whenever you send him something. He frets over what to wear before picking you up. You stay over at the flat and he holds you in his sleep like he’s afraid you’ll disappear; Jake has been unluckily enough to wake up in the middle of the night, planning to slip away, only to be hit with the scent of your shampoo in his nose.

Then—and then—Marc has the bright idea to introduce you to Steven. The hope that this is just a casual, temporary thing is dashed away the second Jake sees that lovesick expression on the idiota. It’s more overt than Marc’s, but still the same blaring warning sign that Jake’s life is only about to get harder from here.

Keeping a low profile has become incredibly difficult since the others decided to be normal. Marc never questioned whenever Jake took over in a tight spot, too hyped up on adrenaline and too stubborn about their condition to follow up on his blackouts after the fight was done. Steven was clueless about everything for those first few months, then just blamed his blackouts on Marc.

But now? They talk to each other. They have a year-long calendar on the fridge with a magnetic pen holder to keep track of their schedules, colour-coded blue (for Marc) and green (for Steven). They’ve gotten distracted and added another consciousness for Jake to deceive in order to do his thing. He can’t take the body for more than a few hours, and certainly not by force, without drawing suspicion.

Jake’s happy for them. Really, he is. They’ve finally begun to move on from the trauma of their childhood into something that resembles a normal life. Steven’s gotten rehired at the museum as a tour guide. Marc’s taken up security consulting. And despite their respective anxiousness and ten-foot-walls, you bring them peace.

But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s Khonshu’s avatar now. That a lifetime ago, when the work began to wear down on Marc in all the worst ways, Jake was the one who cut a deal with the god for his release. All he had to do was take his place.

(Foresight might not be his strong suit, but he refuses to take responsibility for what happened next. He could never have imagined all the puppetry that’d occur with Layla in the mix, or that they’d actually divorce one of these days and end up with someone new.

Except this time, you know about their system and not about Khonshu. He wonders how well you’d take that whole mess.)

In short—Marc and Steven still need him. He can’t just up and disappear into the recesses of their mind; he has a job to do.

So, when Steven presses that fucking key into your hand, Jake’s so frustrated he could scream. Unfettered access to the flat—as if you weren’t there enough already. As if he weren’t already jumping through every hoop imaginable, just to keep his existence a secret. He would’ve made them drop the copy down the nearest gutter on the way home if he didn’t know that they would simply go right back to the locksmith and ask for another.

Steven watches as you slip it onto your keychain; that all-encompassing, vibrant burst of joy in their chest be damned—you are the worst thing to ever happen to Jake, even if you might be the best thing to ever happen to them.

-

Steven had the flat, Marc had his storage unit, and Jake?

Jake has his car.

Multiple, actually, but the limousine is the legal one (thanks for your identity, Marc) and serves as his homebase. Supplies are stashed in compartments around the cabin—weapons, clothes, cash—and with its heavily tinted windows, he can do anything he wants inside and passersby would be none the wiser. When Khonshu’s booming voice echoes around his brain about some new target, at least Jake can recline into a soft leather seat.

The only issue is that he can’t keep everything there. No, the parking garage is a fair distance away from the flat and sometimes, he doesn’t have the opportunity to make the trip before setting off. This means that he has to keep a change of clothes in the flat to avoid accidentally ruining some of Steven’s or Marc’s. He’d never actually wear anything of Steven’s to begin with (at least, not on a mission), but Marc’s wardrobe is minimal by choice—if something went missing or got a new, unexplained hole in it, he’d notice.

That’s why Jake is currently slinking through their living room, ready to change back into Steven’s pajamas before hiding his clothes on the loft above their bed. Nothing up there but empty bins and poster tubes. Marc regularly dusts the area during his monthly deep cleans, so Jake doesn’t even have to worry about leaving behind any tracks.

It was an easy job tonight, done in little less than an hour and not a speck on Jake to show for it. He could take a shower if he wanted—you’re staying over at a friend’s place right now, as noted in red on the calendar. But he shouldn’t keep the body for longer than necessary; they still need sleep, after all.

He slips off his flat cap, groaning as he runs a hand through his hair. God, they’re getting old. Even this stolen hour will be felt by whoever wakes up in the morning, slightly slower and groggier than usual.

(Jake doesn’t think about the future—has never needed to. The only future that exists to him is the next minute, and the minute after that, and what he has to do to ensure the body makes it there. Him and Marc were similar in that aspect for a long, long time.

That calendar on the fridge, while helpful to his vigilantism, stirs something uncomfortable in his gut. He’s seen them flip through the months to mark down birthdays and reservations. Vacations, work events—Marc’s going on a completely normal, non-violent work trip, which Jake still can’t quite wrap his head around—and it’s all so far ahead.

How can they be so sure that nothing will change between now and then? That their life won’t blow up again, and force them on the run? Everything they add is just another handful of salt to be pressed into the wound when it all goes to hell. But they still write things on that stupid calendar. Confident, excited even, about the plans they think will come to pass.

How do they know?)

There’s a rustling in the bedroom.

Oh, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck—

“Marc?”

You shift a little under the covers, trying to peer at him through the darkness. Jake’s never been more grateful for Marc’s sensible taste in fashion; with only a silhouette to go by, of course you’d mistake him for Marc—straight-cut jeans, a collared jacket. His flat cap would tip you off though, and he presses it into his chest to hide it from your line of sight. Marc would never wear a flat cap.

He forces a casual tone. “Hm?”

A small sigh of relief escapes you as your head falls back onto the pillow. Still watching him, though, you mumble, “Bad dream?”

You know about Marc’s time in the military and as a mercenary. Not everything, obviously, but enough. Jake nods, and can imagine the worried purse of your lips in the shadows. In the best impression he can manage, his accent turns Chicagoan. “Just had to take a walk.”

If he were really Marc, he’d already be in bed by now, letting you brush curls away from his face and press a kiss against the furrow of his brow. If he were really Marc, he’d ask you why you were back here instead of with your friends as expected, and you’d talk things out until dozing off in a tangle of limbs, comforted by each other’s presence.

But Jake’s not Marc. He brushes off the subtle tightening of his chest as just a lingering remnant from his alters. The body knows you, even if Jake doesn’t. It doesn’t mean anything to him.

You whine, a sleepy and pitiful but inviting noise from the back of your throat as he continues to stand in the living room. Alarm bells go off in his head; he has to placate you before you get up and try to drag him over yourself.

“Just need to change,” he says, soft and low, warmth injected into every word. Nausea courses through him, to his own confusion, as he continues to play Marc. This should be easier—he’s been hiding for as long as he can remember. This is probably the tamest thing he’s done to keep his cover. “Go back to sleep, I’ll be there in a second, okay?”

He takes two steps towards the kitchen then stops, feigning—feigning something, fuck if he knows—waiting for your breathing to level out again. Silence falls over the flat, but Jake’s mouth runs dry.

There’s no way you don’t bring this up to them in the morning, and there’s no way they won’t immediately suspect another alter. They know he exists, have seen the aftermath of when he fronts. It’s only his secrecy that has kept them off his back for this long, and it will all come crashing down in a few hours.

For better or for worse, he’ll have to meet the others soon.

-

Marc will never tire of waking up beside you. Even though there’s a heaviness weighing him down, body aching for just a few more minutes, he pushes through because you’re already awake. With one hand on his chest, the other tracing over his jaw—the small, lazy smile on your face has already made his day.

You turned over while he was asleep, but his arm is still slung over your waist; he pulls you closer to press a kiss onto your forehead. Lips moving against your skin, “Morning, baby.”

“Morning,” you murmur. “Feel better?”

Mind hazy from sleep, Marc doesn’t question the odd wording. He just let’s himself settle into the lingering fatigue, leaning into your touch as his eyes flutter shut again. “M’tired. Stay with me a little longer?”

Concern laces your tone. “Was the dream that bad?”

That breaks through to him. He peers at you curiously, more alert than before. “What do you mean?”

You blink, confused. “Your nightmare last night. You left to take a walk?”

Marc sits up, furrowing his brow. Reality seeps in, and he checks the date on his phone. Aren’t you supposed to be—? “I thought you were staying over at a friend’s place.”

“I was going to, but she had a family emergency—I came back here around three. Don’t worry, they walked me home,” you explain with a soft pat of your hand at the end. That—that is one mystery solved, and he is glad to hear that you weren’t walking alone at night, but his shoulders remain taut with tension. His mind gets caught on a detail.

“Three?” He’s a light sleeper, he would’ve woken up when you came into bed. But—your words replay in his mind. He wasn’t here when that happened, was he? “I went on a walk?”

His stress begins to spill over to you, and you prop yourself up on an elbow, fiddling at the blankets. “Um, yeah. We spoke a little when you came back—I was already in bed, remember?”

A pit opens up in his stomach, and the words die in this throat. Marc does not, in fact, remember. He apparently went outside in the middle of the night, long enough for you to come home and settle in without him, then had a whole conversation upon return—and none of it is familiar to him. Not even a hint of déjà vu.

He throws off the covers, on his feet in seconds despite your protests. All hisblackouts, the ones he thought were finished after traversing the Duat—

That third sarcophagus—

Is this what it was like for Steven? To wake up, not knowing what your body has done, where it’s been—if it’s hurt someone?

Marc might actually puke if he thinks about it for too long. And God, you live with them now: him, Steven, and what Marc wishes was a complete unknown. But the truth is—they aren’t an unknown. No, Marc is fully aware of what this alter is capable of.

“Oh, bugger, what’s going on?” Steven must feel his panic, reflects it in kind. He must be expecting bloodshed with how fast their heart is racing.

Marc says nothing and flings open the tri-mirror on the wall, bracing himself with both hands on the sink below. He sees himself in the center, a bull primed to fight. Steven’s to the left, so fearful he’s nearly frozen still. And to the right—

To the right—

-

So. Jake hasn’t really prepared for this situation, to be honest.

He’ll face anything head-on to keep the body safe, but imagining himself as the threat? Never crossed his mind. There’s anger in their blood, and Marc’s liable to cracking the porcelain with his grip. If looks could kill, Jake would be dead ten times over.

The few times he wondered what it would be like to actually meet Marc and Steven, the worst that could happen was that they disliked him. Unfortunate, but he’d live. He didn’t need their approval to do his job.

But through the blood rushing in their ears, he can hear you; still in bed, barely breathing as you watch everything unfold. And that’s when he remembers—

You are the bane of his existence.

Because Marc and Steven aren’t just thinking about their own self-preservation. No, now they have you to protect, and the lengths that they would go to do that, well—Jake begrudgingly has to admit that they might rival some of his own efforts for them.

He’d let them stare at themselves forever in the mirror if it weren’t for that fact. They would never give up on trying to talk to him. Steven was clever enough with the sand and tape and ankle restraint; he doesn’t want to think about what sort of traps they’d create with Marc in the mix. Jake would probably still evade them all, but they’d drive themselves crazy in their attempts.

They’ve really left him no choice. For the first time, he lets himself be seen.

-

You’ve watched Marc and Steven talk to each other plenty of times. It’s really no big deal. They’re just normal conversations where you can only hear one side, and usually taken through the nearest reflective surface.

But this? This is an interrogation. Marc slackens his jaw for just a moment before everything in him tenses again. He speaks through clenched teeth, as if barely controlling the severity of his thoughts—you can’t help but brace yourself for impact. “Who are you?”

The pause as he waits for the other alter, whoever they are, to respond is maddening. It wasn’t quite fear that gripped you when you realized that it wasn’t Marc last night—to be honest, you don’t know what to feel—but the scene in front of you has you reevaluating your initial reaction.

That initial reaction being, well—the same thing you felt when you Marc told you about Steven: curiosity. You wanted to meet Steven. Almost begged for the chance near the end. Whoever this is—

“Jake.”

The name grates itself out of Marc’s throat, and you cling to the information like a life raft.

“Jake.” You can’t help but test it out on your tongue, squinting a little as you look at your boyfriend and try to see yourself calling him that. Marc looks towards you. There’s a storm of emotions in his eyes, but there’s no time to decipher any of them—a moment later, he turns back towards the mirror with a scowl.

“Why should I believe you?” The lines on his face deepen; Marc grits his teeth so hard you yearn to hold him, but you’re frozen to the spot.

“I don’t know that. After you—” his eyes dart between you and his reflection so fast, you might’ve imagined it “—after what you’ve done?”

A wave of dread washes over you.

He’s not talking about last night.

No, Marc—Marc has interacted with Jake before, and whatever happened must’ve crossed a line. Must’ve crossed several lines because of how he’s acting right now, and you want to bury yourself under the covers, still fisted tightly in your hands.

He laughs bitterly. The sound rakes through your ears. “You call that protecting us?”

Your blood runs cold. With no real context and spiked with adrenaline, your mind runs rampant with the possibilities, connects all the worst dots.

There’s no way—

“Lay a hand on her and I swear—”

You want to run and you want to hide and you want their arms around you, assuring you of—of anything. You need to leave this building and also never go outside again, because your head begins to pound with each thought that passes through.

You can still see the worry flare in Marc’s eyes when you accidentally grabbed the handle of a hot pan, the dutiful and tender way he held your hand under the tap for no less than fifteen minutes—

You can still hear Steven’s babbling when your new shoes rubbed your ankles red and raw while on a walk, distracting you from the pain the best he could until you got back home—

You are just so acutely aware of their love—that Marc and Steven would never dare hurt you. It’s impossible to reconcile your memories of them with the picture that’s being painted of Jake right now.

No. You can’t believe it.

You’re not even hearing their conversation anymore, your heartbeat is too loud. Breathing returns to you in a rush—you never even realized you stopped—and your vision swims with light-headedness.

None of it makes sense.

It—it can’t—

The mattress dips beside you, but you barely feel it. Someone’s cupping your cheeks, grounding you back into the flat, your home, and you know these hands. You know this voice, soothing in your ear, even as you shut your eyes.

They say that they’re sorry. They say that you’ll be okay.

They call you princesa.

-

It feels strange walking around the flat, knowing that he’s welcome there now.

Jake’s seen every nook and cranny through Marc and Steven, but to actually be able to explore the place himself—he’s like a kid in a toy store. He can’t help but run his fingers over everything. The spines on the bookshelves, the mismatched dishware in the cabinets. That velvet throw pillow, which you are so fond of playing with during movies—yeah, he gets it.

He’s not going to be talking to you for a while, though. After his rocky first meeting with Marc and Steven, which also coincides with the absolute worst possible first meeting with you—

It’s best to steer clear for a while.

Jake let the other two do the explaining. He watched silently as Marc told you about his past—told you about why he was discharged from the Marines and the scenes he’d wake up to after Jake had fronted—hands shaking as they held onto yours. He watched as Steven took over when it got to be too much, adding in the finer details and clarifications, steadier but no less genuine than Marc. Their arms were gentle as Steven held you in their lap, patient as you stumbled through how you felt.

“Marc seemed so mad at Jake.” You clutched at Steven’s shirt, sniffling into his neck. “I didn’t know what was happening, I—I was scared.”

No. Jake furiously shakes his head as if it would jostle the memory out of his brain. Just thinking about it threatens to unravel him, and he has to keep it together. He’s on thin ice as is.

You had been the one to temper their emotions—the sight of you panicking on their bed grinding all other issues to a halt. The conversation couldn’t continue until you were okay, and this time, Steven kept you in the loop.

Steven is wary. Steven needles him about what he’s been doing all this time, asks him what he’s going to do now with short little mhms. Steven is also the one to buy a new set of pens (because black is already used for non-individual specific events) and designates him as orange.

Marc doesn’t trust Jake at all and admits it outright. It’s—it stings more than he thought it would, but he understands. He always knew that Marc would take a while to come around, especially with you to consider—

Jake doesn’t know why he worries so much about your opinion. Protecting you is an extension of protecting the body, but he never used to care about what Marc or Steven had to say. He hates the caution in your voice when you talk about him and can’t help but appreciate you trying anyways.

He pinches himself. You’re not his to think about, period.

Acknowledging his existence also, sort of, comes with accepting it. Steven somehow finds the space for another dresser in their already cramped bedroom. Jake doesn’t even have enough possessions in general to fill that thing—not counting all the weapons and ammo that Marc would definitely have their head for if he brought them into the flat.

It’s an olive branch on both sides, though. They’re committing to having him around. He’s committing to being around, instead of lurking in the background of their lives.

His clothes only fill up the first drawer but—it’s nice. Jake stares at the thing a lot more than a used, scratched-up piece of furniture probably warrants. He can barely admit it to himself but this, all of it—going outside during the day, eating a freshly-cooked meal, even just relaxing in bed without immediately trying to go to sleep in order to Protect the Body—it really is just nice.

(Since when did he describe anything as nice?)

Then—your keys turn in the door.

.

.

.

Jake hits the eject button so fast, Steven’s probably going to get whiplash.

“Nice reflexes,” he grumbles as you enter the flat. It was funny the first few dozen times. Now? That twat’s just being a coward.

“I’m home!” You call out as Steven rounds the corner to greet you, tote bag nearly bulging in your hand. He pecks your lips as he helps you out of your jacket, then hangs it up beside the three others on the rack. “There was a little creators’ market in the park—you should’ve seen it!”

“Think I’m seeing it now,” he chuckles, moving to help you with your tote. You slink past him at the last second, grinning. “Come on, love, show us what you got!”

“They’re gifts! Just hang on.” You place the bag on the dining table and enraptured, he pulls up a stool. His head rests on his chin as he waits for you to unpack. “Okay, first, for Marc—”

You reach your hand inside and reveal a pair of black leather gloves. Not driving gloves like Jake’s—there’re far less embellishments all around. But they’re warm and flexible, perfect for colder weather. Inside, the lining is made with a material so soft that when trying one on, Steven can’t help but laugh a little in disbelief.

“Treading on my territory, pendejo?”

Marc snipes back, “Like you own a monopoly on leather gloves.”

Steven lets Marc pull to the front. An easy smile spreads on his face as he flexes his hand, testing his movement. “Thanks, baby. I really like them.”

He takes your chin into his gloved hand to thank you properly, slotting his lips against yours with no shortage of appreciation. His grip is an anchor, holding you in place as he kisses you, deep and languid. Like you have all the time in the world despite the heat flickering across his skin. When Marc gets like this, it’s not long before you start squirming under him, and your hands paw at his neck for something more.

That’s his cue to finally pull away, smirking as he traces your bottom lip with his thumb. Whether it’s the leather or him or both, he can see the effect on you, the dazed look you give him when you bat your eyes open.

Let Jake try and beat that.

“Oi! Share!”

Marc sighs. Drops his forehead to yours and reluctantly doesn’t continue any further. “Steven wants his gift now.”

“Oh,” you laugh a little, realizing the situation you’ve put yourself in. “Maybe I should’ve done Steven’s first.”

Marc steals one more kiss before retreating again, and Steven is back, clearly eager for many different reasons now. After putting Marc’s new gloves to the side, you don’t make him wait a second longer; you pull out a stunning new button-up, deep navy with a pattern of large teal palm leaves and hints of salmon accents all over.

All traces of joy disappear from Marc’s voice. “Oh, my fucking God.”

“She’s an enabler. I can’t believe it.”

Steven gapes, amazed. “How did you—”

“I had to go digging,” you admit, gesturing widely. “There were so many racks, we need to go back! I only had my one bag!”

“There’s no way people actually buy this stuff.”

“Ahh, well, it’s not that bad—"

“Are you kidding me?”

Ignoring the fashion police in his head, Steven immediately switches shirts and tosses the old one somewhere behind him. Based on Marc’s grunt, he missed the couch, but also can hardly find himself to care.

He doesn’t even bother doing up the buttons, because he knows where you’ll put your hands when he descends upon your face. Kiss after kiss on your cheeks, forehead, and nose, and soon enough you’re giggling loudly into the air. Your hands are warm against his bare torso, pulling him closer even as their stubble tickles your skin.

“Stevie—Steven! There’s one more!”

He’s not letting you off that easily, though, and finally captures your lips with his. That does buy him a few more blissful seconds until you manage to push him away; breathing heavily, you point sternly in his direction—behave.

Steven schools his expression into one of perfect obedience, teasing, but you barely even react. With one glance back down at the table, it’s like the tote bag sucked away your excitement, leaving shy uncertainty in its wake. You’re biting your lip as you reach for the last gift, quiet.

Marc hums, trying to figure out what’s wrong. Steven offers you an encouraging little smile and is about to say something when you produce the last gift in a rush, still not meeting their eyes.

It’s a simple wool scarf, colour-blocked in soft browns and greys. He waits as you fiddle with it in your hands, trying to find the words.

“He doesn’t have a scarf,” you blurt out. When Steven doesn’t respond immediately, you continue. “Jake, I mean—I don’t think he has one. I thought it would be nice.”

He follows your gaze to the coat rack near the door, filled with four sets of outerwear. It clearly doesn’t fit all the jackets owned in the household, but his favourite is hung up next to Marc’s, which is hung up beside your overcoat and Jake’s collared jacket. Various cold weather accessories are layered onto the hooks as well, multiple pairs of gloves, hats—but there are only three scarves.

Come to think of it, Steven hasn’t seen Jake ever wear a scarf either. “You’re right, love. Doesn’t his neck get cold? I know our neck gets cold.”

The corners of your mouth tug up a little and he grins, triumphant. He tunes into his head, making sure he doesn’t miss any of Jake’s reaction, but nothing comes. That’s odd. It doesn’t feel like he’s gone, more like—holding his breath.

“Think he’ll like it?” You tilt your head, though your true question is clear on your face.

The words can’t come out of Jake fast enough. “I’m not here right now.”

“Jesus, man.”

Steven huffs but covers for his alter; they’ll press him about it another time. “Once he sees it, I don’t think he’ll ever take it off.”

The gloves and scarf are added to the coat rack, which is liable to falling over one of these days due to the heavy load it’s carrying. With no shortage of complaining from Marc, Steven picks up his discarded shirt and tosses it into the laundry basket. It’s almost full—he makes a note to do a load later this week.

He must look ridiculous, parading around in an undone button-up, but you have nothing but fondness for him when he returns to cuddle with you on the couch. You’ve changed into Marc’s sweater and have to move no less than five decorative pillows in order to make enough space.

Marc makes a distressed noise when Steven throws one of them to the side. “It’s fine—”

It hits the standing lamp and you both freeze as you watch it teeter on its base, creaking ominously. After a moment, it steadies again.

“It’s only fine because of your weak throw.”

Steven splutters as he pulls you into his side. “We have the same arm!”

They bicker about the mechanics of their body, whether muscle memory crosses over when they switch or not. Marc is squarely of the opinion: No. Steven reminds him of when he punched the Jackal, and the conversation continues to devolve. Jake refrains from getting involved but spurs them on regardless with a well-placed snicker here and there.

It’s an aimless argument that has you burying your face in your hands because you’re laughing too hard; one of many that have taken place and one of many that have yet to occur.

In the morning, Marc will cook you breakfast and throw an eggshell into the bin from across the kitchen just to prove a point. Steven will go back to the market with you to buy armfuls of his favourite clothing and home goods, and he’ll add one more to his bag for every snide comment Marc makes. And Jake—

Jake will take a little while longer until he feels ready to speak to you, but you see the scarf gather raindrops and the warm, woodsy smell of their aftershave as he wears it every time he goes outside. Always see it hung up neatly on the rack, on top of his jacket so it can properly dry.

And with all four of you settled in, their cluttered little flat in London—long overflowing with books and clothes, your favourite comforts and some truly unique furniture—finally started to feel complete.

[tejuskumar13]

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[pinkdaiisies]

Fred Weasley x Reader Favourite

summary: Late night common room cuddles lead to quite eventful mornings.

notes: anybody a fontaines d.c fan? I've had the line: "You've been my, favourite for a long time" stuck in my head for a while.

Fred glanced at you from across the couch in the common room. It was late, and the common room was nearly empty. Even George had gone upstairs because he was tired.

Fred had slowly started to inch closer to you on the couch. The spot that was once occupied by George was now empty, allowing Fred to sneakily sit closer to you. You paid no attention to him, your gaze followed the words within your potions textbook, preparing you for your exam later next week.

You and Fred have been playing this game for a while now. Lingering glances, legs touching on train rides, sitting too close in the great hall, and even late night common room cuddles.

It was tearing you apart.

You were best friends with Fred and George since the first train ride to Hogwarts. As the years progressed you realized how much Fred meant to you. Although it seemed like Fred felt the same way, it was too nerve-racking to have a conversation about it. Because what if you were imagining the stolen glances, or the hand holding that lasted too long for just friends? You'd rather just enjoy it than to put a label on it and ruin something great. Because at the end of the day he really was your best friend.

The heat from the fire comforted you as you tried to retain the information from the book. Eventually, you felt Fred at your side, still paying him no mind.

"Hey," he said while taking your chin into his hand, guiding your gaze from the pages to his freckled adorned face. You knew he could tell the exam was eating you up inside. "Take a break, would you?" He whispered softly. His voice sent butterflies to your stomach. You nodded reluctantly as you closed the book and tossed it to the ground.

Fred put his arm around you, and you rested your head on his shoulder. You two had spent many nights like this. Waiting for everyone in the common room to leave just to spend some time alone, rushing back to your dorms before anyone would suspect anything.

You two chatted about nothing important for a while. Fred occasionally tracing patterns onto your leg. The motions being extremely relaxing, made your eyelids feel heavier. The last thing you remember was Fred whispering in your ear about pretty you looked with the lighting from the fire.

Next thing you know, you're laying horizontal, Freds arms completely around you. Your back was to his chest, with your legs scrunched due to the size of the couch. Your hands were intermingled with his.

"Harry do you still have that muggle camera? I have got to remember this forever!" The voice of George made you wake up a bit.

"Merlins beard!" Ron's shout made both you and Fred jump up.

You both looked at each other. Realization setting in at the same time. With widened eyes, you separated from Fred, adjusting your clothes from the day before.

What felt like the entire Gryffindor class, was in the common room staring at you two.

With overlapped shouts trying to defend yourselves, you and Fred slowly backed into the dorm entrance to make your escape.

You got dressed and clean as quick as you could. Although you wish you could curl up into a ball and never leave your dorm ever, you grabbed your bag and descended toward the great hall for breakfast.

You entered the common room in a rush. Fred was waiting for you. The common room was empty besides the couple sitting on the couch you and Fred had fallen asleep on. The boy kissed his girlfriend on the cheek as she giggled.

You kept walking in a rush while Fred caught up with you. You turned towards him as you stopped walking.

"What are we going to say Fred! This wouldn't have happened if you had just let me keep studying!" You whisper shouted, not wanting to draw any more attention to yourselves.

"What do you mean! I thought you wanted this as badly as I do!" Fred shouted back.

"What do you mean?" You said as you looked up at him.

"Well, obviously I'm in love with you! I thought you were too, but if you want to pretend this never happened go ahead!" He turned for the common room exit, but before he could leave you grabbed his wrist.

"Are you sure?... that you're in love with me?" you asked nervously. Having this conversation was just as scary as you had imagined.

Fred said your name softly, "We fell asleep on the same couch together, what do you think?" This caused you to giggle.

"I love you too." You smiled up at Fred who pulled you into a hug.

"Let's get breakfast. I'm starving." Fred said as he grabbed your hand and guided you to the great hall.

[sumuraj]

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[redcali]

Caleb comforts you when you fail your exam ✶⋆.˚

WARNINGS/TAGS: slight suggestive content, pseudocest, use of gege as nicknames, fluff and comfort. 1k words

── °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

You had studied so hard for your Biology exam.

So when the teacher passes you your failed paper, you’re struggling to hold back tears as you stare down at the 40% scrawled in blood-red ink on the front of your paper, your fingers trembling as an onslaught of emotions washes over you.

You have barely trudged up to the front porch of your home when Caleb immediately spots you from where he is, bent over the plants and meticulously going through each of them with a pair of trimmers. Your eyes are welling up and your lips curve downwards, and Caleb notices. He instantly gets to his feet, tossing away the pair of shrub trimmers he is holding and strides up to you.

Caleb can always tell when you’re upset. He’s loved you for as long as he can remember and can so easily read you like a book.

“Pips!” Caleb gently grabs you by the shoulders, forcing you to look at him. You just sniffle and collapse into Caleb’s warmth. His big strong arms wrap around your body as he lifts you off the ground. You cling onto him, your arms wrapped around his neck like a needy little koala as he carries you bridal-style towards the front door.

“Tell me, what’s wrong?” His voice is gentle, but authoritative, firm. You never lied to him. Mainly because he will always find out and punish you whenever you are being bad.

Caleb momentarily removes one arm from around your waist to push open the door. It swings open with a creak and he carefully steps into the house, pulling off your shoes and neatly stacking them on the wooden shoe rack he had built himself a few years ago.

“I failed my Bio test, gege. I studied so hard for it.” Your eyes are wide and brimming with tears as you look up at him. Caleb’s eyes flash with alarm at the sight of your tears, and his hand reaches out, callused palm gently cupping the side of your face. You instinctively lean into his comforting touch, quietly sniffling. When the first tear leaks out and rolls down your face, he is quick to brush it aside with a swipe of his thumb.

“You do know that it’s okay to do badly sometimes, right?” Your body gently sways and bumps against his firm chest with every step he takes up the staircase, chain necklace gently slapping over his heart. He reaches your room and looks at you expectantly. You’ve reached your destination. But you don’t want to let go. So you cling onto him tighter, arms locking around his neck fiercely. Caleb makes a small, surprised noise in his throat as he looks at you.

“Your room…” You whine, and Caleb obliges, maybe a little too quickly, as he gives you a little hoist in his arms and heads towards his own room, just a few steps away from yours. Entering the familiar space of his room, he deposits you onto his bed and you curl up in his soft bedsheets, hands fisting into his blanket and pulling them up over your tear-stricken face.

When you feel Caleb’s large, warm hand against the small of your back, you burst into tears. And it feels good to finally be full-on crying. His hand feels like an anchor, keeping you grounded as you finally feel free to wallow in your own sorrows, releasing all your feelings of pent-up frustration and disappointment that have just been stirring in the pits of your stomach like the darkest, stormiest of clouds.

He gently lifts you off from his bed and onto his lap, stroking your hair as he circles his other arm around your trembling body. You lean into his chest, your legs wrapping around his back and entwining your bodies together. Like two peas in a pod.

You avoid looking at him, mostly out of embarrassment. Your hand covers your face as you rest your head on his broad shoulder. But Caleb doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like the way you’re trying to hide from him right now.

His hand trails down from your hair to your face and finally stops on your chin as he pulls your face to meet his violet gaze.

“Look at me, pips. You do realise that life goes on even if you fail one test, right?”

“But …” You sniffle, squirming in his lap, legs brushing dangerously close to his crotch, and Caleb’s breath catches in his chest. “I really tried to do my best …and I still failed. I feel like an idiot and…”

But Caleb cuts you off. “Listen to me,” he says firmly, tightening his grip on your face. “Gege doesn’t like it when you talk like this about yourself. You are not dumb. Do you know that you’re the most intelligent girl I know?”

“That’s not true…” You reply doubtfully. How can you be the smartest? For one, you’re terrible at cooking even if your life depends on it, and, you’re still clueless as to how to tie your own shoelace. Or maybe that’s just because Caleb has always been by your side, caring after you so much you never need to lift a finger.

Caleb cracks a smile as he leans down to nuzzle his face up against yours, and you can’t help but giggle at the sensation.

“You are, pipsqueak. The brightest and funniest girl I know.” His words make its way to your heart, and you can feel yourself glowing with a warmth. You always love it whenever Caleb praises you.

“Really?” You huff, and Caleb pokes your cheek, his eyes twinkling.

“Of course. My meimei is the best.” He says it proudly as he looks at you with sweet affectionate eyes, and then he adds with a steady tone, “The prettiest girl too.”

Pink creeps up your cheeks. “Gege, stop that.”

“We’ll study for it together, okay? I’ll teach you next time, you could have just asked me. Zayne gives terrible answers … that’s probably why you failed.”

୨୧₊˚⊹♡₊˚⊹୨୧