#brass glasses for drinking

[livecrow]

You're out with friends and joke that you're “un-kidnappable”.

John Price and the lads think that’s interesting. 

Soft!Dark!John Price x fat fem reader

(cw: noncon)

You don’t recall exactly how it came up. Maybe it was the latest episode of a popular true crime podcast a couple of your friends mentioned listening to the other day.

All the same, while lounging in the familiar bar’s cozy glow, the atmosphere at the table stayed light and relaxed, despite the morbid topic.

Between drinks, your friends detail stories of encounters with dubious men and swap self-defense strategies—anything to avoid an impromptu debut on a Dateline special.

They were mostly the basics. Remember to lock your doors immediately. Keep your phone on you. Never leave a drink unattended. Always travel in groups. Oh, and carry pepper spray. It turns out all of your friends carry some.

Not you, though.

When you are inevitably questioned on the matter, you concede that you have some, "...somewhere."

Your mom gave you a little canister years back. But you don’t actually know where it is, much to the displeasure of your friends. Upon further interrogation, you guessed it’s probably forgotten in a drawer somewhere, lost among AAA batteries, tangled cords of unknown origin, and appliance instruction manuals. 

As one friend suggests the classic keys-between-your-fingers trick, some of the men at an adjacent table laugh.

“Best use for keys when you’re attacked is opening a damn door.”

Apparently, they had been following your conversation. It was the oldest man who spoke, rumbling over the rim of his glass with aplomb that leaves little room for argument. He has a resonance that makes you pause, reminding you distinctly of the distant rolling thunder that forebodes a coming storm. 

The dark, handsome man at his elbow agrees. “'Sides, they’re not brass knuckles. No stability. You’re not actually gonna cause any damage like that.”

“Aye, ye’r better off jus’ takin’ one key an poppin’ the bastard’s een out.” A man sporting a mohawk added with a grin, crudely miming gouging an eye out with his free hand.

“Fine, I’ll punch them out then!” the smallest of your friend group counters, palming her fist loudly while trying to keep a straight face.

That just earns more amusement, of course. The huge masked man at the end of their table scoffs, “Like that you’ll jus’ break your fuckin’ thumb.” He proceeds to instruct her how to make a proper fist. 

It's all in good fun. They’re an interesting bunch, probably military of some sort, you’d wager. Three Brits and one Scot. Your group welcomes the interruption, despite the biggest one of the lot looking particularly murdery himself, decked out in all black and a fucking skull balaclava. 

The gregarious, younger two made up for it. They were all smiles, speaking candidly as if they’d just run into some old friends. Before long you’ve practically joined tables. Why not? After all, the four certainly look like they know what they’re talking about, each man large and brawny.

The younger men did the vast majority of the talking, answering questions and enthusiastically offering techniques to their audience while Voorhees only interjected a brusque retort every so often. Your friends were utterly charmed by the Scot’s cheeky beam and the pretty Brit’s warm eyes as they moved from outlining bodily weak points with an emphasis on “soft targets” to discussing the pros and cons of different weapons.

But there was something about the man who initiated the discourse—some quality. He held an unspoken commanding presence, despite saying little. Here he was, the catalyst of the entire interaction, and yet he seemed content to observe rather than participate. It brought to mind some indifferent, deist higher power.

You estimated he was a decade his mates' senior, give or take. Apropos stormy eyes framed by heavy brows and the beginnings of crow's feet. Odd, antiquated facial hair, wood brown with smatterings of grey. Privately, you thought it suited him—looked distinguished. At some point earlier he caught your gaze.

He introduced himself as “John.” Although, curiously, none of his cohorts called him that or introduced themselves in turn. Not that your friends seemed to mind; that, or they didn’t notice. 

Along with his name, he offered a subdued Duchenne smile that disarmed you, softening his gruff countenance in an instant. For an instant, anyway.

You’d swear that, even in the bar’s low lighting, you caught his eyes twinkle. Some uncharacteristically childish sentiment swept over you for a moment, making you want to believe that the look was for you and that he wasn’t in reality only being polite.

“...honestly, if you have the stomach for it, your best choice is always gonna be a strap.”

The Scot readily agreed with pretty-boy, as he reclined, his chair balancing precariously on just the back two legs. However, they did quibble over the type of handgun, debating various specifications that were gibberish to the rest of you. While they all listen enraptured, only one of your friends really seems truly open to the idea. The rest unsurprisingly remain gun-shy. 

Another friend suggests a taser as a compromise.

“Not for me,” you laughed, “there’s absolutely no way my ass wouldn't immediately accidentally taser myself."

“No mace, no taser, no knife—not even one of those keychain alarms!” your friend groused. “You should have something—”.

Your eyes met again. You and John. Even with the subtle haze of alcohol relaxing you, it felt penetrating. 

Your eyes retreated down to his drink seeking relief. One of his large hands flexed slightly around his glass, thick tendons shifting under the skin and scattered vellus hair peeking over his cuff, dusting as far as his knuckles.

He seemed to be in thought as he took a drink. Whiskey you think it was. His shrewd eyes didn't leave you; maybe he was just looking through you—

“How do you keep yourself out of trouble then, love?” 

His timbre immediately cut through the chatter. If you weren’t feeling so fizzy from the drink, you might feel put on the spot when suddenly everyone’s eyes are singly on you.

You were effectively the token “fat one” of your group. While the rest of this friend group happened to be straight-sized, there was absolutely nothing “straight” on your body. Hell, there was hardly a part of you that didn’t jiggle, at least a little bit.

You didn’t resent it; you were just self-aware. You were perfectly cognizant that you blended in among them about as well as a hippo “blends in" with oxpeckers.

If you were entirely sober, you might be a bit put out, might worry he’s being mean, poking fun at your expense. But no, the alcohol thankfully chased away any anxiety from building in your gut.

Besides, there’s no humor to be found in his expression, no edge of malice in his eyes. None of his mates crack a smirk either, apparently also interested in your answer.

You were mid-sip when the question was lobbed your way, and you used it to stall. You weren’t sure precisely why, but you found yourself squirming in your seat a bit before recovering half a second later. 

“Me?”, you grinned around your straw, cocking a brow. “Trust me, I’m not worried about it. I’m practically un-kidnappable,” you asserted, in a way that sounded suspiciously boastful.

John’s focus remains steady on you, appraising, but the other men share a glance. 

You could have left it at that, but pretty-boy chimed in, brow furrowing. "How do you figure that?" 

You weren’t completely sure that the men weren’t just being intentionally obtuse, but you’d entertain a ridiculous question with a ridiculous response. Flippancy came naturally. 

You carefully set your drink back onto the table. You lean in, voice lowered to a grave tone, biting back mischief that threatened to give you away. “Listen, my strategy is airtight,” you paused. “If some guy comes along, tries something?" You hold again for dramatic effect.

"...Sit on him."

"Oh my god," your friends groan collectively.

But you went on, unfazed. "It's all over for him! Why would I need a weapon when I have positional asphyxia? Besides, if that doesn't kill him, the embarrassment will."

Any outrage falls on deaf ears considering your friends are fighting back grins.

Buoyed, you continue. "It’d be like someone trying to ‘kidnap’ a grizzly bear. I am not gonna get abducted unless the guy just happens to show up with a forklift—", that earns a swat from your friend sitting closest.

"—And if that's how I get caught? Honestly? I’d have it coming if I somehow missed the fucker rolling up and can't, what, power-walk out of there?"

Another friend beseeches, "Be serious!" 

“I am serious!" you shot back, laughing. "Those things go, what, 5 miles an hour, tops?"

Apparently, the rest of the group also found the image of a low-speed fucking forklift chase funny, judging by the Scot's almost spit-take that left him choking a bit. You were pleased that he and pretty-boy had a sense of humor and didn’t bother with the pretense of finger-wagging. 

You were disappointed you didn't get John, though. He only hummed thoughtfully, an odd liminal not-quite frown on his lips that was mostly obscured by his glass as he took another sip. 

Tough customer.

One friend challenges you, “Oh, yeah? You say that, but what if he pulls a gun and tells you to get in the car? What then?”

You pressed your lips together, tilting your head in consideration.

"Well, at that point, I guess I’d have to accept I'm going to die.”

"What?!"

You shrugged, "There's no way I'm getting in that car. You never go to a secondary location. Everyone knows that. Why drag things out unnecessarily when you can die in the street? After all, there are plenty of worse ways to go than by a bullet—besides, at least then my body will be found."

Worried the last bit would have more of a sobering effect on your company than you intended, you pivot and retrieve your drink. You tilt your chin up, gazing off into the distance dreamily, gesturing with your glass.

“My final words? 'Good luck trying to dispose of my corpse, asshole. Hope you know a good chiropractor.'"

With that you slurped down the dregs, ice clinking noisily at the bottom, finally giggling with everyone else at your own joke. Cue lots of your name and "Stop it!"s.

Hell, you even eked out a single low "heh" from Hot Topic that you’ll claim as a proper laugh. You were 3 for 4.

Your friends, bless them, are extremely predictable when you’re so candid self-deprecating. They laugh only to retreat to feigning scandal. When they recover, you’re peppered with more scenarios and protests. 

You’re barely able to suppress an eye-roll at their persistence. "I mean, it's a moot point from the start. I'm not the mark for that kind of thing in the first place."

Before your friends could cut you off, you clarified, “I’m not saying anything bad. I would just be—" you paused, searching for the right word—"an interesting choice." 

"No, I’m not the target demographic for something like that.” You waved a hand dismissively. “I'm simultaneously not preferable aesthetically and not worth the hassle logistically. So that ends up pretty convenient, considering I’d rather not be kidnapped." 

You swabbed the ring of condensation you left on the table with a bar napkin absently. "They want some dainty thing—they don’t want me,” you gestured to your person flippantly. “They want a trophy, but not the 'big game' variety," you gave a lopsided smile.

Your friends’ chastisement was swift, distracting enough that it didn’t quite give you a second to contemplate the strange, tenebrous emotion that was simmering just under the surface of John’s expression or that of his mates’. The nuance was lost on you. 

Mercifully, after experiencing a couple more variations of “You should be more careful!” from your friends, the topic finally changed.

It transformed and split, becoming a bit too chaotic for you to follow in your current state; several simultaneous threads of conversation going at once turned into white noise.

After a while you must have zoned out a bit, because among the din you didn’t notice that John was now sitting near you. He leaned over discreetly, at a respectful distance that still made your head foggy and face warm, voice low.

“They’re right, you know. You might think you're an exception, but you’re not. Is dangerous to think that.” 

You're so struck by the intensity of his steely gaze that you were slow to catch up to the actual words. You couldn’t fathom how blue eyes could feel so searing; you’d swear you could feel their heat. Completely caught off-guard by the sudden seriousness, you struggled with how to respond to that. “I—”

Before you could say anything, you realized the Scot was talking to you, asking you something, reeling you back into the fray.

…

Time seems to pass differently after that; you have no idea how long it’s been, all talking and laughing, sharing bants. More rounds of drinks. It’s a good time. 

But the night is winding down for you; you can feel exhaustion creeping in. By the time one of your friends’ partners shows up ready to continue the fun elsewhere, you decline the offer.

You hated being seen as a wet blanket, but right now all you wanted to do was go home and take a hot shower. Peel off your “going-out” clothes and change into something comfortable. Maybe order in and catch up on a show. A little, "dolce far niente".

They invited the men too, but apparently they had other plans. Your friends didn’t waste any time pouting, exchanging quick, tipsy goodbyes before heading out.

It’s much quieter after that. Even the light conversation between the men has fizzled out. The small bar that night was particularly slow, consisting mostly of your two groups to begin with. You pull out your phone to check the time, frowning when you find it dead.

“...I can call you an Uber?” John suggests, as you stand.

The silence is loud, somehow. Oppressive. It looks as if the men are waiting. The air is heavy with something unsaid, some kind of significance that’s entirely lost on your fuzzy mind.

You never noticed the inscrutable look Voorhees sends John after he spoke. You’d find too late that a lot of things skipped your boozy notice that night.

Your lip tugs at the offer. “Thanks, but I promise it’s fine. I actually live pretty close.” 

John simply inclines his head, doesn’t press further. As you’re headed to the door, glancing back, you offer an earnest, albeit tired, smile. “Was nice meeting you. Maybe I'll see you around?” 

“Maybe.”

…

You were barely halfway home before suddenly, out of the darkness of a Cimmerian passing alley, arms locked around you, ripping an undignified squeal out of you.

When you catch sight of the familiar faces of your “attackers”, you clutch your chest, trying to calm your hammering heartbeat.

“Fucking hell!” you heaved.

If you weren’t so rattled and clamoring over your words, you would have been especially mortified by the incidental contact on your squishy middle. You couldn’t remember a time someone has grabbed you so brazenly. By process of elimination, it must have been Hot Topic’s large form who was holding you against his front.

“Shit! You guys are assholes,” you exclaimed between pants. “That’s not funny!” Your hands grasped at the large forearms around you, yanking fruitlessly.

It was John who was standing in front of you, thumbs hooked in his pockets, backlit by a streetlamp, haloed in faint breath vapor. It was the first time you’d recall seeing him standing; he was even bigger than you expected. They all were. 

“You left, what—” he pulled out his phone and glanced down at the blueish light in his hand, “20 minutes ago?” His eyes return to your face, raising his thick brows. “Not very ‘close’, is it? Your home.”

John spoke conversationally, a picture of ease, like he was commenting on how chilly it was for this time of year, and hadn't just jumpscared you.

“Dinnae even try tae throw a punch, no’ even one o’ those girly slaps—” the Scot muttered, not particularly quietly, to pretty-boy, who kissed his teeth in disapproval.

You’re running on fumes, so your brain is moving in slow motion, only just processing John’s words, not yet able to summon even a glare for the Scot’s commentary.

“It is close,” you insist, coming out slightly more defensively than you intended. You’re still embarrassingly working overtime to catch your breath while trying to pull away from the hard body at your back in irritation. “Besides, how do you define ‘close’? That’s completely subjective.”

Not as if that’s any of your business. You held back that particular remark.

You took a measured breath or two more. “Look, of all people, I appreciate the commitment to a bit,” you clawed uselessly at Voorhees’ iron grip around you, “but can you call your dog off?” 

Hot Topic’s previous abridged facsimile of a “laugh” echoed in your ear, an amused huff so close that it made you flinch. That wasn’t really what you expected from your unadvisable barb.

You think it was the material of his mask that you felt slightly graze the shell of your ear, but it was fleeting enough that you couldn’t be certain.

“You can call me Ghost, sweet’eart”.

On any other day that edgy moniker would have garnered some kind of mirth, but your clouded brain didn’t seem fit to supply a witty retort with some strange man at your nape.

While John said nothing, something in his expression must have communicated to Ghost. You instinctively relaxed when his arms released your middle.

It soothed your nerves a touch, enough that you didn’t register that you were in the process of being edged backwards and were now partway through an alley you should have passed on your route home.

You crossed your arms, opting to ignore the introduction in lieu of another shaky inhale. “Just wait till my friends hear that you guys blew them off just to fuck with me. So much for having ‘plans’, huh?”

You tried to tease, still desperately attempting to slow your heart, recoup some composure, and match the men’s nonchalance. You’re not sure how convincingly you pulled it off. Some nagging anxiety still seeped out of you in a slow leak, despite your best effort to pull yourself together, to not be a buzzkill in response to a technically harmless pran—. 

“This is the ‘plan’, love.” John replied simply, not missing a beat.

You huffed in exasperation, brows pinched. “...What, ‘making a point’?”

John paused for a moment, seeming to weigh his words, “That’s one way to look at it, if you’d like.”

There was a pregnant pause, and suddenly the scrape of shoes on the dirty pavement seemed loud in your ears. The smell in the alley is particularly damp and musty now. Had you been moving this whole time? You’re getting all turned around—

Pretty-boy cut in, “You know, your whole premise was faulty from the start. ‘Sides you didn’t account for more than one person being involved”. 

“Involved in what?” you blinked, bewildered. 

“Your kidnapping, obviously.”

“My k—?”.

“—Speak for yourself, Gaz. I’d ‘ave ‘er either way.” Ghost interrupted, making you jump, a stark reminder of the presence still at your back.

You were stunned into silence for a couple of excruciatingly long seconds before choking out a pained laugh.

“Ha-ha. Alright—alright, fine. I get it.” You raise your hands in surrender, head swiveling back to John as you turn to press your back against the rough brick of the alley wall, trying to keep them all in your field of vision. 

“I’ll get a taser or something, is that what you want?” you offered, wearing your best expression of deferent contrition.

When John finally peels his eyes from you, he just sighs heavily, shaking his head at the pavement; either in disapproval or disbelief, you couldn’t be sure which. 

“Bit late for that now.”

“…What—what the hell is that supposed to mean?” You stutter indignantly.

You were starting to feel woozy; maybe you drank a bit too much.

Your sole scuffs against some debris, almost tripping you up completely if not for the brick wall to steady you. Your palms sting as they slide slightly on the stone, but you don’t dare take your eyes off them to look down for even a second. 

Suddenly, with a furtive glance over Ghost’s shoulder, you realize you're almost out on the other side of the street. His massive form fills the alleyway, destroying any hope you’d be able to squeeze your wide body past him or John and the others on your opposite side.

Your mouth is painfully dry. Your throat works, trying to swallow but still managing to somehow choke on nothing. You force some authority you don’t feel into your tone, but it tapers off rather weakly.

“Listen, you’ve had your fun. I really need to get home.”

You were struck by how different they all seemed compared to hardly a half an hour prior. The shift was dramatic—made your head spin. It was hard to rationalize that the people who were just sitting across from you in the homey local bar sharing drinks and the people now caging you into a dreary, abandoned street corner were one and the same. 

An approaching streetlamp visible through the yawning maw of the alley cast harsh shadows on their faces. A literal “light at the end of a tunnel” that only offered you dread.

You swayed slightly on your feet, head darting around, desperately trying to keep an eye on the four of them. You were feeling suddenly inexplicably drunker than you felt mere moments before.

As your knees quivered and you tried to steady yourself, John remained a pillar in your wobbly field of vision. Watching. Waiting. 

You're not sure which was preferable, the ominous comments or the ominous silence.

You weren’t small. You’d never felt small in your life. But with a group of large men looming over you, it was suddenly hard not to. It was not a feeling you were accustomed to and one you didn’t enjoy now.

You needed air, it was getting impossible to think. You tried to speed your gait to no avail; you couldn’t gain any distance. They prowled, following you closely, as if there was a gravitational pull anchoring them to you. 

“Fine. Fine! Okay, you proved your point, alright?!” you exclaimed, getting more frantic by the second, louder. “Let me pass. I’m serious.”

“Oh, so now she’s serious…” Gaz teases, somewhere off to your left.

“You think I’m not?” John husked, sounding incredulous, forehead lines deepening as he raised his brows, tucked his chin to stare down at you through hooded eyes. “Love, I’m serious as a heart-attack.” 

Then he was smiling at you again.

It looked the same as before. Sincere. But where previously it endeared you, now, now it makes your heart stall, then shudder in your ribcage; fill you with the sensation of a freefall, the one that jolts you awake while on the very precipice of sleep, leaves your heart racing, despite the tranquil darkness. 

His eyes flick over your head.

Before you are able to register the glance, Ghost is suddenly on you again, grabbing you round the middle quicker than someone his size had any right to be, this time actively herding your large form forward.

You realized dully that his last grip on you must have been relatively loose compared to his grip on you now; it was clearly only a fraction of his actual strength.

“What are you doing?!” You cry, a hair's breadth away from a shriek. Your head whips back to John, imploring, “Stop—Stop, I don't know what you want!”

This is probably what it feels like to be a frog. Pounced on and scooped up roughly by some huge creature—some grubby kid’s scrambling fingers. Slippery, round body gripped tight.

You were finally out of the alley, pulled by Ghost as well as your own unsteady feet, your body's instinct to try and avoid cracking your cranium on the concrete abetting him, betraying you.

“What we want?” Ghost chaffed over you, mimicking your voice. “Go on then,” he urged, “give your ‘ead a wobble?” 

You could practically feel him cocking his head, feel his smile even with him against your back, even behind the mask.

The open air did nothing for you. It didn’t clear your mind or relieve the claustrophobia churning in your belly a single iota. After all, it wasn’t really the walls closing in on you—it was bodies.

“You’re just trying to scare me!” You accuse sharply, voice strained, grunting as you only manage to nearly heimlich yourself on the last attempt to free yourself from the steel grip around your midsection.

Gaz and the Scot chuckle.

John says your name. He utters it like it was a complete sentence, but you're not sure what it means, what he wants. Either way, it made you regret giving it to him. You suddenly preferred not hearing it on his lips in that rumbling baritone.

Ghost scoffs. “For ‘avin such a smart mouth she’s a bit thick, eh, Soap?” he comments meanly over your head.

Soap’s responding before you have a chance to voice any displeasure, somewhere between a laugh and a scold.

“A bit? Haud yer wheesht!” He turns his attention quickly back to you, leaning in close, “Aw, pet, dinnae pay him mind…Lt kens our bonnie is well thick”, he pats your cushioned hips affectionately.

A shocked gasp slips out of you unbidden at the brief but unmistakable gentle fondle of your fat love handles.

They all drank in the vulnerable, little noise. It would be the first of many. It was impossible to interpret the gesture as anything but “familiar”.

Your body jolts. You would have practically jumped a foot off the ground if not for Ghost anchoring you. With the hold, stark realization floods you like a bucket of ice water—there’s quite literally nothing you can do to avoid any of their touch. Your skin crawls at the unfamiliar contact and doubly so at the threat of more yet.

“Dead fit,” Gaz says readily, sounding like an agreement if you’ve ever heard one, his eyes roam your form.

Words were stolen from your overheating brain, still trying desperately to reboot, to process what the fuck is going on.

“Captain ‘s a man of taste—such a pretty, dainty thing,” Ghost sneers in your ear. “Playin’ coy now, when she was practically battin’ ‘er lashes all night.” 

“—It’s not too late—it’s a joke, right? Let’s—we can just forget about this—”

Ghost completely ignores you. “Soft thing like you prancin’ ‘round, cunted at this hour, thinkin’ you're safe?”

“Cun—? I’m not fucking drunk!”

“You’re lucky someone with bad intentions didn’t hear you.” The grin is loud in his tone, oozes off every syllable.  

“You think I'm a dog? So you knew wha’ you were doin’ then? You were teasin’ a ‘ungry dog, waving a juicy steak under ‘is nose. Rubbing it in all our faces, of any bloke ‘n earshot? That it?”

“What—what the hell are you talking about?! You—you can’t be serious!” You finally parroted uselessly, equal parts baffled and horrified. These men are crazy.

“She keeps sayin’ tha’,” Soap comments, perplexed.

“‘Denial’ ‘s not just a river,” Gaz shrugs.

Ghost continues. “Captain—” A big hand is suddenly on your jaw, centering your gaze back on John, ”—‘s doin’ you a kindness. Keepin’ you safe n’ sound, makin’ sure you don’t get yourself chewed up and spit out 'n some dirty fuckin’ alley,” nodding back towards the way they came, “Nice of ‘im, innit?”

You flailed desperately, hoping to catch Ghost off guard for even a second. You send your elbow into his ribs, as hard as you could manage at the awkward angle.

It was akin to hitting granite. You sucked in air through your clenched teeth as pain radiated through your ulnar nerve. His grip on you didn't waver, he didn't flinch. He laughed.

A true, low “heh, heh, heh”, that you regretted ever wanting to hear—could have happily gone your whole life without hearing. It sent rogue shivers down your spine and piloerection up your arms as you gawked up in shock, pain forgotten.

“Och, that’s a bit better, Bonnie.” Soap feigns, judging your strike like he’s trying not to hurt your feelings.

“John—” you plead helplessly, turning your gaze back to him. But saying his name was a mistake, deepening the look already there. Rubatosis filled you.

“Think you're strong, eh?" His words still swollen with caustic amusement, "That you could ever ‘urt any of us? Show ‘im you can fend f’ yourself then.” Ghost wobbled you to and fro, shook you, as if you were some weightless bauble.

As your world tilted, you instinctively gripped his arm for dear life, dizzy, afraid you would topple over.

You knew he was right, of course; there is no point denying it. 

But a man like him, like them—saying it? It was wrong—it chilled your blood. It felt needlessly cruel, to rub in how weak you are compared to them. The provocation freezes you, making Ghost’s dark eyes crinkle. 

“Slim pickings, huh? Must be feeling desperate?” you bit out, before you could stop yourself, voice bitter and thick with emotion—panic and anger congealing into snark. A hole is a hole, after all. Bad luck that you happened to be the one around.

Who would you trade places with? Better you than someone else, your conscience whispered faintly.

“You really don’t get it?” John wonders aloud, bafflement mixing with a heady intensity.

“Imagine thinking no one would want all this—” Fingers grazed your curves. Touched every roll, every hill and valley on your side with a reverence that shocked you for the hundredth time that day, left your mouth literally agape. 

“—thought is an utter travesty. One of life’s greatest pleasures is a big, soft girl. Nothing sweeter,” he declared breathily despite himself. “Nothing. So much more to hold, to squeeze—”

There was a certain palpable greediness to his touch, even while he was clearly restraining himself. Groping, not bruising. He only went so far, skirting frighteningly close to your more private bits.

At least it appeared your actual debasement was not going to happen on this particular street corner. His hands make a slow jaunt, mapping your contours. Down your back, your side, your belly, your thighs—kneading and squeezing your ample flesh.

A pitiful, “Please stop—” is eked out of you. Your unadulterated fear on full display, sincere and raw. Begging. You were begging, or trying to, anyway. Your breath hitched, flesh jolting with every unwelcome brush against you, sending your nerve endings alight, already feeling overstimulated. 

There was that expression again, that you didn’t recognize before. But it was no longer just simmering under the surface; it was boiling. Emanating out through his pores, muddled with a touch of pity. You finally recognized it—hunger.

“I’m not cross with you,” he adds oddly. “You don’t understand now, but you will. This isn’t a punishment—it’s a consequence.” 

Your throat clamped painfully, words tumbling out of your mouth incomprehensibly, trying to find the right thing to say to make him stop. “Please, I don’t, I can’t, wh—”

More hands were on you, pulling your wrists together in front of you.

“Am not going to hurt you. You have my word.” The solemnity of the promise rattled you. Maybe he truly believed it, but you certainly didn’t. After all, you’d wager you had different definitions of “hurting”. You’d die on the hill that this was “hurting” someone.

Somewhere inside you, your body was screaming at you to do something. You’d take the inspiration.

Scream what, exactly? You couldn’t be sure. You should scream “fire” not “help”, right?

But you’d never get the chance, because on your inhale, John’d somehow divined your intentions, and suddenly a hand was clamped over your lips before a sound could escape them. The pressure of the palm was close to bruising this time, unyielding—he wasn’t taking any chances, apparently. 

Jerking your head did nothing to dislodge the hand, unlike those on your limbs. It followed the movement rather than impede it. As fate would have it, your struggles only left your head spinning, vision partially obscured by the force of the hand pushing your plump cheeks into your eyes. Whiplash pinched in your neck at the frantic jerks. God, you felt sick.

After that, everything happened very quickly. Suddenly it felt like there were hands all over you, everywhere. Grabbing, holding, pressing. You could hardly tell up from down.

You’d shut your eyes for even a momentary reprieve, willing the vertigo to cease. For everything to stop. For all of them to stop touching you. Hoping desperately that you’d wake up and find yourself safe in bed, this all a bad dream. 

Then there was a ripping sound, then a couple more. Someone was pushing stray hairs out of your face. The hands on your wrists moved up instead to grip your forearms. No sooner than you heard it, the large hand had fled your lips only to be immediately replaced by some large sticky substance that was stretched taut across your mouth, from cheek to cheek.

Startled, your struggles renewed, some expletives trapped by the stuff, transforming into useless “mphhhing!” as your hands jumped to pull the offending material from your face. An entirely fruitless endeavor considering the grip on your arms, which didn't budge an inch. John seems fit to ignore your pitiful struggle, simply smoothing it out carefully, layering a couple more pieces. He hums in satisfaction, wide palm patting his work, cupping your mouth and jaw again for good measure.

There was that sound again. With the fear it shot through you, it might as well have been a gun racking. You couldn’t see it, but this time your sloshy mind recognized the distinct creak and shrill shrrrrrrrrrrrp. It was duct tape being pulled from the roll, then wrapped noisily around your wrists, aided by the hands forcing your arms together. 

Trying to shove, to bully yourself between them was hopeless. They were all too close, too strong, too heavy, all bearing down on you. You didn’t have room to throw your weight around or even properly kick out at them. Round and round, the tape went, and round and round again for good measure before the end was ripped, smarting where it snagged slightly on the hair on your arms. 

You're quite literally fighting for your life, sweating with exertion and panic, panting behind the tape, but your desperate flailing didn’t deter them at all; you didn’t receive even a single hitch in any of their breath for your effort. Hell, it couldn’t even hinder some conversation. Not that you caught most of it with your head swimming, heart pounding loudly in your ears.

“—‘course she’s scrikin’, we’re nicking ‘er,” Ghost rolls his eyes. 

Something else was said, probably by Soap, based on the accent.

Ghost just doubles down. “No point tryin’ to talk sense into ‘er. Thing doesn’t know what’s good for ‘er—“

John took his time; he’s dedicated to his task. Precise yet generous with the tape. As soon as the hands left your forearms, more tape was applied where they departed, this time around your entire body, effectively pinning your arms down at your front, circling you enough times that you lost count.

Your struggles and thrashes reinvigorate, an absolutely method portrayal of a snared rabbit. It hurt—hurt how hard you were pulling against them. Bruises would undoubtedly bloom in the coming days wherever their hands gripped you from your wild jerking. That is, assuming you lived that long. Your chest heaves with anxiety. The men allowed you a bit more space, enough that you didn’t feel actively compressed on every side. By them at least.

Not John, though. It was his face that filled your vision, his eyes that pinned yours.

“Shhh. There’s a girl. It’s already over.” You hadn’t yet noticed the tears gathering, that you were so close to falling apart. He said it like it would be some sort of comfort, cupping your plump cheeks delicately. John spoke to you gently, in the softest tone you’d heard yet, softer than you would have believed his husky voice capable of, and yet, with an disturbing finality. “It’s done. Nothing you can do now,” he whispered into your terrified face. 

He was too close—there was a little mole on the right side of his nose you never noticed before. He smelled of smoke, and under that, something woodsy and spicy. A large, rough palm smoothed over your hair. Your terrified eyes squeezed shut, willing him out of your face, to stop looking at you. You’re certain he could feel your terror; hell, he could probably feel each little panicked puff of air forced out of your lungs on his face as you tried vainly to regulate your breathing through your nose. “There you go,” he praised, “In and out.”

Shining tears wobbled precariously in your waterline. You tried with all your might not to let them loose, to salvage any shred of dignity. Any sense of control. As if that would somehow make things worse, as you sucked in a wet, sniveling sound.

Your internal pleas for space were less than useless, as John leaned in ever closer, cradling your skull in his hands, pressing his lips to your crown in a chaste, whiskery kiss.

The sheer intimacy of the gesture made you balk. Held and boxed in, there was no way to move away, making you whimper pathetically. Sounding foreign to even your own ears. A savourable sound, that went right to John’s belly.

Trying to hold it in was all for naught; as soon as John’s lips touched you, your resolve shattered. Shattered into so many pieces even Kintsugi couldn’t repair it.

Your face was soaked with the onslaught, tears traveling as far as down your neck. Dizzy with panic, the duct tape swallowing up most of your damp sobs. You couldn’t recall the last time you'd broken down like that in front of another person, much less four near strangers. 

“I’m keeping you.” He says suddenly. He waits for you to take in the words, thumbs stroking slow circles into your cheekbones.

You hiccup behind the tape, teeth chattering in your clenched jaw as you realize you’re shaking. Face tacky with tears. You angrily tried to pull away again, but John just held you still as you quake. 

…John didn’t need Ghost for muscle, you realized dully. His grip was an epiphany, the promise of strength in his hands alone—it made you feel all the more useless.

Calloused thumbs rasped over your cheeks, wiping away the wetness there, only for more to replace them. “I won’t try to stop you from crying, won’t punish you for being upset,” he rumbled, “but, you have to understand it won’t change anything. What'll happen. From now on, you’re mine—but I take care of what’s mine. You’ll see.”

Why?! Your heart ached. You couldn’t understand how people you’d been chatting and laughing with mere minutes ago could do this to you. People who had seemed so normal—

Gaz smirks, nudging Soap, murmuring, “Oh, don't worry, she’ll feel heaps better when she’s creamin’ on—”

You didn't think you were capable of feeling worse. Your eyes bulge in horror, breath snagging again in your throat.

John sighs, interrupting him with a harsh jangle of metal as he pitched some keys to Gaz, who caught them easily in one hand. “Bring the car ‘round will you?” John asks, but it’s really not a request.

“On it!” Gaz’s reply is prompt and cheery as he steps off the curb into the darkness beyond the reach of the streetlamp, practically a spring in his step. 

You sniffled, sinuses starting to burn, following your eyes’ watery influence. Feeling humiliated as you can feel your nose start to run, tickling your philtrum. Soap cooed over your teary face. You flinched as he raised his hand to you, but he only wiped your nose, disgustingly with his own sleeve. 

He had the nerve to look chagrined at your reaction. When he spoke again, it was uncannily quiet compared to his familiar boister, as if he was trying to soothe a spooked horse. “Dinnae fash, it’ll be awricht, bonnie, swear it.”

His words were worthless; didn’t pacify you at all. You were possessed by a primal terror of a cornered animal that couldn’t fathom what was going to happen to it. Your eyes flooded, everything in your vision warped by tears. You couldn’t see, couldn’t hear over your own hammering heart. Soap’s cursin’, saying something. Maybe it was fucking Gaelic, you didn’t understand what he was saying.

“—Wee lamb, greetin—”

“‘Nough fussin’, Soap. You’re almost as bad as ‘er.” 

“Ah ken, ah ken…”

“I did warn you, even gave you an out.” John sighed, commiserating, as if he weren’t the source of your angst. It wrung completely hollow, he didn't sound disappointed in the slightest with any of the events. If anything, you'd suspect we has trying to tamp down the opposite.

“Jesus wept, Cap—” Soap blurts, any remorse apparently long forgotten as he suddenly grips your ample belly possessively, making you shriek, “—almost made us lose out,” he grumbled. “Ah knew ye were tryin’ tae tip ‘er aff”.

You thrashed in his rude hold, face hot, but he just grinned, loved how your squirms just showcased your enticing bounce. Despair and humiliation ached in your chest, heavy like lead. You just wanted to go home.

Headlights round the corner.

In a last-ditch attempt, you allow yourself to completely go limp, following through on the threat of being unmovable. You barely start tipping before Ghost and Soap are on either side of you, holding you up between the two of them, completely halting your descent.

Your mind shuddered to a halt with the idea they might actually be able to lift you. When you tried to buckle your knees, they went ahead and confirmed your fears true. Not even a slipped grunt of exertion gave you any satisfaction, when you were being half carried, half dragged practically kicking and screaming to the car. Well, as much as you could through the tape. As you’re urged onward, you lock your knees as your legs jam against the car’s running board.

“You’re going one way or another,” John calls simply, tapping something into his phone.

“Watch your head, trophy.” Ghost grins, huge hand spanning your skull, pushing you down past the door frame, but you think you just might have preferred the concussion. Your own weight does the rest of the work, sending you sprawling belly first onto the back seat, teary cheek smooshed against the cool, leather interior.

You should have been prepared to be absolutely as difficult as possible, regardless of whether or not it’d change your fate, but you were utterly spent. Your limbs ached at all the struggling. You couldn’t muster any more fight as Soap and Ghost maneuvered you into the middle seat. Your plentiful "handholds" aiding the process.

The lone lap belt buckled tightly across your lap before Ghost and Soap followed you in, sandwiching you, sitting in the seats on either side. You were practically spilling over onto them, it was a tight fit. 

You couldn’t quite swallow a yelp as rough fingers were wedged under your plush form on either side. Apparently unsatisfied with your positioning, you were swiveled so your ass remained in the seat while the rest of your body lay flat. Your upper body in Ghost's lap and legs curled in Soap’s, the seat belt digging into your soft belly at the awkward angle.

You were normally hyperaware of the space you occupied and tried to be as respectful as possible about it. You would be mortified, feel a bolt of white-hot shame if any squishy bit of you even accidentally brushed up against someone else. You’d do anything to risk a stranger's look of annoyance or disgust, god forbid someone say something. And yet, here you were, your fat body draped across two men's laps, both looking quite fucking pleased with the arrangement. There was nothing you could do about it, as Soap paws at your thigh, humming happily.

“Behave, you lot.” John stoops, smiling at the group fondly as he shuts the door.

The car is moving.

You were completely adrift. Maybe you were in shock. All it took was a handful of seconds for your life to become entirely and irrevocably derailed. 

While lying prone, the motion rocked you slightly. Outside the window, the world flitted by. All you could make out from your vantage point was the wide expanse of sky, purplish, the color of a dusky developing bruise, only swagging power lines and the tops of towering street lamps flashing across the horizon.

Just like that, slow conversation started up again, right above your head. It was as if they were back at the bar; the normalcy of it was chilling. Soap’s hands were still resting over your thick thigh, petting you. Repetitive strokes up and down your thigh that also eventually blended into the background. The car was so warm now—John must have cranked the heat. You feel the warmth dust across your face where it filtered into the backseat.

You're feeling floaty—disconnected. Your body couldn’t sustain the level of terror that should still be at the forefront of your mind. Adrenaline burned everything out of you, drained you till there was nothing left but fog, thick and cloying. It became a task to keep your eyes open.

You were so tired. 

Your limp body bounced lightly as the car went along. The voices were even more distant now, a muted background noise, like someone speaking on the phone in the next room over—you can just hear the mumble through the wall but can’t decipher any of the words.

…

“—get some proper rest on the plane.”

(I horked this up originally after re-reading one of @391780 posts. I think it was the one where Simon calls dibs on you while you're out with friends? Clearly things deviated a lot, but still. Do yourselves a favor and read all of their stuff.)

[kaira-diaries]

Nocturne:

warning: smut-implied age gap || wound cleaning || violence || implied death ||

pairing: fem!xfrontman/In-ho

wc: 4k

a/n: Okay, I feel like while writing this I blindly turned it into an enemies to lovers. Kind of? Sorta? Maybe?

summary: The sheltered daughter of a VIP grows bored of the games, and finds herself exploring the quarters of the front man, only she's blindly unaware. This mistake, while nearly costs her her life, also opens up an intense and longing romance.

->Masterlist <-

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

You stifled a yawn, staring down at the game room where players carefully carved honeycombs under the watchful eyes of masked guards. Dalgona—a game you knew well but found painfully dull. Your father, sprawled beside you on the velvet loveseat, reeked of expensive liquor and slurred, "Where are you going?"

As you stood, you tucked a pillow beneath his head, smoothing your burgundy dress. "For a drink. Rest now."

Another VIP leaned over, gesturing to your snoring father. "Had too much?"

"Always," you replied with a tight smile. "Keep an eye on him, will you?"

Glass in hand, you ascended the grand staircase to the bar. The itch of your golden mask only added to your frustration. The sound of a gunshot from the game room below barely held your attention. Forty lost—disappointing. You popped the cork on a fresh bottle of wine, pouring a glass and savoring the first sip.

Then, through the double doors ahead, you noticed something. A space you'd never seen before, dark and enticing.

You hesitated, glancing back at the games. Nothing exciting there, and your father was well guarded. With a sly smile, you patted the blade strapped to your thigh, pushed the doors open, and stepped into the unknown.

With the wine bottle in hand, you take a generous swig, the rich flavor a momentary comfort. The foyer feels stark, oppressive—its black walls and cool gray floors exuding a chill that seeps into your skin. Gold accents glint faintly in the dim light, the only warmth in this austere domain. You grimace at the decor but press on, curiosity pulling you deeper.

The elongated hallway looms ahead, flanked by heavy, closed doors. Each one seems to hum with secrets, daring you to turn the handle. You hesitate, a voice in the back of your mind warning you to turn around. Yet, as your fingers graze the cool brass of a doorknob, you pull back. Another sip of wine quiets the voice, and you continue to the open space at the hall's end.

This room feels different—softer, more inviting. You run your fingers along the sleek fabric of a gray loveseat, its plush texture a strange comfort against the stark surroundings. Your gaze lands on a collection of vibrant figurines—a rare splash of color in the muted space. One stands out: a woman in a flowing red gown, microphone in hand, her face alight with passion. Around her, a miniature band, instruments gleaming, seems poised to play.

Your heart races as you spot a remote beside the figures. The urge to press it outweighs any lingering caution. You place the bottle down next to your mask as you remove it, press the button, and watch as the figures come to life, their voices harmonizing in a hauntingly beautiful rendition of "Fly Me to the Moon."

The melody fills the room, wrapping around you like a warm embrace. Eyes closed, you let the music wash over you, unsure if it's the alcohol or the song that's softening the edges of the world. 

You were halfway through the bottle of wine when the music stopped abruptly, and a cold dread prickled your spine. The figures had ceased their dance mid-note, leaving the room in a suffocating silence.

You spun around, the blade on your thigh now in your grip, sharp and ready.

Standing in the doorway was a figure shrouded in shadow, his presence dominating the room. He stepped forward, the dim light catching the edges of a cold, metallic mask. His posture was rigid, and his gloved hand gripped a pistol aimed directly at you.

"Who are you?" His voice was like crushed gravel, low and commanding.

Your pulse quickened, but you kept your expression sharp, masking the fear threatening to surface. "You first," you bit back, your fingers tightening around the hilt of your blade.

His head tilted slightly, the gesture almost mocking. "You're in my quarters, and yet you demand answers."

You shifted your stance; every muscle in your body coiled like a spring. "I didn't see your name on the door," you snapped, each word laced with defiance.

In a flash, he was upon you, closing the distance with startling speed. His hand caught your wrist, twisting it just enough to force the knife from your grip without breaking the skin. You gritted your teeth as he pinned your arm behind your back, pressing you against the cold edge of the table.

His gun found its way under your chin, tilting your head back to meet his masked gaze. The mask's lifeless eyes stared down at you, void of humanity, and yet you swore you could feel the heat of his scrutiny.

"Answer me," he growled, his voice a hairsbreadth from your ear.

You smirked, though your pulse hammered against your ribs. "Kill me, then. I dare you. Let's see how you'd like explaining to everyone why a VIP's daughter ended up dead in your quarters."

His grip faltered for a fraction of a second, a hesitation so slight that most wouldn't notice. But you did. He released you with an almost annoyed shove, holstering his gun as he took a deliberate step back.

Rubbing your wrist, you straightened and smirked at him, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins. "Yeah didn't think so," you muttered.

Before he could respond, the room was flooded with pink-clad guards, their rifles raised and aimed squarely at you. Your eyes darted between the barrels of the guns and the masked man.

"Stand down," he barked at the guards, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

They hesitated but obeyed, lowering their weapons.

You scoffed, brushing past the guards as you retrieved your blade from the floor. "All of this for little ol' me?" you quipped, slipping your knife back into its sheath.

The masked man didn't respond, his head tilting slightly as if studying you. His silence unnerved you more than the gun had.

With a flick of your hair, you grabbed your golden mask from the table and placed it over your face, the metallic surface catching the dim light. As you walked past him, your eyes never left his, and neither did his leave yours.

"Try not to miss me," you said with a smirk, your voice dripping with mockery as you exited the room.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

You lay on your back, rubbing your eyes as exhaustion clung to you, but sleep refused to come. You didn't know what time it was, but when a dull headache crept in, you sighed and slipped out of bed to find a glass of water. Throwing on a black robe, you padded into the quiet halls, unconcerned. At this hour, only the guards would be awake, and none would dare glance at the daughter of a VIP—not if they valued their lives.

You crossed your arms against the chill and shut the door behind you. The once-bright hallway was now shaded, the only light spilling faintly from the main room ahead. Your knees ached as you trudged down the cold corridor.

The earlier Dalgona game had thinned the herd. Many players were gone, and your father's friends were divided—some bitter over their financial losses, others laughing as they poured another drink. For them, the money was trivial.

Mama had always been against gambling, insisting money was meant to be earned, not squandered on fleeting thrills. You missed her fiercely, the ache of her absence tightening your chest. You pressed on, trying to shake the melancholy, though your thoughts drifted elsewhere—to him.

His presence lingered in your mind like a gloom you couldn't shake. He had come terrifyingly close to ending your life, yet there was something in that encounter—a charged energy you couldn't explain, equal parts fear and... something else.

Reaching the kitchen, you stepped inside, greeted by the faint hum of the industrial fridge. The space was massive, gleaming stainless steel counters and cabinets casting faint reflections in the dim light. You found a glass in one of the cabinets, filling it with water from the sleek faucet.

As you raised the glass to your lips, a flicker of movement in the doorway caught your eye. Your heart stopped. He stood there, The masked man, silent and imposing.

A startled yelp escaped your lips as you stumbled back a step, clutching your chest.

"You're gonna give me a heart attack—again," you snapped, scowling at him as you poured 

another generous measure of water into your glass. "Ever heard of announcing yourself?"

His voice came out low and mechanical, but there was something unspoken behind it, something you couldn't quite place. "How are you feeling?" he asked, his eyes behind the mask locked on you, lingering just a little too long. His steps were slow and soft, as if he was trying not to scare you off.

You cleared your throat, shrugging off the weight of his gaze. "Could be better," you said nonchalantly, swirling the liquid in your glass. Then, flashing a sharp smile, you added, "I didn't quite catch your name after you nearly blew my brains out."

"I'm the Front Man," he replied evenly.

Your grin faltered slightly, but you held it together, leaning casually against the counter. "Fitting. So, what's your deal in all this? Why are you here?"

"I oversee and operate the facility," he said, his voice as detached as ever.

You tilted your head, curiosity tugging at you. "So, you're the game maker," you said, taking a sip and adding, "Those were actually your quarters, then."

"Among other things," he admitted, a touch of something—pride, perhaps?—edging into his tone.

Your lips twitched with the hint of a smile as you folded your arms, suddenly acutely aware of your black robe, barely held together at the waist. "Sorry for snooping earlier," you said, your voice softer. "Curiosity and boredom get the better of me sometimes."

He didn't respond immediately, and the silence stretched, charged and heavy. When he finally spoke, his question caught you off guard. "What did you think of today's game?"

You raised a brow, knowing he didn't care about your opinion. Still, you couldn't resist taking the bait. "Honestly? It was a bit of a snooze fest. The Dalgona challenge?" You shook your head. "A complete letdown. I was so bored I ended up raiding your quarters just to find something more entertaining."

You thought you heard a low scoff beneath the mask, but his face was unreadable. "How so?" he asked, almost begrudgingly.

"It lacked drama," you said, setting your glass down. "There was no big moment to keep the audience on edge. No payoff. It felt...lazy." You leaned forward more, catching his stare. "I'm not easily impressed, and for my first visit? Not great, especially after being...manhandled."

His head tilted slightly, his mask catching the low light. "You're a spoiled brat," he said, his tone clipped. "I'm not here to entertain you."

You pushed away from the counter, stepping in front of him closely, your golden necklace catching the light as it swung forward. "That's where you're wrong," you said, your voice low, each word deliberate. "I'm part of the next generation of VIPs—the ones funding your 'little business.' If you can't impress me, why should I invest in you?"

The room felt colder for a moment, his silence more cutting than any retort. "Why wait until now to join your father at the games?" he asked abruptly, sidestepping your challenge.

You blinked, momentarily thrown. "I've been busy," you said.

"Busy with what?" he pressed.

You toyed with a strand of hair, smirking. "Business," you said lightly. "I mostly dabble in the legal kind...and sometimes the not-so-legal, if the payout's worth it."

A gust of cold air swept through the room, making you shiver. You rubbed your arms for warmth, feeling the tension in the air grow thicker. "How did you end up running all of this, anyway?" you asked, meeting his gaze. "Doesn't seem like the kind of job you'd find on a career board."

His answer was clipped. "I'm skilled at what I do. That's all you need to know."

"That's it?" you asked, your frown betraying your disappointment. "No juicy backstory?"

"Does it really matter?" he countered.

"Guess not," you said with a shrug. But his words lingered, their finality leaving a mark.

"If you're mostly about legal businesses, what are you doing here?" he asked, his tone sharp, probing.

"I love my father," you said simply. "He asked me to come, so I came. And this...this is my future, isn't it? Might as well get familiar with it instead of pretending it doesn't exist."

For a moment, he said nothing, his mask a void, his gaze impenetrable. But you felt it—the weight of his attention, the unspoken pull between you.

Finally, you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, the spell breaking. "I should get to bed," you said softly, stepping around him toward the hallway with your water. "Goodnight."

He inclined his head, his voice low. "Goodnight."

As you descended, the warmth of the exchange lingered, a quiet echo in the stillness of the night.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

A week had passed in a whirlwind of chaos, each game more brutal and captivating than the last. Yet, what lingered in your mind was the frustrating absence of The Front Man. Beyond fleeting glances, he seemed distant, as though merely going through the motions. It bothered you that you were disappointed.

Seated in your velvet chair, you felt the thrill of a game's dramatic conclusion but soon found yourself craving a refill. With a sudden burst of energy, you left your seat, not bothering to smooth your sage green dress, and ascended the staircase to the bar. The marble counter gleamed under soft light as you reached for the whiskey decanter.

Before the amber liquid could hit the glass, a loud crash from behind the double doors stopped you cold. Another crash followed, then a cry of pain that sent chills down your spine.

Heart pounding, you slipped inside to find The Front Man hunched over, a knife digging into his bloodied shoulder.

"What the fuck?" you blurted, stepping closer.

He shot out his good arm, stopping you. "I'm fine. Go back to the game," he said, his voice calm but distant.

You hesitated, his words tempting you to leave, but the sight of him—wounded and vulnerable—rooted you to the spot. Walking away felt impossible.

"Let me get it out. At that angle, you'll never dislodge it." He continued to poke and prod at his shoulder, his fingers and the blade digging into the tender flesh. Groaning in pain as blood pooled from his shoulder, he ultimately ignored your offer; shocker. 

You rolled your eyes and rushed over to him, hovering until he quit and met your gaze through the grey mask. "You can barely stay upright; let me help," you said, palm outstretched for the blade. "Believe me, you don't want to bleed out. It's a mess to clean up." He stalled for a few heartbeats, and you almost felt awkward until he placed the bloodstained blade in your hand. 

Sitting beside him, the tension in his body eased slightly. 

"You're stubborn," you muttered, wiping away the blood to get a clearer view of the wound. 

"And you're persistent," he shot back, a flicker of amusement flashed in your expression. 

"Call it a survival skill." You took a steadying breath. You hesitated for a moment, then glanced at the mask that concealed his face. "This isn't going to work with that thing in the way. Take it off."

Silence followed for a few moments, "It stays on."

"Look," you said, your tone firm but not unkind. "If I'm going to pull this bullet out without nicking an artery, I need to see what I'm doing. That means the mask—and the jacket—have to go."

A tense silence stretched between you, broken only by the sound of his unsteady breathing. Finally, with a sharp exhale, he reached up and unfastened the mask. As it fell away, you froze.

He was breathtaking—sharp cheekbones, a strong jawline, and piercing eyes that seemed to cut right through you. Despite the blood and sweat streaking his skin, he radiated a rugged intensity that made it hard to look away. You blinked, forcing yourself to focus.

"Jacket and whatever is on underneath too," you managed, your voice quieter now.

He smirked faintly, as if he'd caught the flicker of shock in your expression, but said nothing as he shrugged off his jacket and black shirt with a wince. Beneath it, his body was lean and sculpted, the muscles taut as he shifted to give you better access to the wound. You swallowed hard, mentally cursing yourself for being distracted. "This might hurt a little more." 

"Just do it," he deadpanned, taking a wealthy swig of liquor. 

The blade slipped deep into the wound, and your fingers steadied as you worked with precision. The bullet was lodged in an awkward angle, and you cursed under your breath. "What were you doing to end up like this?" You asked, partly to distract him and partly because your curiosity was gnawing at you. 

"Nothing, it was a disagreement," he said curtly.

"With a bullet?" you teased, but his silence told you it wasn't a joke. "Right. Noted."

Finally, your blade scraped against something hard, and you exhaled in relief. "Got it." You carefully maneuvered the bullet free, holding it up triumphantly before tossing it onto the table with a metallic clink. 

He let out a shaky breath, his body fully relaxing for the first time since you'd entered the room. "You're good at this," he admitted, his voice softer now.

"Thanks. Years of practice." You grabbed another cloth and doused it with the liquor, dabbing it against the wound to clean it. He hissed through his teeth but didn't pull away. 

"So," you said, wrapping a bandage tightly around his shoulder, "are you going to tell me what actually happened, or do I have to piece it together myself?" 

He studied you for a moment, his gaze unreadable. "You ask too many questions."

"Maybe," you admitted with a small smile, tying off the bandage. "But it's part of my charm." He shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching as if suppressing a smile. 

"You're lucky I decided to be a helpful hand today," you commented, admiring your handiwork. "That should hold for now; I'll come back tonight to clean and bandage it once more. Just don't go picking any more fights."

"I'll keep that in mind." You started to gather the bloodied cloths and the blade, but his voice stopped you. "Thank you."

The sincerity in his tone caught you off guard, and you glanced back at him. For a moment, the stoic, commanding figure seemed almost... human. 

"You're welcome," you said softly. "Just try not to die on me. It'd be a shame after all that work." 

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound sending you a strange warmth. "I'll do my best."

With that, you left his quarters to rejoin the game, the faint sound of his laughter following you as you returned to your velvet seat. 

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

The room was dim, bathed in the soft, amber glow of a single lamp on the bedside table. The air was thick with the heady mix of whiskey and expensive cologne, an intoxicating blend that made you pause in the doorway, savoring it for a moment longer than you should have. In your hands, bandages and a damp cloth felt heavier than they were, as if weighted by the tension you carried with you. 

He sat on the edge of the bed, his back straight and shoulders taut, every inch of him radiating restraint. The mask was absent, left somewhere out of sight, and you were mesmerized by the faint outline of his profile in the low light. 

You knocked softly on the open door, the sound cutting through the thick silence. "So." he said without looking up, his voice, edged with dry humor. "That's how you announce yourself to someone." 

A soft laugh escaped your lips, an involuntary reaction to his sharp wit, as you entered the room. The distance between you felt heavier with every step, but you closed it anyway and sat beside him. 

"Any dizziness?" You asked, your voice gentle, almost tentative, as you set the supplies beside you. 

He turned his head toward you, his eyes shadowed yet heavy with something unspoken. His stillness was unnerving like he was waiting for something-waiting for you. "No," he said finally, his tone steady but low. "I feel fine." 

"Good," you murmured, reaching for his shoulder. His body tensed beneath your touch, a subtle reaction, but you felt it all the same. You worked carefully, peeling away the bandage with delicate fingers, wincing at the angry wound beneath. "Your body must be making up for the blood loss," you added, your voice softer now. 

His gaze lingered on you, the intensity of it palpable. You could feel the heat of it, even as he said nothing. The space between you seemed to shrink with each passing second, and though neither of you spoke, the weight of what remained unsaid hung in the air like a fragile thread. 

"You don't have to do this," he said, his voice breaking the quiet. 

You glance up, meeting his weary gaze. "Maybe not," you admitted, your fingers brushing his skin as you cleaned the wound. "But I want to." 

His lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tightening for a moment before he let out a slow measured breath. "You shouldn't care," he murmured, almost to himself, but the words felt directed at you as if he was referring to when he pressed a gun to your head. 

"And yet, here I am," you said, a faint smile playing on your lips. 

His expression was unreadable, and for a moment, you thought he might say something more. Instead, he sat in silence, letting you work.

As you finished securing the new bandage, your fingers lingered for just a moment too long, the touch barely there but electric nonetheless. You pulled back slowly, your heart thundering in your chest, and you pulled your hands into your lap, staring down at them.

You could feel his heavy and unwavering gaze on you. He hadn't said a word, but his silence spoke louder than any declaration. His dark and intense eyes roamed over you, not just your face but every detail—the loose strands of your freshly washed hair, the way your shirt slipped slightly off one shoulder, revealing the soft curve beneath. There was more than curiosity in his gaze; there was hunger, restrained and smoldering like a fire barely contained. 

"Why did you offer to come here tonight?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly. 

"To check on your wound," you said, though your voice cracked under the weight of his stare. 

He leaned forward slightly, his good hand bracing against the bed, and you caught that familiar scent of cologne mingling with a raw scent that was entirely his. "That's not the only reason," he countered, his tone sharp. 

Your breath hitched as he closed the space between you, the proximity dizzying. "Maybe I was worried," you admitted in a whisper as his presence consumed you. 

"Worried," he repeated, almost to himself, his lips curling into a faint smirk. 

"You shouldn't be." 

"I can't help it," you whispered. 

His hand moved before you could think, his fingers brushing against your cheek. The touch was surprisingly gentle, but his eyes burned with something deeper, something primal. His thumb traced a line down your jaw, "You're exquisite," he murmured as his hand slid down, resting on the side of your neck, his thumb now grazing the hollow of your throat. The pulse beneath his touch quickened, betraying you. 

"You should leave," he said, though the words lacked conviction. 

"Do you want me to leave?" you asked, searching his eyes for any truth. 

His grip on your neck tightened ever so slightly, his fingers pressing against your skin as he tilted his head closer. "No," he admitted, the confession slipping out. Your lips parted, a sharp inhale escaping as the tension between you snapped, and he closed the distance. His lips captured yours with a heat that stole your breath. 

The kiss wasn't tentative or hesitant—it was consuming, demanding, and filled with a longing that neither of you could deny anymore. His hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. His lips moved against yours with a hunger that left you dizzy, his control slipping just enough to let you feel how much he wanted you. 

Your breath hitched as the kiss deepened, his grip on your back tightening, holding you to him. Without breaking the kiss, you shifted even closer, the soft fabric of your shirt brushing against his chest as your hands settled, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath your fingertips. Wanting more, needing more, you leaned further in, swinging one leg over his lap. His breath caught as you settled onto him, straddling his thighs with deliberate care, mindful of his injured shoulder. His good hand explored every inch of you now as the kiss quickened with appetite. You gasped as his hand gripped your ass with breathtaking strength. 

The intimacy of the position sent a flush of heat through you, pooling between your thighs as your pulse thrummed wildly. Gazing down at him, he searched your face, lingering on your lips before flicking back up to look at you. Your hands reached up, brushing your fingers against his jaw; the faint stubble was rough beneath your touch.  "I didn't hurt you, did I?" you asked softly. 

"No," he said, the single word rough and weighted. You smiled. 

"Good," you mumbled, your palm pushing his hair from his face.

 "Because I don't want to stop." With that said, you pulled your shirt up, over your head and tossed it to the side, unveiling your breasts. He took every inch in of you, wasting no time attaching his lips to you. The sensation was breathtaking as you threw your head back, moaning. 

You exhaled sharply. There'd be marks, no doubt. However, concern surfaced within you as he suddenly pulled back. You gazed down at him, catching the flicker of hesitation in his eyes. 

"What's wrong?" 

"I can't fuck you how I want." 

Your expression eased as you met his gaze. "Then let me take care of you," you murmured, your voice gentle but determined as you lifted off him and slid down to the floor, settling on your knees. Reaching for his pants, your fingers diligently worked at the leather belt, yanking it free. Unzipping his pants and sliding your hands in, he sprang free before you, and your mouth watered at the view of him. You caught his eye, finding a smirk on his lips as he reached for your hair, wrapping it around his knuckles.

He gave a sharp tug, pulling your head back, and you whined. "You look so pretty on your knees for me," he remarked with desire staining his eyes.

With that, you took his immense size in your mouth, gliding to the pace he had set for you. Your tongue danced on his tip, and you swallowed every time you took the entirety of him; he groaned, "Fuck, just like that." He praised and your eyes watered from the intensity. You weren't outstanding at providing head, and a wave of insecurity washed over you. Nerves twisted in your stomach at the thought of not satisfying him, but the hitches in his breathing, the sharp inhales and exhales, and the praise he offered gave you the assurance you needed as you took him deeper and deeper with intensity and lust. You hadn't been able to see, but his head was thrown back in pleasure, lips parted.

Feeling him twitch in your mouth, you knew he was close as he picked up the speed even more. Saliva began pooling from your lips, dripping onto your knees and covering his length as you fought to breathe. His pull on your hair grew sloppy and you moaned at the appetizing ache in your scalp. "Fuck you're going to make me cum." His voice is rough as he offers one last yank of your hair, slamming you back down onto him and filling your mouth. You swallow the load, pulling off him and meeting his exhausted eyes; he rubs his thumb over your lips, promptly shoving it in your mouth, and you take it with no protest.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

His chest radiated warmth as you melted into his embrace, your heartbeat gradually syncing with his steady rhythm. Your eyes remained closed as you hummed, "you never told me your name." 

A calloused palm rubs your shoulder, "In-ho." 

You smiled, repeating it, "In-ho. I like that much better than FrontMan." 

His fingers gently encircled your wrist, his touch spoke volumes. "Stay with me," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. You pushed yourself onto your elbow, looking down at him. "I am, " you whispered, but he shook his head and caressed your cheek. "Stay here with me. Help me run the whole fucking thing." The request entailed a lot and you weren't able to form a response, stunned by such a proposal, but then you thought it over. There was nothing left for you back home except your emergency medical clinic, which could indeed survive without you. Your father was fine and could take care of himself as long as he had his money. All you contained was a large sum of untouched money. You bit your lip, looking back at him. "Alright." 

->Part Two <-

[shannonofrp]

Enclosed Living Room Living room - large transitional enclosed medium tone wood floor living room idea with beige walls, a standard fireplace and a stone fireplace

[pinkbox-anye]

Be my guest!

My first set in 2024 is all about entertaining guests and great parties. There are 24 new meshes. You will find bar accessoires, drinks and food, lots of glass and brass textures to elevate every party.

You can get this set on early access free here

Also check out my Patreon for tons of other sets and free content.

[thebastardscull]

Part 2 of being Sevika’s favorite bartender!

Part 1

Part 3

She’s late.

3 hours late, in fact. Sevika’s glass has become warm and watered down and you are bored out of your mind. It’s a slow day, perfect for standing around and chatting up your favorite girl patron. You’ve had time to take all of the orders for the meager rush, to clean the bar top to bottom, organize the bottles with the labels facing out, you’ve even had three smoke breaks (which mostly just consisted of you standing next to the bouncer at the front door and looking out into the street for Sevika.)

Every time the door slams open, your head perks up. Only to look back down when you’re not met with a pair of cool grey eyes. You sweep, and mop, and clean everything until it sparkles. Silco’s goons that usually crowd in alongside Sevika just shrug when you ask where she is and get back to their card game.

Your mind is only taken off of Sevika when a man that’s been sitting in the far corner table starts getting rowdy after losing a game of dice. You feel bad for the poor bastard until he flips the table, spewing curses and pointing fingers. You keep a watchful eye on him, hoping it doesn’t go too far, until he throws the glass in his hand towards the bar. It flies over your head, glass and liquor spraying above you.

You call it, walking around the bar, getting ready to kick him out. You can handle yourself, you’ve been doing this job a long time before you and Sevika became familiar. But the man is having none of it and begins to direct his anger towards you. He’s throwing insults at you, his spit spraying in your direction until he’s red in the face. He stalks forward, poking at your shoulder and screaming every name in the book. You’re about to make your way to the bouncer at the front when the fucker tries to throw a punch at you.

It doesn’t land. Instead, a flash of copper and purple shoots past you, grabbing the man’s fist before it can hit your face. Jumping back, you look to your left, and there she is. Sevika’s standing there in all her six-foot-something, muscular, gorgeous glory. If looks could kill, the man would be dead in an instant. She shoots you a quick wink before the mechanical hand squeezes down, and a sickening ‘crunch’ resounds through the now silent bar. Your clit does not throb when she does it. That would be insane. The drunkard squeals in pain before Sevika drags him out by the arm and through the doors as you put the table back in its place.

She’s outside for a solid five minutes. You can hear her rich, bassy voice, shouting at the man as she brings more blows down onto him until the bouncer takes over. She makes her way inside, and you wouldn’t even be able to tell she was beating the daylights out of someone if it wasn’t for the small spatter of blood on the brass knuckles of her prosthetic arm. She happily walks back to you, a smile on her face, her flesh arm tucked behind her back.

“I leave you alone for a few hours, and you start fighting people?” She asks with a smirk. You only give her a huff of laughter and walk back to the bar with her, pouring her drink. She stands there rather awkwardly as you push the drink towards her, flesh hand still tucked behind her back.

“So? Where’ve you been?” Sevika’s expression turns sheepish as you question her, and she brings her human arm forward. It’s clutching a large bouquet of flowers—Your favorites. You had only mentioned it once in passing, admiring them from afar at a market stand when she walked you home one night.

She got flowers. Flowers are so hard to come by in Zaun. She got you flowers? Sevika did? She got you flowers and now she looks like a nervous teenager about to ask you to prom and she’s blushing like crazy? Sevika? Flowers?

“I uh… I got you flowers. Had to fight off a crowd to get ‘em.” The bashful smile she gives you is all teeth and the gap between the two fronts makes you weak in the knees. You can barely hear her words, they come out in a low, abashed tone. You blink and look at the flowers, and back to her. And then back to the flowers. And then back to her.

Your brain is short circuiting and your heartbeat is in your ears. You stand there and look at her dumbfounded, while Sevika shifts from foot to foot, the flowers still in her hand.

“These are for me? You got them for me?” Your words come out in a squeak, a blush creeping up your ears and neck. Sevika nods and chuckles a little bit, handing you the bouquet. You take them with a grateful smile and inspect them closer. They’re wrapped in brown butcher paper, tied with a little bit of twine. The flowers are fresh and smell delightful—but the happy look Sevika gives you is even more so.

You admire them and Sevika can’t help but admire the happy grin on your face. She can’t help the way it makes her heartbeat pick up as you look at the gift. She thinks you look beautiful like this, glowing under the dim lights of the bar, your gorgeous smile lighting up your face. She’s trying her hardest to not lean over the bar and kiss you, but she wants to do this properly. To ‘woo’ you, or whatever Silco said. Not like he ever got any, but whatever.

“I wanted to ask you to dinner too, if that’s alright.” Her voice is a low murmur, she fiddles with the glass in front of her, suddenly too shy to meet your gaze. You choke on your spit a little and try to recover your dignity with a small cough, but she’s quick to catch it. A little snort of a laugh sounds from her, and it’s your turn to blush.

“I think dinner sounds really nice, Sevika. I’d like that.” Your voice is a little hoarse when you answer, you have to clear your throat before you speak again. “But I’m not going anywhere with you when you have blood on your hands.” You reach for her prosthetic hand, the cold metal warming up in your palm.

She watches as you polish it off gently with the rag that’s usually slung over your shoulder. Butterflies erupt in her stomach at your gentle touch, and the way you bite your lip a little in concentration. The corner of her lips curl in another small smile as she studies you silently.

“So… it’s a date?”

“Yeah, Sev. It’s a date.”

—

Authors note: HELLO HI? I did not expect that last one to blow up like it did, thank you so much! I hope everyone enjoys the second part!

Also! My ask box is open and I’m accepting asks and prompts! Until next time 💕

[on-a-lucky-tide]

teehee its my birthday buuuuuut i am here clawing for nikprice on the ground like a chicken. anyway i wonder how would a nikprice drunk confession go. i just love that trope to death lol

It's your birthday? Happy birthday, mate! A small gift...

Price gets a medal and then gets drunk at the after party. Nik is surprised to hear what he has to say. No one else - and I mean, no one else - is.

cw: alcohol, drunken kiss.

"I hate these bloody things," Price mumbled into his scotch, staring bleary-eyed at his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar. His speech had been short, concise, and he had spent the majority of it talking about the bravery and dedication of his Task Force. The rest of 'em had prattled on for ages about themselves, preening their egos with the new metal on their chests.

"It is a party in your honour, captain. You did a brave thing. And," Nik leaned back to pluck a canapé from the tray of a passing waitress, "there is free food." He pulled the honey-soaked sausage off the cocktail stick and chucked it in the air, catching it in his open mouth, much to the consternation of a gaggle of RAF officers nearby.

None of them were brave enough to let Nikolai see or hear what they thought of him, because they had all heard enough whispers of his service record to steer well clear. Even top brass were scared enough of him to overlook his multiple active Interpol arrest warrants so that he could attend.

Price smiled as Nik chewed, clearly pleased with his feat of dexterity, and then proceeded to slosh his scotch all over himself as he leaned his elbow against the bar... but missed said bar by about an inch and a half. "Bollocks," he growled, as expensive alcohol soaked into the equally expensive wool of his number one uniform.

Nik chuckled, snatching up a handful of serviettes from the bar. "I am starting to think you are a lightweight," he said, swivelling around in his bar stool so that his knees bracketed Price's, a folded serviette pressed to Price's chest to soak out some of the scotch.

"'M not," Price... slurred, fuck, maybe he was. "You wearin' cologne?"

"Da, number one majesté impériale."

"Sounds posh," Price said, lifting his scotch for another swig.

"Hm, it is $215,000 a bottle."

Price choked on his drink, spluttering it back into the glass. "You spent nearly four times my salary on some cologne?" He wheezed.

"It is a special occasion."

"Bloody fucking christ, Nik. It's a medal ceremony, not a bloody coronation."

"It is more important to me," Nik said, "because it is you."

Price felt his cheeks and ears warm. It didn't help that Nik's big hands were still on his chest, careful to pluck away the stray fibres of serviette from where it clung to the damp wool. This close, Price couldn't help but stare.

Fuck, he was so... handsome.

Nik had made an effort to look, and smell, his best. In his expensive tailored three-piece, no tie, because... well, who would be brave enough to tell Nikolai to put on a fuckin' tie? The open top button gave Price a really good view of his chest hair peeking through at the top. Oh, fuckin'... Hot, it was hot in here. Damn uniform.

"Careful, captain, you will fall," Nik said softly, palm pressed to the centre of Price's chest. Price had been leaning forward. Leering. Oh, this was embarrassing. He cleared his throat, shuffled back, and beckoned the barman over for a refill.

Two more glasses, one of vodka and another of scotch, and Price chanced a glance over at Nik again. "Thanks... for, uh, coming to this. The boys like the schmoozin', Simon doesn't stay longer than the talks, don't blame him, but, I, uh..."

"You find it hard to navigate the politics because you are honest and they," Nik waved his hand vaguely around the room, "are not."

Price smiled faintly. "Yeah, guess so. Full of compliments today, Nik. Man might get the wrong idea."

"Or... the right idea."

Price froze with the glass halfway up to his mouth. Even through the drunken dog, he managed to parse the meaning behind that. In payment, however, his brain had decided to bury his entire knowledge of the English language, so all he could do was make a small noise in the back of his throat, which he smothered with a large mouthful of scotch.

Nik hadn't turned in his stool, his knees still spread wide either side of Price's, and Price wanted to shuffle a little closer. He wanted those hands back on his chest, and he wanted... Christ, he just wanted. He had wanted for a long fuckin' time.

"Here," Nik said, sliding a plate of sausages over to Price. "It will absorb some of the scotch."

"Urf, naw, can't stomach that shit..."

"Then we shall go elsewhere."

"Wot?"

"Come, captain. The sergeants left for the clubs ten minutes ago."

"They did? Bastards..."

"Da. I will get your coat."

The fresh evening air hit Price like a sledge hammer to the face, and he was pretty sure he would have fallen in the gutter without Nikolai to lean on. He was intimately aware of the strong arm around his waist, one of his hands clinging onto Nik's expensive wool coat as they staggered into the local Maccy D's for a Big Mac and chicken nugget share box.

Nik paid for it, flashing his most charming smile at the young girl behind the counter as he collected the highly decorated SAS captain from where he was clinging onto a nearby condiments bench for support, takeaway bag in hand.

They ended up sat on a bench by the Thames, dressed to the nines, Nik smelling of thousand dollar cologne as he wolfed down over-salted MacDonald's chips at Price's side, and Price couldn't stop staring at him.

Nik could be anywhere else. Anywhere. He could be partying with the wealthiest men and women in the world, walking among the elite, and yet here he was sitting in London eating shitty fast food with a drunk soldier. He chose Price every time. Every time. Price felt tears prickle at the corners of his eyes. "Nikolai..."

"Da, captain."

"I think I love you."

Nik grinned, huffing a soft chuckle. "Mmhm."

"No, no," Price swiped his beret off, which had somehow managed to cling onto his head while they had staggered through the mean streets of Westminster. "I... I'm serious. I... I love you. Have for, uh," he hiccuped, fucking hiccuped, tried to recover by puffing into his clenched fist, "...have for a while," he squeaked. Oh, fuck, was that indigestion?

Nik put his box of chicken nuggets aside and turned, arm draped over the back of the bench. He slid a gloved hand under Price's chin and turned his head up. Seconds later, they were kissing. Fucking... Nik's fucking lips were on Price's and, and...

Price hiccuped again.

Nik chuckled into his mouth, before drawing away to smooth his thumb through Price's beard. "This is not how I imagined it, but it is... somehow, right."

Price's face was bright red, he could feel it burning, and his eyes were wide. "You, uh... You..."

"For many, many years, solnyshko."

"We've... that's a... a long time." Price said softly.

"I am a patient man. And you are worth waiting for."

After that, Price didn't really recall much. The MacDonald's hit the deck and Price climbed Nikolai like a bloody tree. They ended up in his hotel room, with Nik's expensive suit and Price's (honestly, perhaps slightly less) expensive uniform on the floor. It might have gone further than boyish fumbling if Price hadn't fallen asleep face down in the pillows after saying he didn't want to take advantage of Nik in his current state. Nik had chuckled at that and laid down next to him, stroking his hair.

Price woke up in the morning with a sore head and a dry mouth, and found Nik sitting by the open window in a hotel dressing gown. "Nik, did I..."

"Nyet, captain. You were an absolute gentleman." Nik put the newspaper aside and took his glasses off, delivering the waiting pint of water and aspirin to Prices hands. "Do you... remember what you said?"

Price's cheeks reddened. "Yeah, look, I'll understand if--"

He didn't get to finish. Nik kissed him squarely on his stupid mouth, stroking a big palm through his hair. When he drew back, he hummed softly. "Drink that and then we will go to breakfast," he said, walking away. Price couldn't help but stare as the dressing gown slid down his broad back, revealing a full arse framed in black boxers. "And brush your teeth."

Price downed the water and staggered from beneath the duvet. He was ready to head down within ten minutes, desperate for a strong coffee and a greasy sarnie. Unfortunately, the rest of his task force, Los Vaqueros, Chimera, Laswell and a handful of her agents happened to be in the dining room already.

"Eyy, there he is!" Gaz called, toasting his mug of coffee.

Soap looked round, glanced at Nik and then back at Price. "Fuckin' finally."

Laswell rested her chin on her palm. "Bagged your man then, Nik. Well done."

Price blinked, squinting in the bright morning light. "So you all--"

Simon walked past, his plate heaped with bacon and eggs, and shoved a coffee into his captain's hand before patting his shoulder. "Yeah. Everyone did 'cept you."

Price looked at Nik for help, only to receive a shrug and a quirked eyebrow before Nik wandered off to the buffet.

"Bloody bastards," Price muttered, glancing at each triumphant face, thumbs up and smirk, before slumping into a nearby chair. Bloody. Bastards

[charliedawn]

Do you still accept orders? If so, I'd like to see a post about how slashers would react to seeing a nurse as a single mother with a baby in her arms and taking him to work. I became obsessed with the idea of ​​her carrying her baby in a carrier while she works. Note: I need our Uncle Bates in love with this baby!

HAPPY FRIDAY THE 13th !

Norman Bates:

Norman was surprised when he first saw you with a baby. It had been a few months since he had last seen you and he didn’t know why you had decided to suddenly leave until…He opened the door and here you were, as radiant as ever and with a baby in your arms. You then asked him to watch your baby for a second as you walked in and brought your luggage in with you.

Norman looked at the absolute sunshine in his arms and it didn’t take him long for him to love him. He immediately started singing a lullaby to the baby while gently swaying him left and right.

"Hush, little baby, don’t you cry; Uncle Normy’s going to sing you a lullaby. Hush little baby don’t say a word; Uncle Normy’s going to buy you a mockingbird. If that mockingbird won’t sing, Uncle Normy’s going to buy you a golden ring. If that gold ring turns to brass, Uncle Normy’s going to buy you a looking glass. If that glass begins to crack, Uncle Normy’s going to buy you a jumping jack. If that jumping jack is broke, Uncle Normy’s going to buy you a velvet cloak. If that velvet cloth is coarse, Uncle Normy’s going to buy you a rocking horse. If that rocking horse won’t rock, Uncle Normy’s going to buy you a cuckoo clock. If that cuckoo clock won’t tick, Uncle Normy’s going to buy you a walking stick. If that walking stick falls down, you’ll still be the sweetest little baby in town…"

Michael Myers:

When he saw the baby in your arms, Michael smiled and understood that you had left for a very good reason. The other slashers were a bit shocked or surprised at the sight of him. You showed your baby to them with a proud smile and all the slashers seemed to adopt the child pretty quickly. But then…Michael realised that you had brought a baby in a SLASHERS’ asylum. He looked at Penny and Pennywise who used to eat children, at Jack who almost killed his own kid, at Jason and Brahms who could crush the little one in their big arms, at Freddy who was well…Freddy.

The moment you had to leave the baby alone for a moment to get back to work, all the slashers looked curiously at the kid…Before anyone could touch the baby however, Michael had swooped him in his arms and glared warningly at the other slashers.

Yeah. That baby won’t leave Michael’s sight.

Penny/Pennywise:

MAYDAY ! MAYDAY ! BABY IN DANGER ! I REPEAT ! BABY IN DANGER !

Penny is working on himself. Yes.

And he had a kid himself. True.

But that doesn’t mean he can be left unsupervised with a child.

If you care about that baby, do not leave him alone with Penny or Pennywise unless it is absolutely necessary.

And if you have to leave him in one of the Penny Brothers’ care ? Choose Pennywise. Pennywise has better self control. And the baby has better chances of survival with Pennywise than Penny.

Pennywise would keep the baby at bay.

Penny could hurt the child without meaning to.

Biting him. Eating a leg or an arm. And he would then smile happily at you with blood around his mouth and say that he didn’t know that babies were so fragile. So, be very careful.

Jack Torrance:

Jack was having a drink at the bar when he saw a baby crawling towards him. He looked around and saw that you had gone to discuss hospital business with another nurse.

He looked back at the baby who was still crawling towards him. And then, the baby attempted to stand up and Jack’s eyes widened as the little baby started staggering forward.

He smiled and was about to call you to witness that incredible performance when the baby started losing balance and threatened to fall.

Jack’s pint of beer dropped and crashed to the floor in his hurry to grab the falling baby. He fortunately managed to catch him in time and you were relieved when you saw it.

For the rest of the afternoon, the baby sat on Jack’s leg while he was drinking his second pint of beer. You even smiled as you noticed that your baby started imitating him with the milk bottle that Jack held to his mouth.

Brahms Heelshire:

Brahms was happy to hear the news and he smiled when he saw the baby. He begged you to let him hold him and was thrilled when you agreed. He took the baby in his arms gently and smiled softly at the baby in his arms before carrying him to his bedroom.

Brahms then proceeded to give him a full tour and show the baby all of his toys and plushies. He then set the baby down in front of his pile of favourite plushies. The baby chose one and started drooling on it enthusiastically.

The plushie was the baby’s first gift.

And years later, your baby would know and remember the nice masked man who had given him that plushie. Brahms stayed alongside you and watched the baby grow. They played and had much fun together. And even when your baby became an adult, Brahms kept watching over him…to the very end.

Freddy Krueger:

You actually just dumped your baby in Freddy’s arms and left. Both the baby and Freddy stared at each other in surprise before Freddy looked back up at you.

"What ? No no no. Hey ! Get back here ! Get that thang away from me !" He shouted, but you ignored him. You knew that Freddy didn’t like babies, but you had no choice. He was the closest to you and you had things to do.

Freddy sighed in defeat when he saw that you weren’t coming back before looking down at the baby who was staring at him with those weird big baby eyes…Freddy was crept out and scared.

"Whatcha lookin’ at, ya lil’ shit ?"

The baby grinned and even laughed. Freddy raised his eyes to the sky and shook his head in disbelief.

"Great. Now, even the baby’s makin’ fun of my ol’ ass…" He sighed.

"Ass !"

Freddy was stunned when he heard that word out of nowhere. Who the heck said that ? He then had a frightening thought and looked down at the baby who was still staring at him with that wide innocent smile. He scoffed and shook his head in disbelief. Yeah right…As if. He even thought he had imagined it for a second before the baby spoke again.

"Ass !"

Freddy’s eyes widened.

Oh shit…

You were gonna kill him. But, since he was already one foot in the coffin…He grinned down at the baby.

"Yeah. That’s right. Ass. Now, let’s see if you can say tits, yeah ? Come on. Repeat after Uncle Freddy. Tits."

[oneforthemunny]

hot blooded |boxer!eddie munson x reader|

prompt: eddie's boxing at underground fight clubs to make money. after a victory match, he meets you at the bar. or the beginning of you and boxer!eddie.

contains: mean reader and mean eddie lol. mainly fluff. eddie munson au. happy one year!

Bloodied knuckles raised in the dim light of the bar, a triumphant yell mixed with a grunting of disappointment of those who bet against him when Eddie’s hand was raised, declared the winner. Henry Harrington fisted a wad of cash into Eddie’s hand; six thousand dollars, enough for the entry fee for the middleweight match at the end of the month. 

Mr. Harrington snickered, clapping Eddie on the back. “Help yourself to anything at the bar, alright? On me tonight, Champ, you earned it.” And for a fleeting moment Eddie pictured busting his nose, knocking the smug man clean onto the concrete of the bar, letting his blood pool at his feet. 

Instead, he shoved on the robe they gave, covered up his sticky, sweat soaked skin, blossoming with bruises and cuts he’d still hadn’t gotten to tend to. Maybe Max would still be up when he got back home, she could patch up the ones he couldn’t reach. 

“Double Blanton’s on the rocks.” Eddie grumbled to the cocktail waitress in front of him, not bothering to meet her gaze as he unwrapped his tape from his knuckles. 

She didn’t move. Electric red nails on her hip, the others drumming against the mahogany of the bar. Eddie lifted his gaze, lids throbbing with dull pain that was just beginning to set in. “What?” 

“You’re bleeding.” Your eyes rolled over his frame, stopping at the cut on his jaw, dripping onto his robe, crimson droplets on the bar. 

“Yeah.” Eddie clicked with annoyance. “No shit. Double Blanton’s-” 

“-You’re bleeding all over my bar.” Your nail jabbed onto the counter, next to the splotches of blood dripping there. 

Eddie blinked, unimpressed, annoyed. “Can you make me my fuckin’ drink or not?” You don’t move, staring at him still, nails still clicking against the counter. 

“For fucksake,” Eddie huffs, teeth gritting, reaching over the edge of the bar to swipe the napkins off from your station. Palm slapping on the counter, wiping up the small spot. “There. Happy? Good? Can I get my fuckin’ drink now?” 

Pushing up from your stance, you swiped the glass from the clean stack, setting it on the counter. Eddie huffed, slumping back in his chair. He should’ve just gone home, he bristled, familiar agitating heat rising in his chest, clenching his fists. 

“Harrington’s tab?” You lifted your gaze to his, yanking the cork out of the bottle by the brass horse. 

Eddie’s steely gaze met yours. “What?” 

“Harrington’s tab?” You repeated, slower, tone teetering on an edge. “You’re on Harrington’s tab, correct?” You huffed, nodding down towards the man at the end of the bar. 

“Yeah.” Eddie grunted. 

You rolled your eyes, a heavy pour of the bourbon you didn’t bother to measure. “The fuck is your problem?” Eddie’s palm slapped the bar, an echoing of a hit that the people next to him scurrying away. “Are you just a bitch for fun or do you have something against me?” 

“You came bleeding all over my bar,” You scoffed, brow raised in a dangerously demanding way. “Don’t bother to ask for a napkin, or even acknowledge me, really. And I’m a bitch?” 

Eddie’s tongue rolled over the front of his teeth, knee bouncing furiously under him. “Sorry, I’m not feeling up to small talk. I just got done gettin’ the shit knocked outta me for six rounds. Did you miss that, sweetheart? Not see all the fuckin’ people in the middle of the room?”

“No, I was a little busy.” You were quick, response rolling off your tongue in a fiery whip of an answer easily. “Busy working.” 

“Yeah? What the fuck do you think I was doin’?” Eddie scoffed. “Holding a fuckin’ tea party for the Sunday Social over there? I was working too.” 

“Working?” You snort, rolling your eyes again. Eddie’s teeth clench. “You call that working?” 

“I got paid.” Eddie hissed. “What would you call it? Since you seem to know everything?” 

“Not enough money in the world to make me do that for them.” You narrow your eyes at him. “Hardly call that working, it’s so demeaning.” 

“Demeaning,” Eddie repeated, rolling his eyes. “I provide entertainment, sweetheart. Same as you do, I’m sure.” He nodded down towards your tiny dress of a uniform. 

“Entertainment? That’s entertaining?” You nodded towards the ring.

“Yeah, it is. Boxing? A lot of people find it entertaining. Thought you would know that.” Eddie snapped, viscous, defensive. 

“Watching two grown men beat the shit out of each other, so these other grown men can bet on you like horses?” You scoffed, rolling your eyes with a sneer. “No, can’t say that’s very entertaining to me.” 

“So why are you here then, huh?” Eddie scoffed, jaw clenching in irritation. “Just here for your wonderful personality?” 

Your lips twitched, the fainting of a smile, surprising Eddie. “Something like that.” Your lips rolled, twisting back to their resting snarl. “Here for the same reason you are, I guess.” You set the glass on a black napkin, sliding it over to Eddie. 

“Yeah, why’s that?” 

You cut your eyes towards Mr. Harrington, loudly talking and howling in laughter at the other end of the bar. “Money’s good. Right?” Your eyes squint, nearly in challenge.

 “Let me know if you need anything else.” You purred, throwing a wink in his direction. Eddie’s head was spinning, and not only from all the punches he’d taken. 

He blamed it on his spinning head clouding his thoughts when he waved you over again, ordered another. And another. And a final one. When his head was swimming, mind a little clouded, nerves a lot calmer, he called you over again. 

“Another?” Your brow raised, snagging his empty glass off the counter. 

“No.” Eddie shook his head, the ache in his knuckles starting to set in. “What if it wasn’t here that I was fighting?” 

“What?” You scoffed. “What are you talking about?” 

“You said it was demeaning in here.” Eddie’s finger jabbed the counter for emphasis. “What if it wasn’t here?” 

You squinted at him, lips pulling in a line that had his heart skipping. “Are you drunk?” Your voice fell flat, unamused. “Do you need me to call you a ride home-” 

“-If it was at a real place.” Eddie continued, eyes never leaving yours, an intensity in them that started and intrigued you. “A real match at a real rink with real people. Nobody betting, just two guys fighting for a title. Would it be demeaning then?” 

You paused, watching him carefully, studying him nearly. “I guess not.” You answered cooly, level and calmly. 

“So you’d watch that then?” 

“What?” You snarled. “Are you alright? Do you need me to call someone, or-” 

“-Would you come watch me fight if it was at a real place?” Eddie asked, eyes narrowed in the same way they were before, burning you right to your very core. “In Bloomington in a few weeks.” 

Your fingers pressed into your hip, willing yourself to stay composed, not falter though your heart skipped at his ask. “Maybe.” You sighed sharply. “I still don’t get the whole beating each other for fun thing-” 

“-You don’t have to.” Eddie rolled his eyes, lighter this time, more playful. “Thanks for the drink.” Eddie pushed his chair back, groaning lowly when he pulled himself out of the bar stool, body stiff and tight. “Sorry for bleeding all over your bar.” 

You bit back a smile, fighting the way your lips twitched, tracking him with your eyes. “No problem, Champ.” You quipped, eyes flashing in a daring way that had Eddie smirking, shaking his head. 

“See you around.” Eddie waved, one last look over his shoulder that had you burning, turning to empty his glass, hoping to hide your fluster. 

You were shocked the next day when two tickets in an envelope were waiting for you in the office, Mr. Harrington’s exaggerated tone about how much Eddie liked you. And he must have, you decided, looking at the small note that had his phone number scribbled at the bottom. 

Eddie never heard back from you, let it slip his mind in the next weeks of training. Of course you hadn’t come, why would you have? You made your opinions abundantly clear to him that night. 

Still, he was shocked to see you, in the sea of the crowd, sitting in the row by his corner, arms wrapped around your torso, looking a little more than unsure. You even waved at him, small and shy, and Eddie was sure his cheeks were going to split with how wide he smiled. 

He invited you back to his locker room after he won, a victory Camel hanging from his busted lip, torso still covered in a sheen of sweat. You had no issues this time when the blood from his busted lip dripped on your sneakers, when it smeared over your own lips when he kissed you, pressed against the cement walls, bruised knuckles and fingers in your hair. 

[thebearer]

rosé flowing with your chosen family | carmen berzatto x reader|

anyways here's a blurb inspired by my lil friendsgiving i hosted and how i think it would be with carmen bc im delusional in my head lolz

"Carm, look at this for me." You frown, turning the bronzed pumpkin at the center of the table.

"Yeah, one sec," Carmen muttered, turning with the pot in his hand, stirring the whipped potatoes vigorously. "What am I looking at?"

"The table." You tilt your head to the side. "Should I just move the pumpkin? It's too much with the candles, right?" You huff, the tapered candles flickering in their brass holders.

"No, baby, looks nice. Leave it. We can move it if it gets too crowded." Carmen hummed, a tiny curl of his lips had your heart swooning. "Need to go get ready. It's six-thirty."

"I just have to put my clothes on." You wave him off, fixing a napkin so it was centered on the plate, each place card in it's assigned place. "Are you sure you don't need help?"

Carmen shot you a look, rolling his eyes playfully. "No, I got it, alright? Go get ready." He shook his head gently, pushing the asparagus around in the pan.

You scurried behind him, pinching his jean clad ass gently, grinning at how he jumped before pressing a kiss to Carmen's cheek that left him blushing.

Your first Friendsgiving hosted at your place. An apartment a little bigger than Carmen's old one, but still cozy and all your own- the two of you. What better way to spend your first holidays together than to invite your friends over?

You were fussing over the glazed carrots on the counter when Sydney arrived, always early. "Hey," She crept in awkwardly into the kitchen, her head poking around the corner. "I, uh, I brought a dessert."

"Wow, that looks amazing." You grin, taking the dish from her, hugging her briefly in greeting. "What is this?"

"It's-"

"-It's a champagne cake with whipped butter cream frosting and a light raspberry spread." Marcus finished, stepping in behind Sydney, balancing a bottle of wine and his coat. "Don't let her take all the credit. I made it."

"Ok, well, I told you to add the raspberry-"

"-Well, I was the one who made it and added it-"

"-Alright." Carmen huffed, his voice edging on the tone he used at work. "Glad you both are here, alright?. The cake looks amazing."

Marcus whistled dramatically, peering over at the food laid out on the counter tops. "Looks good in here, Chef." He grinned.

"Thanks." Carmen muttered, brushing the rolls with butter, checking the oven again.

"Do you guys want anything to drink?" You ask, pulling the fridge open. "I have rosé or wine or anything?"

"I'll take a glass of rosé." Sydney nodded, shedding off her coat and hanging it over the back of the couch.

"Yeah, better get some now." Carmen snorted lightly. "Before Alicia comes."

"I have her a backup bottle." You smirk, pulling out the bottle proudly. "Alicia and I were watching the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills reunion, right? And she-" The door closed and you turned, your best friend walking in with a huge grin.

"-And she literally brought her own bottle of rosé." You laughed, shaking your head at her.

"I did." Alicia beamed, hugging you tightly. "Carmen, I promise I will not throw up or sob on your couch this time. I'm very stable now." She grinned at Carmen's huff of laughter.

The kitchen was packed, crammed at the table, laughing and swapping stories over the food. Carmen looked at you, the glow of the candles you insisted having to make it feel more homey- they did. How you were grinning, laughing at Fak and Richie bickering, giggling to your own friends and reminiscing.

For once, the holidays didn't feel like a chore. Carmen had been dreading this dinner, not the cooking or the setting up, but having people in his space. He didn't dare say anything, you were too excited and he'd never ruin your glee like that. Still, for him, the holidays were chaotic, everybody tense and scared.

Not here.

Not next to you, surrounded by all your friends.

Carmen finally got why people loved the holidays so much, why it was the most wonderful time of the year and all that. In his tiny apartment, sitting next to the love of his life, your hand holding his gently under the table, thumb swiping over his knuckles, squeezing it lightly when you'd look at him, eyes crinkling in a smile.

[austinbutlerslovers]

Eternal Ink 🪽

Label Mature 18+

Summary Austin is a renowned tattoo artist with his muscular physique covered in intricate ink. After careful contemplation and a little liquid courage, you decide tonight is the night you will finally get the tattoo you’ve been wanting at his shop. Upon entering, you’re immediately struck by his handsomeness and drawn in by his skill. As he works on your tattoo during a quiet, late night session, the intimacy between you two intensifies, fueling a passionate connection. At the end of the session, he satisfies you with something far more exhilarating than the tattoo.

❤️‍🔥Passionate Smut❤️‍🔥 Edging with unprofessional touch • seduction • dirty talk•nipple play•fingering•Austin covered in tattoos size kink •protection •sex on a tattoo table•multiple orgasms

Master List ••• Upcoming List

*Thank you for your votes! 🗳️ war camp will be released shortly *Please enjoy the winner tattoo 🏆

Eternal Ink 🪽

You stepped out of your car, feeling the cool night air against your skin as you made your way towards the tattoo shop. You were dressed nicely in fitted jeans a plunging halter top and mid calf leather boots. You’d been thinking about getting inked for a while now, and after a few drinks with friends for courage, tonight felt like the perfect opportunity.

Before you even set foot inside, you where well aware of this place’s unrivaled excellence, a testament to the exceptional skills of its artists. But it was the masterful artistry of the owner Austin that truly commanded attention. His reputation resounded through the city streets for his artistic brilliance.

The neon sign above the door glowed softly casting a warm light onto the pavement. ‘Eternal Ink’ it read in bold stylish letters. The sign was a striking blue its light flickering slightly creating an almost hypnotic effect. It was framed by a pair of tattooed wings that seemed to flutter with the movement of the light adding an artistic flair to the shop’s entrance.

The store front itself was equally impressive. Large glass windows allowed a glimpse into the shop’s interior, showcasing walls lined with framed tattoo designs and artwork. The door was a heavy dark wood with a polished brass handle, adding a touch of old world charm to the modern, edgy aesthetic of the shop.

Pushing the door open you were greeted by the scent of antiseptic mixed with a faint hint of bergamot. The lobby was both inviting and intimidating, a perfect blend of artistry and rugged masculinity.

Dark polished hardwood floors gleamed under the soft overhead lights, and the walls were covered in framed pieces of tattoo art each one more impressive than the last.

A plush black leather couch sat against one wall, next to a display case filled with tattoo designs and equipment. Next to the display case was a high table covered in tattoo design books. A large ornate mirror hung along the back wall reflecting the lobby making it feel even larger.

At this late hour it seemed the only occupant of the shop was the owner Austin working behind the counter organizing ink bottles.

He stood with his back to you his tall fit frame outlined against the soft lighting from the glass shelving he stood in front of.

His sandy brown hair was slightly tousled giving him a rugged yet polished look. The muscles on his back and shoulders were clearly defined, each contour accentuated by the soft lighting.

Tattooed angel wings adorned his shoulders, their intricate details peeking out from beneath the fabric of the black muscle tee clinging to his athletic form.

His chiseled arms were a canvas of intricate tattoos, each design seamlessly flowing into the next all the way up to his neck and down to his wrists. For a moment, you simply stood there, captivated by the sight of him.

The way he moved with such confidence and ease was mesmerizing. As he turned your eyes met and your breath instantly hitched in your throat as his piercing blue eyes locked onto yours. He was irresistibly attractive.

“Hey there,” he said eyeing you in return, his voice was smooth and deep with a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. He stepped around the counter and extended his hand.

“I’m Austin. How can I help you tonight?” you took his hand feeling the strength and warmth of his grip. Your eyes locked again and you felt a spark of something more pass between you.

His touch was firm yet gentle, his skin warm and roughened slightly from years of tattooing.

“Hi..yeah…” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady despite the fluttering in your chest. “I was hoping to get a tattoo tonight. Am I too late?”

His smile deepened, and he held your hand a moment longer than necessary before letting go.

“You’re just in time,” he said not even glancing at a clock. “What are you thinking about getting?” He asked as his gaze traveled subtly down your body, taking in your curves with a look of appreciation that sent a thrill through you.

When your eyes meet again Austin’s gaze lingered on yours and you couldn’t help but feel a surge of excitement mixed with nervousness.

Despite his commanding presence there was a warmth in his eyes that put you at ease.

You shifted slightly, suddenly unsure of what tattoo you wanted. “I’m not exactly sure what I want,” you admitted, feeling a bit sheepish.

Austin’s smile remained “No worries, Let’s take a look at some tattoo books. We’ll find something that speaks to you.” He said reassuringly and gestured you to follow him to the high table in the lobby which was adorned with a variety of tattoo design books.

As you flipped through the pages together his hand would occasionally brush against your sending sparks of electricity flying through you.

You slowly regained your composure and began to explain your idea to him, a small intricate design on your inner hip, something personal and meaningful. He listened intently, his eyes focused on you with understanding as you discussed the details.

Then with a fluid motion, he pulled open a drawer from the table, retrieving his sketch book and flipping open a fresh page. “How about this?” he suggested his hand moving slowly as he sketched a design on the piece of paper.

Once finished, he handed it over for your approval and as you examined the drawing in your hand, you realized it was exactly what you had envisioned, perfect in every detail.

“That’s it!” you said your voice filling with excitement. “I love it!”

As your eyes lifted from the drawing to his you could see a hint of pride in his expression as a warm smile spread across his lips.

“I’m glad you like it,” he replied, his voice low and genuine as his eyes lingered on you. “Let’s get you set up.”

He led you to a back room, his private tattoo space that exuded a dark masculine energy. The walls were painted a deep charcoal gray adorned with framed photos and artwork. Black leather furniture sleek and stylish filled the room. The scent of leather mixed with the faint aroma of ink and antiseptic created an edgy atmosphere.

There was a large framed picture of Austin on a powerful motorcycle above his desk, looking every bit the rugged artist that he was. Next to it were pieces of his favorite designs, detailed and vibrant tattoos that showcased his incredible talent.

In the center of the room was a black leather tattoo chair, its surface smooth and inviting. It looked like a throne, commanding attention in the dim lighting.

Austin gestured for you to sit and as you settled into the chair he pressed a button making you lay all the way flat, filling you with a mix of excitement and nerves.

"First time?" he asked, his eyes twinkling in amusement as he turned on his work light and directed its beam on your hip.

“Yeah,” you admitted, laughing nervously. “Go easy on me?”

He chuckled, a warm, reassuring sound. “I’ll take good care of you, don’t worry.”

As Austin prepared the equipment, his movements were precise and confident. The room was quiet the only sounds being the snap of his black gloves fitting onto his hands and the soft buzz of the machine as he tested it.

You took a breath and unbuttoned your jeans pulling them down low to reveal your right hip bone. His eyes remained steady on his task as he cleaned your skin.

His touch was gentle and professional, yet still he managed to send a shiver down your spine.

“Ready?” he asked, looking up at you with his intense blue eyes.

You took another deep breath and nodded. “Ready.”

Austin’s eyes lingered on yours for a moment longer before he turned his attention back to the task at hand.

He dipped the needle into the ink, and his fingers pressed lightly against your skin. As the needle touched your skin a sharp burning sensation shot through you. It was unlike anything you’d ever felt before, painful and sharp, but also exhilarating.

The intensity of the sensation was constant but there was a rhythm to it, a hypnotic quality that made it bearable. You winced a bit biting your lip as the discomfort quickly began to mix with a strange, almost pleasurable sensation.

Austin paused for a moment lifting his gaze to meet yours. “You doing alright?” he asked with his hand gently rested on your hip.

You nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah, I’m okay. It hurts, but it’s… different. Not as bad as I expected.”

He gave you a small, understanding smile. “Just let me know if it gets too much, alright? We can take a break if you need.”

His words were comforting and the way he looked at you with genuine care made you feel completely at ease despite the pain. You nodded and he returned to his work.

The needle continued its steady hum and his fingers occasionally brushed against your skin to wipe away any excess ink. The sensation of his touch, coupled with the steady rhythm of the needle ignited a wave of arousal within you, transforming the discomfort into a tantalizing pleasure.

You found yourself captivated by his face as he worked. His handsome features were well defined, his high cheekbones and strong jawline catching the light of the overhead lamp as he worked.

His intense focus made him even more attractive, the way his brows furrowed as he concentrated, his full lips pressing together in a thin line of determination.

Each time his eyes flicked up to meet yours it sent a thrill through you, unable to deny your desire for him. It became evident he felt the same way as the depth of his emotions mirrored your own, the undeniable attraction between you both conveyed through each intense gaze.

He leaned in closer to fill in the intricacies of the design and you felt his warm breath against your skin, each exhale sending a gentle shiver down your spine causing you to move slightly. His grip on your hip reactively tightened. His fingers pressing into your flesh in a way that felt both possessive and protective.

“You’re doing so well for me,” he encouraged, his voice low and soothing, keeping you calm as he worked on a vital area of the design. His eyes narrowed in concentration as he manipulated the needle in delicate lines of precision.

His face displayed such a focused intensity as he masterfully inked the tattoo needle into your skin that it made you feel a mixture of anticipation and exhilaration knowing his skilled hands were marking your body permanently.

You calmed your urges focusing on the steady rhythm of his breathing and the gentle caress of his hand, until it transformed into something more.

His fingers began to trail across your skin with a subtle intimacy that stirred the arousal in you once more and you couldn’t help but fixate on his hands. You began feeling increasingly turned on by the way his fingers moved with purpose, each touch deliberate and confident, sending waves of desire coursing through you.

The warmth of his touch and the firmness of his grip stirred a deep lust within you. As his fingers ventured closer to your pelvic line, your pulse quickened, and your breath hitched in your throat.

Austin looked up at you again, this time the intensity of his stare sent a thrill through you. There was a spark there that ignited within a wordless heat growing more intense between you two at every passing moment.

He paused, leaning back to wipe away any excess ink, his fingertips trailing along your hip in a tantalizing manner. The deliberate slowness of his touch sent waves of excitement through you, intensifying the already electric atmosphere.

Sensing your attraction for him he couldn’t help but feel a surge of his own desire rising. Firmly gripping your hip he began seductively tracing his thumb along the edge of your tattoo.

Each stroke elicited a soft gasp and a subtle shift in your breathing a silent acknowledgment of the pleasure he was bestowing upon you. As your eyes met he gazed at you with an allure that made it clear his touch fueling your arousal was intentional.

“You have very beautiful skin,” he said softly, his voice filled with a mix of admiration and desire. His gaze traveled down your body lingering on the curve of your hip where he was tattooing. “Perfect canvas.” He said passionately.

You felt a flush rise to your cheeks, your body reacting to the intensity of his gaze and the intimacy of his words.

“You’re doing incredibly well for your first tattoo,” he praised, his voice a blend of reassurance and seduction. “Almost done,” he confirmed.

His eyes locked onto yours with a smoldering intensity, and a playful smirk formed on his lips revealing his desire for you.

You nodded, unable to speak, your body trembling slightly with the intensity of the experience.

His touch returned even more intimate than before as if he was savoring the contact, making your breath hitch and your heart race on each touch. The warmth of his hand and his fingertips lingered after every stimulating touch, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake as you became wet for him.

His eyes lifted to meet yours with a mischievous glint dancing within them. He spread his large hand wider across your pelvis, keeping the needle centered, as his fingers sensually teased under your panty line. The intimate touch ignited a fire within you, and it was evident he relished the effect. His smile only adding to the allure, intensifying your desire for him.

The sculpted muscles of his bicep flexed subtly as he finalized the design, showcasing the intricate tattoos adorning his own skin. Every movement he made captivated you, from the ink on his forearms to the designs gracing his neck. With each glimpse, your arousal heightened, fueled by an intense curiosity about the hidden artistry concealed beneath his clothing.

When he finally lifted the needle for the last time you let out a shaky breath, feeling a rush of relief and exhilaration from the intimate experience.

“All done,” he said, sitting back and snapping off his black gloves admiring his work. “Take a look.”

As you sat up he offered his hand, helping you to stand. You walked to the full length mirror in the room, lifting your shirt and pulling your jeans lower to admire your new tattoo.

It was beautiful, exactly what you had envisioned. The lines were clean and precise, the design was delicate yet striking. You turned to him filled with gratitude and something deeper swelling in your chest.

Before you could second guess yourself, you closed the distance between you stepping into his space with purpose. “It’s perfect,” you praised, your voice tinged with a hint of arousal.

You reached for him with a flicker of uncertainty dancing within as you gently placed your hands on his broad chest. “Thank you, Austin,” you breathed, your voice barely audible as you gazed up into his striking blue eyes overcome with desire.

He looked utterly irresistible, his hair tousled in a way that only added to his allure, a few strands falling playfully over his forehead and framing his beautiful blue eyes. His features exuded a quiet confidence and undeniable charm, his eyes gleaming with a hint of mischief as they met yours.

His full lips curved into a smile and he pulled you in closer slowly wrapping his arms around your waist. "Stay a while?" he asked, his voice was a deep rich tone sending a surge of anticipation through you.

“I’d love to,” you breathed and he lowered his lips onto yours in a passionate kiss, the intensity of the moment flooded through you entirely. His kiss was tender yet hungry as his hands roamed your back holding you tightly against him.

You broke apart from him nearly breathless form the moment and he smiled down at you. His eyes locked onto yours showing the depth of his desire as he gently caressed the curve of your cheek.

“You know I own this place,” he said, his voice low and intimate. “So we have all the time in the world here.” He said with a smile that exuded confidence as he held your gaze.

“That’s good to know,” you replied, your voice laced with seduction. “I wouldn’t want to rush with someone as skillful as you,” you teased as you gazed up at him full of desire with a sensual smile spread across your lips.

Austin chuckled and tantalizingly traced his finger gently along your jawline “You’re something else, you know that?” He asked with his eyes narrowed.

You shrugged playfully as you responded “I get that a lot” with a hint of allure in your voice.

He grinned, his eyes sparkling with anticipation. “I bet you do.” He said moving closer. You felt a blush creeping up your cheeks as he leaned in, capturing your lips in another searing kiss. This time it was deeper, his mouth explored yours with an intense passion that made your heart race. His tongue teased and tasted yours each movement sending jolts of electricity through you as his hands roamed your body, exploring every curve and contour.

His grip was firm yet gentle on your waist as he broke the kiss pressing you against the leather edge of the tattoo table. His body was so close you could feel the heat radiating off of him in waves. His eyes darkened with desire locking onto yours with an intensity that made your heart flutter.

He leaned in so close that his lips brushed against your ear as he whispered, “I’ve wanted you from the moment you walked in.” His words sent tingles of excitement throughout your body as he gently trailed his fingers down your arms. “I never imagined you felt the same,” he confessed, his voice thick with desire.

You felt a surge of anticipation fill you as he pulled back just enough to look into your eyes with a slow sensual smile curving on his lips. Then without another word kissed you hard and demanding, his hands exploring your body gliding down your shoulders and over your chest gently squeezing the curves of your breasts through the fabric of your shirt.

His fingers teased your nipples with featherlight strokes until they hardened. Then with a tantalizing pull he gently tugged at the buds, eliciting a soft gasp of pleasure from your lips. His touch ignited a fierce desire within you, and you melted into him, your own hands reaching up to thread your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer as your mouths came together in a heated clash.

The tattoo table was sturdy behind you supporting as Austin’s kisses increased with desire. His lips moved from yours trailing down your neck, their warmth igniting a deeper lust with every tender press.

“You taste incredible,” he murmured, his voice a low caress against your skin. His teeth grazed your neck eliciting a gasp of pleasure from your lips as his hands roamed possessively over your curves, lingering on the bare flesh where your halter top didn’t cover.

“You feel so soft,” he whispered, his voice filled with admiration and lust, as if he couldn’t get enough of you.

He brushed his hand against the skin of your neck. “I want to see every inch of you,” he said, his eyes smoldering with desire. “And I want to touch every part of you,” he said his hands traveling possessively down to grip your hips.

A shiver ran through you as you finally answered. “Then take me, Austin. I’m yours.”

Austin’s breath hitched as he heard your words fulfilling his desire. With a hungry gaze, he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours as he whispered “I’ve been waiting for you to say that.”

His eyes darkened with lust as a smirk formed on his lips. Your consent giving him the final push to satisfy his overwhelming urge to indulge in the passion between you.

He kneeled down in front of you swiftly unzipping your boots, easing them off, one by one with a steady hand. He pulled down your jeans revealing your skin inch by inch to the cool air as he took them off. His eyes never left yours as he peered up at you hooking his thumbs into the waistband of your wet panties sliding them down until you stepped out of them.

As he stood his fingers grasped the hem of your shirt tugging it upwards. You lifted your arms, allowing him to pull it off and toss it aside. He paused for a moment, his eyes roaming over your naked form with a look of pure desire.

“You’re irresistible,” he whispered, bringing his hands to cup your breasts with adoration as his thumbs traced your nipples. His lips found their way to your neck trailing a line of soft kisses. “Do you know how beautiful you are?” he murmured against your skin as his lips continued their journey up your neck.

As you opened your mouth to answer he captured your lips in another searing kiss his tongue boldly delving into your mouth, exploring with an irresistible need.

“Austin..” you breathed, pulling back slightly, your hands sliding up his muscular arms, feeling the strength beneath his skin. “I need you,” you confessed, holding his gaze with your faces mere inches apart.

”I need you too” he whispered against your lips. His words were filled with longing and urgency and he readily lifted you onto the edge of the tattoo table positioning himself between your legs. With his body pressed firmly against yours, you felt tingles of anticipation surging through you.

He stared into your eyes as he placed his hand on your thighs, gently spreading your legs apart on the tattoo table. His passionate touch sent waves of anticipation through you.

“Is this what you wanted?” he asked, his voice was thick with desire.

You nodded, your breath coming in short gasps. “Yes, exactly.”

He smiled, his hands gripping your thighs tightly. “You have no idea how badly I want you.”

You shivered at his words, the anticipation building even more. “Then don’t hold back,” you urged, your voice barely more than a whisper.

Austin’s eyes darkened with lust as he leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear. “I won’t.” he vowed.

His hand reach between your bodies and his fingers made contact with your wetness applying a gentle pressure, slowly gliding them along the slick surface of your folds. With each stroke he explored the contours of your most sensitive areas, looking into your eyes and paying attention to the subtle responses of your body.

The sensation intensified as he lingered on certain spots, teasing them with the delicate precision of his fingertips, sending shivers of pleasure coursing through you as you stared at him in shock.

“Are you ready?” he asked, his voice filled with desire as he looked into your eyes again seeking your confirmation. You nodded quickly as your heart raced in anticipation.

With a deliberate and tantalizing slowness he pushed his fingers deep inside, the sudden intrusion making you gasp in pleasure. The sensation was intoxicating as your walls clenched around his fingers, each movement of his expertly seeking and stimulating a sensitive spot within you.

He curled his fingers as he pushed them in and out of you sending surges of pleasure throughout your body, intensifying with every thrust as he skillfully explored your depths.

He wrapped his other hand around your throat, his lips returning to yours as he moved his fingers through you in a steady rhythm. Every touch, every kiss, and every thrust of his fingers sent waves of ecstasy coursing through your body.

The pain from the tattoo faded away, replaced by a pleasure so intense it left you breathless. You felt the familiar tightening in your core as Austin’s fingers worked, pulling along the ridge of your most sensitive spot with each skillful thrust.

With the deliberate strokes of his fingers, expertly penetrating your inner walls you felt yourself giving in to the intoxicating waves of pleasure crashing over you and began to tremble and pant into his mouth as he kissed you. His lips trailed down to your neck and he sucked on the soft skin causing your walls to flutter against his plunging fingers. “Let go for me” he whispered against your neck.

His seductive command was the final push to take you over the edge. A loud uninhibited moan escaped your lips, the sound echoing the room as he skillfully brought you a climax. Your core throbbed with the release of euphoria as sparks of ecstasy raced through every nerve ending in your body as you orgasmed.

You could barely form a coherent thought, let alone a response from the pleasure he had just allowed you to endure. “Austin!” you panted trying to form words as he stared into your eyes with a knowing grin. The desire to be consumed by him overwhelmed your mind entirely.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice low and reverent as he removed his fingers from you. He brought them to his wanting mouth his eyes never leaving yours as he traced along each finger with his tongue savoring the taste of you before sucking them clean. His eyes roamed your body with a hunger that made your heart race.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he said, his voice low and intimate as he leaned in capturing your lips in another erotic kiss.

You pulled your lips back to meet his gaze. “Then show me,” you whispered, the intensity of desire evident in your voice.

His eyes bore into yours with a primal desire to conquer you before he deliberate took a step back, creating space to undress.

He knelt first and unlaced his boots, removing them with his socks before setting them aside and standing back up.

You watched in anticipation as Austin gripped the hem of his muscle tee, effortlessly lifting it over his head in one fluid motion and flinging it aside.

The sight that greeted you took your breath away. His torso was a masterpiece of art and strength. His skin was covered in intricate tattoos, each one telling a story, that highlighted the sculpted muscles beneath.

His chest was broad and firm adorned with a phoenix that rose majestically in the middle, its wings spreading across his pectorals in vibrant hues of red and gold.

On his rib cage, a dragon coiled, its scales meticulously detailed, the black ink contrasting sharply against his tan skin. His abs were a series of defined ridges, leading down to the waistband of his jeans.

Austin’s gaze met yours, a smoldering heat in his blue eyes as he reached for the button of his fly. With practiced ease, he unbuttoned and slid his jeans off, revealing his long, thick cock.

You couldn’t help but gasp at its size. He was impressively endowed, his cock throbbing with desire and anticipation, every vein pulsing beneath the smooth skin was a visual testament to his undeniable readiness to claim you.

His strong, muscular legs were also decorated with tattoos. A compass adorned one thigh, its points perfectly aligned, guided by the celestial bodies and a hyper realistic wave design graced his calf, as if the ocean itself had been captured in ink.

On his other thigh, an astral pattern began that extended down to his shin, depicting a cosmic journey in ink.

He stood there for a moment, letting you take in the full view of him, his body a striking combination of raw power and delicate artistry. The room seemed to pulse with the intensity of the moment with anticipation and desire.

“You like what you see?” he asked, his voice low and teasing, a hint of a smile playing at his lips.

You nodded, unable to find your voice.

Austin stepped closer, cock swaying as he leaned to reach his hand into the low drawer of his tattoo station. He retrieved the golden packet of a condom glinting in the low lighting as he tore it open.

You watched as he rolled the condom down his large cock with a practiced skill and a look of anticipation gleaming in his eyes.

“You ready for this?” he asked with his voice full of desire. You met his gaze, your eyes filled with a mix of excitement and longing.

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice barely audible above the pounding of your heart.

He returned to you, positioning himself between your thighs as you sat on the tattoo table. Every inch of him felt larger and more commanding, the embodiment of strength against your softness.

He reached down and wrapped his hand around the base of his thick shaft. With a firm grip, he guided his throbbing cock to the entrance of your soaking wet pussy, teasing the head along your slick folds, feeling the heat radiating from your core staring into your eyes.

“Ready for me?” he asked as he positioned himself at your entrance, seeking confirmation before the inevitable plunge.

You nodded eagerly, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness coursing through you wrapping your arms around his muscular back reveling in his strength

He slowly pushed forward the tip of his cock parting your lips, the sensation of his hardness pressing against your softness eliciting a loud moan from your lips.

Each inch he pressed inside made you gasp, your walls stretching to accommodate his girth, as you gripped his back tightly, your nails dug into his skin as you moaned with pleasure.

He groaned in response, easing the rest of his remarkably large cock inside of you until he filled you to your core. His eyes locked on yours as he felt your walls throbbing around his cock, trying to adjust to his size.

He brought his hands to hold your hips, steadying himself, as his lips brushed against yours.

“You feel so good on me,” he whispered capturing your lips in a passionate kiss.

He withdrew his hips, slightly sliding his cock out before returning it back in smacking his hips flush with your body as his tip pressed against your core beginning his strong rhythm.

With each of his thrusts the intensity grew, driving him deeper into you sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body.

You felt his muscular chest pressing against yours, skin sliding together with each movement as he held you firmly against him, bracing you to take the impact of each powerful thrust. His breath mingled with yours as your bodies moved in perfect rhythm.

“You feel incredible,” he groaned, his voice filled with desire staring at you for confirmation. You only gasped in response, unable to form words as the pleasure washed over you in relentless waves.

He increased his movements and your back arched with the quick jolt force of his thrusts as your skin began making slapping sounds between your bodies.

You gasped, feeling the intense pressure of his hardness against you cervix as his hips clapped between your legs.

“Yes, Austin, yes just like that!” You finally cried out, unable to contain the overwhelming pleasure of being so completely filled by him.

Austin groaned in response to your plea “You’re making me so hard,” he rasped, his voice thick with arousal as he wrapped his hand around your throat in a possessive gesture continuing to thrust into you. Each clap of his hips between your legs igniting a new wave of pleasure.

You began gasping and panting for air between moans, locking eyes with him, knowing your orgasm was imminent. His eyes met yours with a primal hunger, his grip your throat tightening, adding to the overwhelming sensation of his control as he thrust into you with unyielding determination.

You could feel every inch of his powerful body dominating yours, his strength and authority driving you wild. In that moment, you were completely lost to him.

He panted against your lips, his grip firm on your throat as he thrust into you hard and fast

“I want to feel you cum for me,” he rasped over the hard claps of his hips between yours. Each word sent shivers down your spine, and you moaned in response, unable to form coherent words as the pleasure consumed you.

“Fuck!” he whispered sharply “You feel too good.” he admitted and shut his eyes tight enduring the pleasure as he rode into you ramming you full of him.

“Yes Austin take me” you relented arching your back, eagerly meeting his thrusts with your body trembling with ecstasy. “Im gonnna cum!” You gasped.

He growled eagerly, his primal instincts taking over as he locked eyes with yours. Without hesitation, he forcefully thrust into you, each movement becoming more intense with every snap of his hips, driving you both over the edge.

Your moans of pleasure mingled in the air as he delivered his a final, powerful push and gripped you tightly as his cock spasmed releasing rope after rope of his cum into your body.

You scratched your nails down his tattooed back and cried out feeling the throbbing sensation of his cock buried against your walls.

He hungrily captured your lips in a kiss, accepting the pain and pleasure, his tongue dominating yours, igniting a fierce passion that consumed you both.

He pulled his lips from yours and the room fell silent, only the soft sounds of your breaths mingling. He looked at you with his eyes softening. “Stay with me,” he whispered, his voice filled with emotion. “Don’t leave.”

You smiled, your heart swelling with affection. “I’m not going anywhere,” you promised, pulling him in for another kiss.

With Austin’s muscular tattooed arms wrapping tightly around you flexing against your skin, you felt the warmth of his body pressing into yours. The fresh tattoo on your hip still tingled, a reminder of the intense connection you had just forged.

You could feel the tension building as Austin withdrew sliding his thick cock out of you with a slow and deliberate pace. Each inch leaving you causing a yearning to feel full of him all over again. When the tip finally slipped out, he immediately pulled you close, craving the intimacy of your connection once more.

In that moment as you looked into each other’s eyes you both smiled feeling completely satisfied. The depth of your connection was undeniable, a powerful bond forged in the heat of passion and intimacy. You knew that you had experienced something truly unforgettable, a moment that would remain tattooed in your hearts forever.

❤️‍🔥END❤️‍🔥

🏷️ Always Tag Me List 💌

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[causeimhappinesss]

Confidentiality (part 1)

Warnings: one night stand (no smut), manipulation, angst, drama, unplanned pregnancy

Pairing: Joseph Quinn x reader (Joseph Quinn x reader but you won't see her)

Words: 2,2k

Disclaimer: English isn’t my native language (I’m french), so you can correct me if you spot some mistakes :)

PART 2

-

The energy in the ballroom has shifted. The earlier buzz with the endless chatter, the effervescent laughter, the clinking of champagne glasses, has dulled into something softer, more intimate. Conversations have turned low and private, exchanged in shadowed corners and over the last remnants of half-finished drinks. The chandeliers overhead cast a golden glow, but it’s dimmer now, as if even they are growing tired. The scent of expensive perfume still lingers in the air, mixing with the deeper notes of whiskey and the faint, smoky trace of extinguished candles. The waitstaff moves silently between guests, clearing away glasses, smoothing tablecloths, restoring order.

I exhale, my shoulders dropping as I roll my neck from side to side. The ache in my feet has settled into a dull throb, a reminder of how many hours I’ve spent weaving through the crowd, making sure everything runs seamlessly.

Making sure he has everything he needs.

Joseph.

I spot him near the bar.

He’s alone, one hand braced on the polished wood, the other rubbing the bridge of his nose. His tuxedo jacket is missing, abandoned somewhere between handshakes and photo ops. The crisp white of his dress shirt is slightly rumpled. His dark eyes are shining while he scans his surroundings.

He looks… worn.

Not drunk, not exactly. But there’s a weight in the way he stands, a tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there earlier. I move toward him, the hum of the room fading into the background, and I clear my throat.

“You okay?”

He lifts his head at my voice, blinking as if pulling himself back to the moment. His gaze finds mine, and up close, I can see the tiredness etched into the lines around his eyes.

“Yeah…” he says, though his voice is quieter now, rougher than earlier. His weight shifts slightly, like he’s steadying himself.

“Just… a headache. And I think one of the drinks hit harder than expected.”

His words come slow, deliberate. I study him for a second, noting the slight flush creeping up his neck, the way his fingers flex against the edge of the bar. Warm skin, glassy eyes. Not wasted, but close enough to feel it. Does he know how gorgeous and magnetic he is? No wonder so many women dream to meet him and especially to date him… As quickly as possible, I shake those thoughts away.

Yeah, I guess the champagne is hitting harder than I anticipated!

His team is still engaged in conversation a few feet away, laughter bubbling up between them. They haven’t noticed him pulling back. Or maybe they have and assume he’s fine. Alas, he doesn’t look like he wants to be fine right now.

“You want to head up?” I ask, keeping my voice light.

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. Then, after a pause, he gives a small nod.

“Would you…?” He exhales a soft laugh, barely there, as if amused by his own hesitation.

“Just walk me up? Make sure I don’t get lost in some hallway on the way?”

His attempt at humor doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but there’s something else there. Something quieter.

Gratitude.

Trust.

My stomach tenses in a way I don’t fully understand.

I should direct him to someone else, one of his assistants, maybe, or someone from the team who’s actually on payroll for this.

But I don’t.

Instead, I nod.

“Of course.”

The ride up is quiet. The soft chime of the elevator punctuates the silence, the polished brass doors reflecting our figures back at us. Joseph leans against the mirrored wall, eyes closing for a second before he straightens.

“Sorry… I usually handle these things better.” He mutters.

“These things?”

He tilts his head, a ghost of amusement passing over his features.

“Long nights. Too many people. Too many drinks I didn’t really want.”

I watch him, the way his fingers flex against the railing. The tension still sits in his shoulders, in the faint crease between his brows.

“You don’t have to apologize for being human, you know. Your body is probably just very tired.”

His lips twitch, like he wants to smile, but it seems he doesn’t quite have the energy. The chime sounds again. The doors slide open to a quiet hallway, thick carpet swallowing our footsteps as we step out. Then, with a card, he unlocks a door and waves me to follow him inside.

For a second, silence settles. A thick, heavy quiet, disrupted only by the distant hum of the city through the window. The suite is dimly lit, a soft amber glow spilling from the wall sconces, stretching shadows across the sleek furniture. The air carries the faint scent of cologne and the sharper bite of whiskey, remnants of the evening clinging to his skin.

Joseph exhales, running a hand through his hair.

“Well…” he says, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “That was an evening.”

I let out a breathy laugh.

“It definitely had its moments.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever understand why people assume actors love these things. Fancy rooms, stiff conversations, pretending to care about a canapé that tastes like cardboard.”

I smirk.

“So you’re telling me you didn’t enjoy every second of making small talk with strangers who only know you from their Netflix queue?”

He chuckles, shaking his head.

“Shocking, I know.”

His fingers brush over his temple, rubbing lightly.

“It’s all a bit much sometimes.” He sighs, before he licked his lips.

I watch him for a moment. The exhaustion sits deeper in his features, in the faint crease between his brows, in the way his large shoulders don’t quite relax even now.

“Well, thanks for making sure I didn’t pass out in the elevator. You didn’t have to.”

I shrug and chuckles, seeing how the big man saw me as his “savior”, which seems a bit ridiculous.

 “It’s technically my job.”

His lips quirk, but there’s something softer behind it.

“Still. I appreciate it.”

He moves toward the armchair, shrugging off his jacket as he does. The fabric slides down his arms, revealing the crisp white of his dress shirt, the sleeves already slightly rolled. He tosses the jacket onto the back of the chair before undoing the first few buttons at his collar, exhaling slowly as if he can finally breathe.

I shift my weight, suddenly aware of the way my heels dig into my feet. With a small, relieved sigh, I reach down and slip them off, curling my toes against the plush carpet. A shudder of relief rolls through me.

“That bad?” Joseph teases, amusement flickering in his eyes.

“You have no idea.”

I flex my foot, wincing slightly.

“I think I lost circulation somewhere around dessert.”

He grins, leaning against the table, watching me. The air between us shifts. Not tense, not yet. Just different.

“Drink before you go?” he asks, already reaching for the small bar cart.

I hesitate. I should say no. I should call it a night, slip back into the professionalism I’ve worn all evening. But then his fingers graze mine as he hands me the glass. A slow, deliberate touch. Just enough to send a shiver running down my spine. I look up. His eyes are already on me, watching, waiting. The glass is warm in my palm, but his touch lingers longer than it should. The silence stretches, a beat too long. A look too much. He steps forward slightly, close enough that I catch the faint trace of whiskey on his breath, the warmth of him seeping into the space between us.

“Maybe you should go…” he murmurs.

A challenge flickers in his gaze.

“Unless you don’t feel like it.”

My pulse trips. His voice is quiet, but it hooks into something deep, something reckless.

I should leave.

I don’t.

His fingers brush against mine again, barely there. A whisper of contact, but enough to send heat curling low in my stomach.

Something shifts.

The space between us disappears.

*

The scent of coffee lingers in the air before I even open my eyes. Warm, rich, slightly burnt. Something sweeter lingers in the air, like pastries, maybe fruits, or the last trace of cologne on the sheets. The bed feels too good, huge. I shift slightly, the sheets cool where he no longer lies, twisted in soft folds around my bare skin. My body aches, not unpleasantly, but insistently. A reminder of last night. My eyes remain closed for a moment longer, breathing in the stillness. If I don’t move, if I don’t look, I can pretend the moment won’t slip away.

But then I hear it.

The faint clink of porcelain. The subtle rustle of fabric. And I know I’m not alone.

I open my eyes.

Joseph sits on the edge of the bed, one leg bent, the other foot planted firmly on the floor. He’s already dressed? At least partially. His black pants hang loose on his hips, the hem of his white dress shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal the hollow of his throat. Wrinkled fabric clings to his frame, sleeves rolled up carelessly.

He looks up from his phone, as if sensing my gaze.

“Morning.” he murmurs. His voice is rough, lower than usual.

I swallow and rub my eyes. The lack of sleep is hitting more than I expected… It’s not like I had a lot of sleep.

“Morning.”

My throat is dry. I push myself up onto my elbows, the sheet sliding down my body. His eyes flicker briefly downward before he glances away. I follow his gaze to the bedside table. A silver tray sits there, a pot of coffee, two cups, a small selection of pastries. Not extravagant. Not intimate. Just fuel.

“You… Uh, ordered breakfast?” I ask.

He nods, picking up his coffee.

“Figured you’d need something before heading out.”

Heading out.

The words settle uncomfortably in my chest.

I reach for a croissant, tearing it apart carefully. Flaky layers crumble beneath my fingertips. The butter melts against the warmth of my skin. We eat in silence. Not awkward, but not easy either. Like something unspoken lingers between us, just out of reach. Joseph scrolls through his phone, thumb moving absently. The quiet stretches. Something about it sits wrong. I sip my coffee, letting the bitterness coat my tongue before setting the cup down.

“Mind if I shower?”

His gaze flickers up, as if surprised I’m still here.

“Go ahead. Towels are in the cabinet.”

I slip out of bed, wrapping the sheet around me as I walk toward the bathroom. My dress lies in a crumpled heap near the door. I don’t look at it.

Not long after that, the shower is hot, almost scalding. Steam curls around me as I stand under the spray, letting the water rush over my skin. My body hums from the heat, muscles sore in places I don’t want to think about. I press my palms against the cool tiles, inhaling deep, steady breaths.

Last night shouldn’t have happened.

I know this.

And yet, in the dark, with his mouth on my skin, his hands gripping my hips, none of it had felt wrong. I let the water wash over me a little longer before finally shutting it off. By the time I step out, the mirror is fogged, the air thick with the scent of his shampoo. I grab a towel, wrapping it tightly around me before opening the door…

I freeze.

Joseph sits on the armchair by the window, a pen in his hand, a piece of paper resting on the table beside him. His face is unreadable. Detached. Cool. He taps the pen against the paper, then gestures toward it.

“I need you to sign this.”

I frown, stepping closer. Water drips from my hair onto the plush carpet. The towel clings to my skin.

A contract.

No.

A confidentiality agreement.

A slow, heavy weight settles, in my stomach.

I stare at the words, then at him. My fingers tighten around the edge of the towel.

“You’re joking.”

His expression doesn’t change. He looks at me with his big brown eyes as if I was too dumb to understand his words.

“It’s standard.”

“Standard…” I repeat, my throat tight.

I let the word roll on my tongue, tasting the weight of it, the hollowness. I laugh, the sound so sharp and humorless.

“Right. Because sleeping with me was just another PR risk to manage, wasn’t it?”

His jaw tightens and he frowns.

“That’s not…” He exhales, shifting slightly. “It’s not personal, okay?”

Not personal.

A simple thing, really. Just another signature on another paper, as forgettable as a bar tab. I reach for the pen. My pulse pounds in my ears as I sign my name with slow, deliberate strokes, each letter carved into the paper like an open wound. And then, just beneath it, I scrawl:

“Don’t worry, I wasn’t planning on bragging.”

Joseph watches me. He says nothing.

I cap the pen, setting it down with more force than necessary, then straighten. The towel feels suffocating now, heavy against my skin.

“Thanks for breakfast. And the hospitality.” I say, my voice even. Almost pleasant.

I move past him, grabbing my dress from the floor. The fabric is cold against my fingers, the weight of last night still clinging to it. I step into it without care for grace or poise. My hands don’t shake as I zip it up. I don’t look at him when I reach for my heels. I don’t say anything when I walk toward the door.

Of course, he doesn’t stop me.

Why would he?

I was just to stupid to hook up with the “great and amazing” Joseph Quinn.

-

PART 2

-

Hey! Here’s the first chapter of the series I had announced about my drama/angst idea with Joseph Quinn. Now, there's so much tea that I don’t even know if I’ll continue… Let me know if it’s worth it!

Taglist : @ali-r3n

[fanaticsnail]

The Marine's Mistake

Masterlist here.

Word Count: 1,700+ (just a small little drabble for me!!)

Warnings: Clean-shaven Mihawk, lots of flirting, mentions of drinking.

@feral-artistry requested this a while ago, and I finally had enough in me to pump out this little drabble. I can easily see myself adding to this little relationship down the line, but for now it's all short, sweet and innocent.

Hushed whispers travelled along the rotund dining table in the dimly-lit tavern. Hands shielding lips, narrowed eyes, the smallest tilt of chins spread like the trickle of seawater through a crack in the ship’s hull to litter the hallway with the salty liquid.

“What do you think happened?” a red-headed marine uttered to her comrade beside her, eyes widening the longer her sights were held to the table in the centre of the tavern.

“He wouldn’t have shaved it,” another shook their head, raising the cool glass of bitter beer to their lips. A small foam line falling to their top lip as they pulled the glass back to utter: “it’s a part of his look, right? It wouldn’t be intentional.”

“Perhaps it was an accident,” a blonde, tall cadet uttered with a curt nod, “cannon fire, a blast or something.”

“I don’t think he’d be close enough to the end of a cannon for that to happen,” a smaller, pink-haired cadet offered in response as he adjusted his circular glasses up the bridge of his nose.

You sat at the corner of the table, not quite following the conversation falling amongst your peers of marines. This was the third transfer you’d been a part of in the span of a month: the latest ship needing to utilise your skills as a hand-to-hand combat specialist to better the skills of the marines.

Vice-Admiral Garp and his marine cadets were in the early stages of building rapport with you, you only truly interacting with your peers and subordinates while running drills or swapping over watch shifts so far. This venture in land for the replenishment of supplies and to fix up any chipped wood for the ship was truly your first opportunity to really get to know your new crew on a deeper level.

You looked down at the end of your pint-glass, the slosh of the final dregs of the beaded liquid swaying as you held your gaze firmly to it.

“Marines,” you addressed your peers, bringing the attention of your drinking companions over to you, “I’m getting another round,” you rose to your feet, pushing your wooden bar-stool back beneath the table below, “speak now if you’d like another, I think it’s my turn this time?”

A chorus of a resounding “yes!” fell to your ears, prompting a small giggle rise in your chest. The “yes!” gained the attention of the rest of the small dining room, prompting you to lower your palm to the floor with a playful “shh”, the laugh falling as you began taking orders.

“I’m assuming all ales then?” you asked as your laughter diminished, “I should just get a jug, at this stage.”

“Yes to the jug!” the red-head began to chant, a broad smile displayed openly on her lips.

“Aye!” the marine beside her confirmed with a similar amount of enthusiasm.

Another giggle fell from your lips as you turned to make your way to the wooden bar, the barkeeper meeting your gaze with a nod in your approach. As you stood your torso up against the bar with a handful of berry clutched in your hand, your eyes travelled to the body which began their own approach to the bar.

The gentleman was adorning an open, cream-coloured silk shirt, frills embellishing the low collar with a crossed draw-string revealing the crevasses of his muscular chest. Dark and loose curls framed his face, angular and strong arches of his jaw and cheek bones comparable to carved marble. His yellow eyes beneath his long, dark eyelashes held an intensity you hadn’t seen before.

He was breathtaking. Your eyes travelled to his dark, leather pants held by a woven belt with a large, brass buckle. Trailing your eyes back up, you found your gaze met by the gentleman you were shamelessly undressing with your eyes; a warmth rising to your cheeks under the knowledge that you were found out.

“Marine,” he offered in a bored tone as he drew his body beside yours at the bar.

“Beautiful,” you challenged him, a small smirk rising to your lips. He arched his brow upwards in response, his intense frown no longer present atop his handsome features. He hummed, leaning his elbows against the wooden bar and flicking out his index and middle finger to gain the attention of the bartender.

“What are we drinking, gorgeous?” you asked him, turning your shoulders to offer him your full attention.

“We?” he scoffed, yellow eyes trailing over your face as his shaven chin pointed towards your own, “I am not buying you a drink, Marine.”

He turned back towards the bar, completely ignoring your presence beside him as he focussed on trailing the bartender with his eyes.

“I never suggested such a thing, charming,” you taunted him, your index finger trailing the benchtop beside him slowly; drawing his gaze to your digits. He arched his brow upwards, intrigue gracing his honey-coloured eyes briefly. The bartender finally gracing the both of you with his presence, brushing down the benchtop with a tea-towel and smiling broadly.

“What’ll it be?” he asked, placing his white and blue tea-towel over his shoulder and leaning against the counter.

“Three jugs of ale for the table in the corner,” you smiled, turning again to the man beside you, “and add his drinks to my tab, along with two more of what he’s having.”

The dark-haired man snapped his face back towards you, eyes wide at your boldness. His eyes narrowed at you, training over your playful expression.

“You have no idea who I am, do you?” he uttered in a low tone.

“None in the slightest,” you shrugged, your bottom lip falling into a small pout, “but I sure would like to.”

The man was taken aback, his eyes widening before a small smirk grew itself against his lips.

“A bottle of Sangiovese,” he tilted his chin back at the bartender, “and two glasses.”

You scrunched your nose upwards in delight, drawing out the berry to cover your tab and handing it over to the bartender. You turned to face your torso to the room, your elbows finding the bar behind you as you arched your back outwards in your leaning.

“Sangiovese?” you questioned the mysterious man beside you, “you in the mood for something more on the tart and sour side, handsome?”

“There you are again with the pet-names, Marine,” he taunted you with a small purr in his tone, prompting a warm flush to once again draw over your face. You broke away your eye contact with him and looked to the table of your peers; who seemed to have widening eyes and the colour drained from their faces. You shook your head a little, brows furrowing in question as they witnessed a waitress bring over their jugs of ale.

“And here I was thinking my poor mood would travel back home with me, after that meeting,” he uttered under his breath as the bartender came back with a decanted bottle of sangiovese and two crystal wine-glasses.

“What was that?” you asked him, turning your gaze back towards the gentleman who currently captivated you with his mysterious aura.

“Indeed, sweetheart,” he leant his body over yours, towering you beneath his intimidating aura, “something tart that I can roll over my palate with subtle spice is what the current mood of the hour calls for.”

Instead of backing away and cowering beneath his towered stoop, you instead arched your back upwards further and lulled your head to the side with your jaw revealed to him. He hummed down at you, reaching behind you both to collect the glasses and the decanter within his wide fingertips.

“You are intriguing,” he praised you in a deep rumbly whisper, his lips falling dangerously close to your own as he retrieved the objects behind you, “allow me to escort you outside to continue this delicious conversation over the wine you graciously paid for, that is-.”

You tilted your head, awaiting for him to continue his sentence. He turned his head to look to your commanding officer, Bogard and Vice-Admiral Garp, with his brow arched upwards. His lips curled up into a smirk, you watching how truly beautiful his smile grew to become.

“That is…-?” you trailed in question for him to continue, drawing your right hand up to his cheek. You utilised your index finger and thumb to collect his smooth chin and draw his attention back to you. Upon slowly sweeping the room before drawing his attention back towards you.

“That is, if you’re completely ‘off-duty’ for the rest of the evening,” his lips grew into a soft, playful grin. Oh, how gorgeous.

“A whole evening with a gorgeous stranger?” you questioned him, releasing his chin from your fingers and opting to caress his cheek, “and here I thought we were just sharing wine. Honey, you spoil me.”

A small rumbly growl released itself from within his chest to almost purr at you. He withdrew from his stoop, turning with the collected decanter and glasses within his right hand and turning to offer you the crook of his left elbow to escort you out of the tavern.

“You truly have no idea who I am?” he chuckled at you as he led you from the tavern doors, the room falling almost silent amongst the gasps and whispers from your peers.

“Should I, beautiful?” you asked him giving his bicep a small squeeze as you praised him. He sighed with a small chuckle, drawing his forehead in to press against your own briefly as he allowed the doors of the tavern to swing shut behind him.

The sunset hovering over the sea was a welcome sight, the warmth of the day falling on your skin and welcoming it into the romantic atmosphere you had both found yourselves in for the evening.

Dracule Mihawk was going to enjoy this unbridled and flirtatious attention for as long as you would allow yourself to play along with him. It had been a while since his aura of intimidation had been shed from his body, and even longer still since he was the one being approached at a bar rather than himself finding someone to toy with. He simply can’t wait for the pin to drop against the floor and you realise you are literally dancing with death.

And it was all thanks to a horrible prank performed by the chop-chop devil-fruit user. The devil-fruit user who was currently pinned against the hull of his ship by harsh chains of sea-stone as punishment fitting the crime. Perhaps he should even thank the infamous clown-captain for his idiocy, but for now: the promise of wine and a beautiful, flirtatious companion for the evening awaits. How Mihawk adored this attention.

[girlblogging24]

Headcanons of a modern-day Soldier Boy ₊˚⊹♡

Distorted patriotism

Soldier Boy claims to love America, but his love is trapped in a version of the 1940s that no longer exists. He views the modern world with contempt, feeling that people are now "weak" and that everything that once represented the strength of his country has been lost.

✦ When he walks through the city and sees someone with brightly dyed hair, he can't help but mutter, "What the hell happened to real men?"

✦ Sometimes he sees modern soldiers and scoffs, "Back in my day, men went to war with a rifle and a pair o' brass balls, not these goddamn drones and spoiled-brat tech."

✦ But deep down, there's a part of him that knows he's outdated, that he doesn't fit in anymore. He hates it. And so he clings even tighter to his distorted view of what it means to be "American".

He hates modern music

If you try to play him some current pop or reggaeton, he will look at you with an expression of utter disgust. For him, music died after the 80s.

✦ "What the fuck is this crap?" he says when he hears a song with autotune. "This ain't music, it's a goddamn robot yappin'."

✦ If for some reason you end up in a place with modern music, he's going to be uncomfortable the whole time, muttering things like "I can't make out a damn word they're sayin'." or "Hell, at least they used to play real goddamn instruments."

✦ What he won't admit is that he's secretly found a couple of modern songs he doesn't dislike, but he'll never admit it. If you catch him listening to something that isn't classic rock, he's going to grimace and say "It's a fucking exception, okay?"

He thinks he's the toughest man, but he's an emotional wreck

To the world, Soldier Boy is the epitome of masculinity: strong, unstoppable, fearless. But the truth is that he has never learned to manage his emotions and his first reaction to any uncomfortable feeling is to suppress it with alcohol or violence.

✦ If you ever confront him with anything emotional, his first response is sarcasm. "What, you expect me to start talkin’ ‘bout my feelings like some damn hippie?"

✦ When he's alone and drunk, there are times when he drops the mask, when he stares at an old photo with a lost, vacant expression. But if someone sees him, he immediately pulls himself together and grunts something like "Ain't nothin', just got some damn dust in my eye."

✦ If he feel very strongly about someone, his instinct is not to say it, but to show it in awkward ways: making sure you eat, making sure you're safe, making sure no one screws you over. But if you try to talk about it, she'll cut you off with a snarl: "Alright, that's enough of that sentimental crap."

Problems with masculinity

Although he knows he is strong, invulnerable and a symbol of power, any suggestion that he is not “manly” enough makes him explode.

✦ If someone laughs at him for doing something "unmanly" (such as caring for someone or showing a modicum of vulnerability), his immediate reaction is violence. "You want to say that to me again, you bastard?"

✦ He hates feeling "weak" in front of a woman. If he is ever sick or hurt, he will try to pretend that everything is fine, even when it clearly is not. If you insist on taking care of him, he'll snarl at you: "I don't need nobody fussin’ over me like I'm some damn kid."

✦ But deep down, the problem is that he doesn't know how to exist outside of the role imposed on him. He doesn't know how to be a man without being ‘the strongest man in the room’.

He thinks he can keep drinking as before, but his body has changed.

After decades in suspended animation, his body is no longer quite the same, though he will never admit it.

✦ He pours himself a huge glass of whisky, downs it in one gulp, and almost immediately feels the dizziness. He frowns. It can't be. It can't be that the alcohol is hitting him so fast.

✦ But instead of accepting that his metabolism has changed, he gets angry at the drink. "This shit ain't like it used to be, they dilute it with water."

✦ He ends up hungover for the first time in his life and can't stand it. He lies there with one hand on his head, snarling, "If you say one word about this, I'll kill you."

✦ Despite everything, he continues to drink, continues to act as if nothing has changed. Because to accept otherwise would be to admit that he's not the same Soldier Boy he was before. And that terrifies him.

₊˚⊹♡

In short: Soldier Boy is a man trapped in the past, with a fragile masculinity disguised as toughness and a heart that, though he tries to hide it, is still capable of feeling...only in the most disastrous way possible.

₊˚⊹♡

[sewersaga]

FORSAKE ME HERE (ALL OR NOTHING)- aventurine x foxian! reader

bee's masterlist

9.6k words. sorry (not)

warnings: female bodied reader with she/her pronounce, v v suggestive, mentions of past abuse (aventurine), alcohol usage, sexual cotent BUT NO SMUT, miners dni

Now that you think about it, you can hardly remember the name of that planet.

You remember the rustic hotel bar, the foreign music thrumming in your veins as you savored your drink. The setting was far different from the last planet you’d been on, but the welcome change of scene and the alcohol settled in your veins, leaving you antsy to learn everything the place had to offer. The others were off who knows where, probably sticking their noses in business that didn’t concern them, although, wasn’t it the nature of the Trailblazers to always want to play the hero?  And despite being one of them, and treasuring them like your own family, you preferred to get your kicks elsewhere. And who could blame a creature like you for craving a bit of chaos?

That night, chaos sidled up to you at the bar, ornately dressed and smooth as vermouth, gesturing for your drink to be put on his tab.

You don’t remember what you talked about initially, just that the conversation quickly devolved into one of barely veiled innuendo and mutual debauchery, although it was impossible to ignore the way he devoted his entire attention to you when you spoke. He fixed you with his stunning gaze beneath those rose tinted glasses, and you quickly began to wonder why he continued to wear them even inside the dimly lit room. The exchange felt like a masquerade of sorts, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t find him startlingly beautiful and even more intriguing.

Although, it could be said that those with the most gorgeously deceiving outward appearances are the most dangerous. Surely, he was no different. Everything about him screamed well-dressed danger, but luckily for the both of you, your body seemed to crave it.

After a few more drinks, you decided to take proceedings upstairs to your room to avoid drawing any curious eyes. After all, a pink haired foxian and an ostentatiously outfitted blond would surely not be overlooked in a situation like this, and considering his deeply refined appearance, the man likely had a status to uphold. Namely, one that didn’t involve getting overly familiar with a petite fox eared woman out in public. Although you fit right in with the other foxes on Xianzhou, your species was rather rare on other planets, quickly allowing their residents to recognize you as an outsider. The man that kissed you hungrily against the door to your hotel room was clearly not a local either, despite sharing some common features with the native people.

Now that you think about it, he mentioned his affiliation with the IPC quite early on in the discussion, and it piqued your interest because he decidedly did not reveal his awareness of your affiliation with the Astral Express. Of course, it was only your first encounter with the man, so he had no obligation to reveal anything to you. Hell, you hadn’t even exchanged names. Still, he didn’t seem like the type to not speak carefully, and every word exchanged between the two of you that night seemed to further the gamble you weren’t yet aware you had a hand in.

Until hours later when you had thoroughly reaped the rewards of your shared win, the heartbeat of this stranger insistent beneath your cheek.  “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t regret a thing.” You craned your neck up to look at him, the shell of your ear brushing his face. “But you don’t even know my name.”

You felt him hum, amused, his arm lazily draped over your body. “Do you know who I am?”

The pieces had long since arranged themselves in your mind. You’d done your due diligence as an Express crew member to research the top brass of the IPC, and only one person fit this description. “Of course, Aventurine.” Just your luck to end up in bed with one of the Stonehearts, although his position meant nothing in the end. Not unless he wanted something more from you, which they always seemed to do. But the man seemed different somehow from all the others who ended up as blocked numbers in your phone after one breathless night spent together. You decided to chalk it up to the fact that he was by far the most attractive man you’d slept with in a while.

He laughed, a hand trailing ghostlike up your spine and you shivered. “You could’ve said that earlier.” His fingers came to rest between your shoulder blades, and if you were a stupider woman, you’d almost think he was pulling you closer to him. “Now I feel like a fool for not asking your name.” Noticing your sudden fit of chills, he pulled the thin bed sheets to cover more of your bodies, seemingly not realizing your state had nothing to do with the room’s temperature.

“Maybe you don’t know my name, but you know who I am.” You were simply bluffing, but he seemed to take you seriously. His hand drifted back down your body, landing on your hip, the warmth bleeding through to the bone.

“Wouldn’t that defeat the point of being a Nameless?” He asked coyly, and you giggled, ultimately unsurprised, adjusting your position so that you were practically laying on top of him.

“You do know.” He squeezed the ample flesh of your hip beneath his hand as you shifted, and a breathy sound escaped you, one you quickly swallowed upon seeing his smug expression.

It was his turn to shrug as he smoothed the skin with his palm in an insincere apology. “I didn’t. It was a lucky guess.”

You snorted, somewhat incredulous. Still, you’d indeed heard stories of the unbelievable luck of Aventurine, and the various schemes in which he’d lay his life on the line and still come out on top. “Some luck you have.” How bold a person would have to be to bet the ultimate chip, knowing that if they lose, it’s all over. Such recklessness, such utter disregard. What went through his head in those moments? You looked deeper into his radiant eyes, but saw nothing behind them but flagrant amusement and mild enrapturement.

“It’s sort of my thing.” He blinked, offering you a self-assured smile, and you began to wonder how much of that pretty exterior was all for show.

“Sure.” You allowed your body to relax on top of him, unable to stop your own train of thought despite what they say about curiosity and the cat. Perhaps the fox will be the one to be eaten alive this time, although the idea didn’t sound at all unfavorable. Suddenly, struck by an unpleasant notion, you sat up, catching his attention. “Was this all a part of some scheme to wager for our compliance?” You pressed a palm to his bare chest teasingly, and he chuckled lowly, the sound rumbling beneath your hand. “You’ve already gotten everything you’re going to get from me.”

“If I wanted your compliance, I would already have it.” His wandering hand found its way to your chin, tipping your head down to meet his gaze as he looked at you with those dazzling eyes, the kaleidoscopic hue like that of a rare gemstone yet to be named. “And I don’t make wagers that I’ll lose.”

You wondered if he could ever be categorized like a mineral, easily decoded by his most notable traits and studied beneath your curious gaze. They’re usually so easy to read, those lucky souls who get to share your bed. But true to his occupation, this man didn’t get to where he is by being transparent, and his eyes were as showy and incomprehensible as diamonds.

Perhaps he was about to say more, but your little exchange was rudely interrupted by the bothersome ringing of his phone, which sat face down on the bedside table. He sighed, his annoyance palpable, as he allowed you to dismount him, untangling himself from your limbs to reach for the device. Now shamelessly bare and suddenly cold, you rose from the creaky bed to grab your robe from where it lay discarded upon the chair in the corner. Funnily enough, you hadn’t noticed how noisy the bed was earlier, although you were likely far too occupied with other things to pay it any mind. You made a silent apology to the neighbors as you crossed the room, praying your crewmates were still out trying to save the world.

You didn’t bother listening to his conversation as you draped the cheap pink fabric around yourself, securing it with the thin band around the middle before making your way back to the bed, the mattress dipping beneath your weight as he hung up the call. You weren’t here for more information about the IPC after all, and you’d both gotten what you came for, literally and figuratively. You’d be the last one to care about whatever pressing business he had to attend to at this hour, although you supposed corporations like his own never really slept. Such was the nature of business, and those boring topics were of little interest to you.

It was quite hard to ignore, however, the way he began to dress, recovering his clothes from where the two of you had carelessly discarded them at the bedside. “Already tired of me?” You stood on the bed, making your way over to drape your arms coquettishly around his neck. “And here I thought it would be more fun if we went again, this time using each other’s names.”  You were only teasing, evidenced by the little sway of your tail behind you against the sheets, but if he agreed, that worn little robe of yours would be tossed back on the chair in an instant, and you’d be his for the rest of the night.

“It would be, wouldn’t it?” He laughed off your advances, but made no move to evade your loose hold on him. “But business calls, I’m afraid.” You figured this was likely routine for him, slipping out of strangers’ rooms in these ungodly hours to attend to whatever business he had to handle. Coming from any other man, it would almost certainly sound like an excuse, although you never let them stay long enough to brush you off. That wasn’t your style.

And thus, a desire to make him stay was ignited in you, an unfamiliar urge to be different from all the women he’d had before. “In the middle of the night?” Your voice was almost a purr, inching dangerously close to the shell of his ear. You were well versed in your craft, after all, and sure enough, you felt him tense momentarily beneath you, seemingly considering the idea before he relaxed, casting it away.

Unwilling to give up, your hand traveled across his chest, coming to rest in the spade shaped opening that revealed the bare skin of his chest. He sighed, seemingly reluctant to let you go, and you got the sense that this little victory was yours. “This job has its perks, but I’m on call at all hours.” He turned slightly to press a kiss to your jaw, and despite the hollowness of the gesture, you froze momentarily, coming to terms with the fact that you’d actually lost. “Where’s your phone?”

You removed your arms, sitting down on the edge of the bed, effectively defeated, and a little inexplicably shaken. “On the desk.”

He hummed in acknowledgment, picking it up and staring at the home screen for a moment. “Password?” You shot him a glance that hopefully conveyed how stupid the question was. He raised a hand in surrender, passing the device for you to unlock before pulling on his gloves with his now free hands. You handed it back to him, watching as he entered his phone number.

“Here’s my contact.” He pulled on that garish fur coat of his, throwing you a wink as he made for the door. “I look forward to our partnership.”

“Partnership?” You followed behind him, tail swishing with your movements as he lingered in the doorway. “Is that what this is?” How pathetic you probably looked then, a confused little vixen trying to convince a stranger to stay the night with her. This wasn’t how you usually operated, and the way he looked at you then made you realize that he could tell.

“It’s whatever you want it to be.” With that, he leaned down, kissing you chastely on the lips, lingering for a moment longer than a goodbye warranted. He pulled away, smiling almost fondly at your uncharacteristically stunned expression.  “I’ll be in touch.” You didn’t have anything else witty to reply with, so you watched him go, suddenly dizzy and weak in the knees despite what you’d let him do to you just hours earlier.

Yes, dangerous was certainly the first word that came to mind as he threw you a wave halfway down the hallway. Perhaps you were unable to categorize him like the rare and beautiful stone he is, but that fact was certain. That, and if he didn’t call you up again, you would find him yourself and demand answers. And you’d never felt that way before. And ever persistent, fate had its own plan for the two of you, and his good luck might rub off on you soon enough.

Sure enough, fortune weaved its fickle design, and your clandestine, if not brief, meetings continued for some time, in various hotel rooms. Of course, there were a few instances over the phone as well, ones you would coyly and unconvincingly deny if brought up by a fellow crew member who heard something they’d rather they didn’t. But you were always known for being quite shameless, and you didn’t mind the reputation. People could think whatever they wanted to think about you, for you were the only one who truly knew who you were. It was always that way, you supposed. No one brought up your past, for it was never relevant to the various smaller disasters your crew handled on a daily basis.

And if anyone noticed your occasional disappearances while docked on a random planet, or the way you’d return smelling of expensive cologne, or even the time March 7th stumbled upon an untouched pristine gold watch in your room, they never said anything. Knowing you, they probably assumed you’d spill the dirty details if prompted. And they wouldn’t be entirely wrong, although these tokens ultimately meant nothing to you, and sometimes made you feel cheap. You couldn’t stop him from buying you things, though, and if you got rid of them, he’d just send you a replacement. You supposed it was a nice problem to have, but you were certainly the wrong person to have it.

And despite your experimentation on the various other planets you stopped on, no one else made you feel that sense of vertigo he provoked when he kissed you. So until you figured out what that was all about, he wasn’t going anywhere. And if his affections towards you were anything to go by, he didn’t want to. Rather risky, indeed, but you’d always loved playing with fire, or so a certain general told you a long, long time ago.

But the past didn’t matter, nor was your future set in stone, and luckily for you, that damned gambler had found his way back into your life. Seeing him among your crewmates in the hotel lobby as you checked in rather than in a dimly lit room was a bit jarring, considering the fact he hadn’t exactly made a favorable impression upon the group. “You know this guy, [Name]?” March had asked then, confusion knitting her brow.

“We’re old friends.” He had responded immediately and naturally, and who were you to deny him? Perhaps your future was indeed preordained, for you realized that rather than wanting nothing to do with him, you wanted to see him more and more.

The day Alisa went missing was one of the worst days of your life, and in a lifetime as long as yours, there were plenty to choose from. You were docked upon the Planet of Festivities, Penacony, a stop that you were particularly excited for because of the pure indulgence that awaited you upon it. When Alisa failed to join the rest of you in the lobby that day, alarm bells quickly rang, for that committed and devoted girl would never neglect her responsibilities, much less leave you all to worry in her absence.

Delicate, white ribboned, and naively beautiful, you couldn’t stop thinking about the possibilities of what Alisa was being subjected to. You couldn’t help but feel like the sweet dream of Penacony allowed for the most depraved minds to thrive undisturbed in the shadows, and an angel like her would be swallowed whole in the dark syrupy quicksand of immorality. A self-proclaimed sinner like yourself would know these things from personal experience, understanding how easily your past can lead you down the path of an unfavorable future.

The relentless worry wrought your mind to no end. The girl went through enough in her life, and the last thing she needed was to be taken by someone who didn’t have her best interests at heart. As much as you liked to tease the girl (really, she was so easy to get a rise out of) you’d grown very fond of her, and her disappearance weighed heavily upon you.

You confessed this to Aventurine at the hotel bar, the interaction a twisted mirror of the night you first met, although this time your unrelated unease was palpable. Your fear for your friend’s life made it impossible to keep the walls up that you typically reserved for your dalliances with strangers, although the man beside you could surely no longer be considered such considering the extent of your relationship. Nevertheless, you felt like the heart you typically kept so shielded was now stitched to your sleeve. He watched you while you spoke of your concerns, his expression unreadable as usual, brilliant eyes glimmering beneath his glasses. “I can help, if you like.”

“You can help?” You were unable to stop yourself from scoffing, for what reason did he have to offer his help? Any loyalty he had toward the Express was due to some sort of yet to be revealed shared interest, and his not so covert extracurriculars with you. “I appreciate your concern, Mr. Aventurine, but what sort of command do you have over the Dreamscape that would allow you to find my colleague?”

He raised an eyebrow, adjusting his sunglasses. “Mr. Aventurine? Your friends aren’t around, so you don’t have to address me as such.”

You tilted your head, almost mockingly. The stress had seeped far into your bones, and his inability to speak directly, although alluring in the bedroom, was presently getting on your last nerve. “Why? Does it bother you?” He simply smirked handsomely, and you plucked his glasses from where they rested on the bridge of his nose, momentarily stunning him. “Answer my question, Aventurine.” You placed them on your own face, praying they conceal your true emotions like they did for him.

He raised an eyebrow at you, amused, but making no move to take them back from you. “None.” He shrugged, sipping his drink. “But I have my suspicions, and you know even my guesses are seldom incorrect.” How dare he be so cavalier when your friend’s life is on the line? You didn’t know if his reckless betting was a part of his true nature or a symptom of a far more concerning ailment, but you lacked the patience to investigate any further at the moment being. “How odd for Miss Alisa’s disappearance to coincide with the death of that man’s sister.”

“You’re awfully confident with that assumption, aren’t you, gambler?” You returned his grin with one of your own, although not without a bit of fang and venom. You tipped the sunglasses down to look at him properly, hoping he wouldn’t call your bluff. “And if you help us, what’s in it for you? I seem to recall you saying you never make deals where you’re on the losing end.”

“Your memory doesn’t fail you, sweetheart.” He spoke with a laugh, his voice dripping with something that made you squeeze your thighs together in remembrance of all the prior times you heard that sultry twinge in his tone in a far different setting. You raised an eyebrow at his audacity, ignoring the urge to take him upstairs to vent your frustrations when there are far more pressing matters at hand. “But don’t worry, I know where I’m not wanted. I’ll leave you and your friends to your own investigation, but don’t say I didn’t offer.”

Your ears lowered with mild displeasure, exposing your feelings about his statement despite your eyes being hidden behind his rose tinted shades. “The others won’t be too pleased if they found out you came to me. They don’t fully trust you as is.” The worst part of your foxian nature by far is your body’s propensity towards revealing your true emotions when it’s in your best interest to conceal them. Surely it would make you a horrible gambler, although it’s only one of many reasons why you would never try your hand at a game.

He cocked his head at you, that stupid lazy grin still at home on his face. “And you do?”

You sighed, a sound laced with self-hatred, because the way he was looking at you almost had you reeling. How weak of a woman had you become that all a man need do is look at you to get you worked up? “I didn’t say I did. But I’m far more familiar with you than they are, and I’m telling you to stay out of it.” Perhaps you could attribute your current state to the alcohol you consumed? More research was certainly needed in order to find a way to become immune to this man, for that’s all he is. He’s just a man.

“Fine, fine.” You’ve known so many men before, but this one infuriated you when he waved you off, and despite trying to maintain a calm facade, your ears lowered even further. He fixed you with a mirthful look in response reaching out to run a gloved hand through your hair, his fingers lingering at the base of your ear. You tried to remain outwardly impassive, but your body betrayed you, leaning into his touch as your ear twitched pleasantly in response. “Don’t let this put a damper on your stay. I’m sure she’ll turn up soon enough.” He raised himself from the barstool, heading off to who knows where, and leaving you sufficiently flustered. “Later.”

Your phone went off a few moments later, and of course the asshole had sent you the price of your drinks and a couple ten thousand credits more. Tip the bartender as much as you like, but I sent more than enough for you to have some extra spending money. You stared at the screen in confused distaste for a moment before another message came through. Oh, and keep the glasses. They look better on you. You didn’t need his charity, and you sent him a message letting him know in no uncertain terms, but he only sent you more money. He was impossible to reason with, and that’s why you found yourself resenting him, despite how undeniably alluring you found him.

And despite everything going on, you had half a mind to not text him back right now to meet you in your room in ten, if not just to return those stupid sunglasses. Although in all honesty, that would be the last thing on your mind were you to be alone with him.

But as sure as the prodigal son’s return, Alisa turned up, having been held gently as a dove in the bleeding palms of none other than Sunday himself. Despite her long absence, she showed no signs of physical or mental trauma, and on the contrary, she seemed just as gentle as before, draped in the finest silks Penacony had to offer. Something didn’t make sense, but of course, Aventurine’s suspicions regarding that man were entirely correct, leaving you to regret brushing off his help so readily. Perhaps if you hadn’t been so quick to cast him away, you would’ve found her quicker, although something told you she wouldn’t have been ready to leave. But despite the complicated logistics of the situation, one fact was certain in your mind: anything Sunday had been forced to let go of was left with claw marks from his controlling grip.

And perhaps control was a form of love? You wouldn’t know, but the notion was entirely ridiculous to you, that the thorns that bound Alisa to him could’ve been born of anything else but a desire to possess. Still, when you looked at Alisa, you saw no sign of claw marks, nor thorny brambles. She was just as unmarred as the day she left, and that confused you even further.

Before you left that hedonistic heaven of a planet, however, you found yourself knocking on Aventurine’s door for answers. After all that had happened, you’d learned far more about him than he was willing to tell you himself, and you became even more convinced that all of the smooth-talking and flaunting of wealth was overcompensation for a deep-seated sense of worthlessness. It upset you deeply, because as much as you told yourself you had no reason to care for this man, for this almost stranger who shared your bed, you still worried for him.

What made him different? Was it his dangerous beauty, his immense wealth, or his cavalier nature? Or perhaps, it was the way he touched you like you were worth every single treasure in the world? It didn’t matter, because that meddlesome little feeling in the pit of your chest wasn’t going away any time soon, not until you got the answers you sought.

Aventurine had really gone and done it now. Destroying a cornerstone was sure grounds to be demoted, if not fired completely, but a break wouldn’t necessarily be the worst thing to happen to him right now. Maybe he’d get lucky and they’d do away with him altogether. He could only hope as much.

Penacony was a disaster, sure, but the IPC had gotten what they wanted, and there were certain colleagues who would undeniably be on his side through this flaming pile of shit whether he wanted them to or not. And in all honesty, he hadn’t expected to be around long enough to see the aftermath. So how was he supposed to go about living when he never intended to continue in this twisted labyrinth in the first place? How was he to live in a world that took everyone he ever loved from him? If this was what it meant to be blessed, then he truly was given a shitty hand.

But then, there was you. He hadn’t seen much of you since your friend’s sudden disappearance, and he could tell the event had shaken you to your core. In fact, something told him you were even more torn up about it after her return. Of course, he made sure you were aware he’d be here to comfort you in any way you needed, but was that really what he wanted from you?

That was the tricky thing about being a gambler. You have to always know what you want out of the game, or else your efforts are pointless. And Aventurine could not remember a time that he ever knew what he truly desired. Even when he was younger, his focus was always on survival, on buying and selling, being bought and being sold.

Still, he could hardly consider whatever he exchanged with you pointless. In fact, some of the moments he spent with you were the only times he felt any semblance of meaning in a very long time. You made him feel like a person rather than a trading chip, and perhaps that was what he never knew he wanted.

He’d met up with you once more before the shit really hit the fan, sitting beside you on the couch in your hotel room as you apologized for being so harsh with him when you rejected his help. He wasn’t sure what happened to change your mind, but you seemed earnest, far more than someone like him deserved. He had certainly overstepped in your moment of vulnerability, but he really had wanted to help you for nothing in return, a fact that surprised him just as much as it did you.

Despite your shared proximity, his arm draped lazily around your waist, you hadn’t shared more than a few kisses. The situation felt far more intimate than the typical nature of your relationship, and before he left, you took his face in your palms tentatively. “Be safe, alright?” 

The tender exchange was so unbefitting of the both of you that it took him off guard. There were always moments like these between the two of you— touches that lingered for a few moments too long, shared glances amongst a group. These instances threatened to thaw something within him that froze long ago, and it was scary. He had to disregard everything, to forget you, if he wanted to bring the grand mirage that was Penacony to its end by bargaining the most significant chip he had left.

In the Dreamscape, that twisted version of himself told him to die without regrets, and he thought he made his peace. He told himself that you would be better off without him, that you were simply two planets that orbited the same sun for a time, nothing more, nothing less. Of course he knew it was a fib, but in his world, lying was a form of survival, even if the one he was fooling in the end was himself.

Despite his fortunate foresight, however, he hadn’t expected you to seek him out before the Express left Penacony, considering the way things ended. However, as he sat contemplating what the future he never thought he’d see might bring, there was an insistent knock on the door of his room.

“Why do you do it?” You questioned him the moment he opened the door, his guard still somewhat down. He blinked, surprised, as you waltzed past him into the room, visibly agitated.

“Hm?” He quickly resumed that easygoing air of nonchalance that you were used to from him, watching as you approached the Dreampool, your gaze fixed upon its bubbling surface to avoid his gaze.

“Risk your life for the possibility of zero reward.” You hesitantly turned back to face him, the pool’s aquamarine glow lighting you in a way that made you look divine.  “That’s not a very wise gamble.”

He chuckled softly, unable to conceal the fondness that crossed his face when he looked at you. “The phrase ‘wise gamble’ itself is an oxymoron, sweetheart. If we were wise, we wouldn’t be gambling.” He approached you, hoping his words would be enough to dispel the concern on your face. “In a game of chance, the one who comes out on top is the one who has the most to lose.” You really did have a horrible poker face, and as much as he would love to bring you along to a game or two, you’d probably accidentally reveal his entire game plan with a few poorly timed twitches of your ear.

And like clockwork, your ears lowered as your expression soured. He envied you for a fleeting moment, the way you couldn’t hide a single thing you felt. “That’s just stupid.” He wondered if he would ever be able to live like that, with his heart on his sleeve. But in his experience, being able to express one’s feelings was a death sentence. Better to swallow them down and gamble with his words, doing everything to hide that imperceptible twitch of his hand that threatened to betray his self doubt.

He shrugged, turning away from you so he wouldn’t have to see that expression of yours. “Maybe to you, but it’s my livelihood.” Any moment longer under your gaze and he’d ruin his game, he who never faltered. You were quiet for a moment and he took the opportunity to move to the couch, casually sitting down and patting the spot beside him for you to join him.

You did not move, remaining in front of the incandescent Dreampool like a goddess. “You have so much more to give. Information, money, power. Why resort to the ultimate sacrifice?”

“Those things are worth nothing to others. But my life?” He paused, and you raised an eyebrow. “Well, one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.” And despite the statement being disguised as a joke, it was probably the most honest he’d ever been with you.

He watched as you blinked at him in mild surprise, your fangs threatening to reveal themselves along with your mild annoyance. “You’re kidding me, right?” You moved purposefully towards the couch, before suddenly taking the opportunity to straddle his lap rather than sit beside him. “How can you look me in my eyes and tell me your life is worth nothing?” At his non-response, you leaned in so you were face to face, your noses almost touching. Your eyes were wide and watery, and he hesitated again, taken off guard by your sincerity. “Go on. Look at me and say it.”

And surely, it had to be you who was joking. There was no reason for you to care about him. There was no reason for him to hold any sort of value in your life, for if he did, he would have let you use him however you wanted long ago with zero question. He would do that for you, and perhaps he would even do anything for you. But he still could not, for the life of him, figure out why you were looking at him like your world would collapse if he disappeared.

He sighed, responding with a question of his own. “Why are you upset with me?”

You snarled, an expression he’d seen you direct so many times at others, but never him. “Why do you think?” You were visibly angry and hurt all at once, although he feared you hurt more for him than for yourself. And he felt it was so terribly unfair that you felt obligated to waste your time on a former slave with a raging inferiority complex despite having so much to offer yourself.

“I’m sorry, [Name].” He hadn’t expected those words to leave his mouth, and it seemed that you hadn’t either, for your eyes widened, and the tears that threatened to fall earlier began to spill down your cheeks.

Despite your tears, you scoffed bitterly. “Why are you apologizing to me? You’re only hurting yourself.”

He took your face in a gloved hand, wiping a stray tear with his thumb. “You’re the one crying.”

“I’m not—” You pulled back, looking at his finger, moistened with your teardrops. Your hand came up to touch your face, and you laughed bitterly, leaning back upon his thighs. “Maybe you’ll finally listen to me.”

“I want you to listen to me.” He spoke gently, afraid of upsetting you further, but still wanting to say his piece. If you continued to worry about him, you’d be the one ending up hurt, and didn’t he promise not to involve anyone else in his schemes, to keep them all concealed to protect the ones he loved? “What happens to me has nothing to do with you. I promise, everything will work out in the end. It always does.” He tried his best to sound jovial, reassuring, but you were a smart woman, and you weren’t buying this gamble. He sighed, thinking of the people who died because he failed to protect them, the lives he’d taken to prove his own worth. He couldn’t bear to add your name to the list.

“Is it so hard to believe that your life has value to someone?” The notion made him falter completely, and you had effectively called his bluff, beating him at his own game. Honestly, he would be kind of proud if the situation weren’t so grim. “Do you want to die, Aventurine? Do you?” You took it one step further, hitting terribly close to home.

When his future self confronted him in that dream, he essentially asked him the same question. Whenever he had to make a gamble, the thing that meant the most to others, and the least to himself, was his life. How was he supposed to think any differently when he’d always been seen as nothing more than something to buy or sell? He was free of those bloody shackles that enchained him, and he would never again be looked down upon like that. But he still wasn’t certain exactly what he planned to reap from life now that he was free.

So he told that man, the one who looked just like him, that he’d know the answer once he got to where he was going. And since that moment, he had been to death’s door and back, and you were still here waiting for him. You sat on his lap now, weeping for him. Perhaps it was a sign from the universe, an omen pointing him in the right direction. But Aventurine no longer believed in the power of the universe, the same one that had taken everything from him.

So what else was he supposed to do except leave you before he destroyed your life even further? His non-response was the only answer you needed, and your annoyed demeanor quickly deflated into one of sadness and defeat before you climbed off of him, smoothing your clothes. “Goodbye, Aventurine.”

Naturally, things didn’t end there when it came to the happenings on the Planet of Festivities. Everyone with skin in the game had their own agenda, and the Astral Express was not an exception. Luckily for you, though, the crew needed someone to stay back with Alisa as her impromptu jailkeeper to ensure she didn’t leave the Express. No one expected you to volunteer, for you had been the most excited to explore everything the planet had to offer. But you had admittedly less important matters on your mind that you had to think through.

And Alisa seemed to be taking her protective punishment quite well, for she still buzzed around the Express doing her daily tasks, and cooked all of your meals happily. She clearly sensed something was wrong, for you were unknowingly horrible at concealing your own sadness, and doted on you as a result, although you couldn’t help but think it should be the other way around. And despite her nature causing her to behave pleasantly, Alisa still wore her sadness upon her back like her own personal cross to bear.

Despite being such a typically talkative woman, you and Alisa often sat in silence those days while your crewmates wrapped up affairs on Penacony, curled into each other on the couch while she gently stroked your ears. It was the nature of a Foxian to enjoy a pet or two, and you lavished her attention, but not before explicitly warning her not to tell a soul.

And day after day, the jailbird still sang sadly, peering out between the bars of her cage with a melancholy look upon her delicate face. The girl was always prone to lovesick contemplation, but for you, this was all so very new, and every sensation was unfamiliar and raw. You found yourself deeply thankful, however, that you weren’t alone, and Alisa’s penchant toward pondering loves of the past and present began to wear off on you.

What made this situation different? You’d ended affairs before, both concisely and messily, but never had you cried over someone who you crossed paths with, and never had you walked alongside someone for so long that you’d grown to care for them. Never before had you tried to nullify someone else’s self destructive tendencies, because never before had you stuck around long enough to learn who they truly were. And despite what his actions had told you, there was still so much more you didn’t know about that man. As you sat beside Alisa, tears silently streaming down your face, you were embarrassed.

Every time you allowed your own heart to cloud your judgment, it led to your downfall. You forsook your own family back on the Yaoqing, and for what? A man who wouldn’t even look your way after he got what he wanted? And perhaps Aventurine had received what he desired from you, and was now willing to throw you to the wolves in favor of clawing his way down to hell, and that had nothing to do with you. Time heals all wounds, and soon enough, you’ll have forgotten all about him, and he will have ruined himself by his own hand. And if the notion made you sob a little harder in Alisa’s arms, it was entirely unrelated to him, nothing but a byproduct of your own stupidity.

As you let her brush through your tail with an antique jade comb, the soothing motion coaxing your deepest anxieties out into the open, a new fear came to mind. Before, maybe you were alone, but you never once felt lonely. But now that you were no longer in contact with the one person you thought you could connect with on a deeper level, you suddenly worried that you would never be able to feel that way about someone else. Once the words left your mouth, you regretted them, for Alisa’s ministrations with the comb halted. “Don’t speak as if he’s dead.”

You scoffed. “He wants to be.” You spoke bitterly through the thickness of tears lingering in your throat. Alisa hummed before continuing to brush your fur.

“He’ll be back.” She reached down to pat your head, and your ears twitched in a combination of annoyance and resigned enjoyment. You turned back to face her, your eyebrows furrowed in suspicion.

“What makes you so sure?” She offered you a small, knowing smile, the expression right at home on her face. You envied her ability to be so hopeful on your behalf despite being in a state of bereavement herself. Despite your own jealousy, it endeared her to you further.

“I know a lot about these things. He won’t stay away from you for long.” She ran a lithe hand through your now smoothed tail, passing you the jade comb. “He can’t.” You wished you agreed with her, but a small part of you prayed she was right, and that much like the quickly escalating situation on Penacony, things between you and Aventurine wouldn’t end here.

And after tensions boiled over, and the rest of the crew had sufficiently resolved the volatile situation, Alisa’s predictions came to fruition. The first thought that crossed your mind just three days later, when you opened the door to your cabin and saw Aventurine standing there, examining the antique fox statue on your nightstand, was that the Astral Express really does welcome all passengers. “What, do you have a work assignment on the Express or something?” Trespassing was certainly frowned upon, although the sight of him amongst the trinkets of your room wasn’t necessarily unpleasant. All of that to say that someone had to have invited him aboard, and it certainly wasn’t you. “Gonna gamble us out of every last credit we’ve got?” There was a hint of mirth to your tone, but it did little to mask the unease that you felt in the moment.

He’d told you that day through his actions that he wanted nothing to do with you, content to throw himself down a spiral of self-hatred and despair. If that was what he desired, it was fine by you, for you refused to stand by while he destroyed himself even further. And when you found yourself sobbing into your pillows for days on end afterwards, you told yourself you were only angry with yourself for feeling this way, not the fact that you mourned his absence or anything like that.

The man standing in your room like a ghost from the past turned to face you, his eyes murky as if snapping out of some sort of trance. He threw you a lazy smile, clearly unable to read your demeanor. “Something like that.”

You sighed as the door shut behind you, making no move to venture any further into the room lest this be another dream. “Why are you here?”

He shrugged, laughing almost nervously as he tentatively approached you. “Well, the IPC did want my head on a platter for a minute there, but everything’s resolved now.” He looked down at his shoes then, biting his lip momentarily before meeting your gaze again with those brilliant eyes of his. “I figured it was high time for me to make some personal calls.”

And how difficult it was for you not to crumble before him right then and there.

You steeled yourself, although you were subconsciously inching closer to him when you spoke. “And this is the first stop on your victory tour?” He swallowed, looking down at you as you stopped just centimeters away from him, so much so that you could smell his expensive cologne from where you stood. “Congratulations, you got your job back, what does that have to do with me?”

He smiled once more at you, although the expression was absent of the usual venomous honey that typically accompanied it. “Those friends of yours called me. They were really worried about you, you know.” He gently placed a gloved hand on the side of your face, and like clockwork, your body leaned into his touch. “I owe you quite a few explanations.” He kept it there for a moment, feeling the heat of your cheek against his clothed palm, before bringing it back to his side hesitantly.

Effectively placated, you blinked up at him. “You don’t owe me anything, Aventurine.” Your tone was missing its usual bite. How many times had you imagined this moment before cursing yourself for being so pathetically hopeful? Whatever happened between you was brief, ending because you cared far too much for a man who couldn’t care for himself. But maybe, just maybe, something within him had changed, with you as the catalyst.

“On the contrary, I think I owe you everything.” He responded sincerely, and his tone was unlike anything you’d ever heard from him before, except in those quiet moments the two of you shared when the rest of the universe was fast asleep. Those multi-colored eyes glimmered at you like a kaleidoscope, and the feel of his hand against your face lingered upon your skin like a phantom sensation.

“What are you saying?” Despite your nature, you had come to accept that you were weak before him, even though he had never asked you to be. And like himself, something beneath your exterior, far behind all the walls you put up to protect your own heart, made itself known whenever he touched you, and stirred a fire in your chest that you thought died out long ago. You decided to give him a chance, taking his hand gently in your own and leading him to sit beside you on the window seat. Once you were comfortable, he didn’t let go of it, instead resolving to intertwine his fingers with yours.

“I’ve thought a lot about our conversation that day. It seems there’s a lot more I need to come to terms with about myself.” He paused then, and you sensed that he was preparing to give you everything he had to offer, this particular gamble oddly innocent. “I’m sorry that I hurt you by involving you with me. It wasn’t my intention.” Your eyebrows furrowed at his apology, but he squeezed your hand just as you were opening your mouth to object. “But I want you by my side. Every day.” His gaze bored into your own, intense and earnest, as his characteristic smile dissolved, emphasizing his sincerity. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

You were silent for a moment, and he took the time to bring your hand to his lips, brushing them against the soft skin. You let out a breathy laugh, and he met your eye, smiling expectantly. “You’ve really got to stop apologizing to me for things that aren’t your fault”

“And your answer?” He lowered your hand, decidedly not unlacing his fingers from yours. He laughed in a self-deprecating manner. “You can say no. I won’t be offended.”

“Yes.” You answered with zero hesitation, for it was the response that resonated in your soul. He could’ve asked you anything in that moment, and you would’ve responded affirmatively because you knew you were too far gone. There was still a long way to go in terms of communication between the two of you, but you were willing to try for him, if only to preserve the way you felt when he looked at you like that. “I’ll stay by your side, if you stay by mine.”

“Of course.” He pulled you to him until you sat atop his lap. “I’d never dream of leaving you again.”  A hand ran through your hair before he leaned in, his lips meeting yours sweetly. Despite how many times you’d been in this situation before, your entire body felt like jelly as you kissed in front of that window, his hands finding purchase at the base of your hips as yours wound around his neck.

You pulled away reluctantly, looking him in his eyes. “Do you promise?”

He leaned in, stealing one more kiss from you, ignoring your protests at his delayed response. “I promise.” He pressed his forehead to yours. “And when have I ever broken a promise?”

You giggled, a bit delirious from the way he kissed you. “You haven’t exactly made me many promises.”

“Then let this be the first. I’m not going anywhere.” He grabbed at the fat of your backside much like he did the night you first met, although this time there was a far more possessive undertone behind the action. “And neither are you.”

“I wouldn’t plan on it.” And perhaps you had a possessive nature of your own, for when you kissed him again, you had every intention of marking him as your own, of sinking your fangs into him until the only name he remembered was your own. Or, perhaps, you were getting a bit ahead of yourself, but the way he was moving beneath you told you he wasn’t at all opposed to the idea. “Shall we seal the deal?”

He nipped at your bottom lip as he reluctantly parted from you, that alluring grin of his cementing your intentions.  “What did you have in mind?”

You threw him a teasing smile of your own, although the way your tail swayed behind you in anticipation betrayed your want far more than your words did. “I have some time to spare if you do.”

“You have my complete attention, darling,” He spoke smoothly, his honeyed words ghosting your lips. “What do you want from me?” You giggled. Was he really going to make you say it? Well, no matter. You told him in no uncertain terms exactly what you wanted him to do to you, and he did it, because he would happily do anything and everything for you. And afterwards, when his deft hand pressed against your spine amidst the formerly pristine sheets of your bed, you knew he wanted you even closer to him than was humanly possible, because you wanted the exact same thing.

And wasn’t that new? Knowing just what the other wanted, and doing everything to make that happen? Perhaps that was what love was all about. You weren’t sure, you thought it might be something like the way his fingers laced through yours as you pressed your forehead to his, your tail moving insistently and pleasantly against your bedsheets.

Aventurine could not decipher the looks on your crewmates faces as you sat beside him on the couch in the parlor car, fingers interlaced with his, as if you hadn’t just told them that he would be accompanying them to the next stop on their voyage. “So? Aren’t you guys going to say anything?” You smiled at them, although not without a hint of fang, as if daring them to object to your decision.

“Of course.” Himeko spoke, that blessed, caring woman. “The more the merrier.” Her response and the warm smile that came along with it seemed to placate you sufficiently, although Aventurine still felt horribly out of place. But he got the feeling that wherever you were, he’d fit in just fine. The others responded with varying degrees of welcoming affirmation, although it was very hard to ignore the way Stelle and Alisa were elbowing each other and giggling to themselves, and even harder to ignore the threatening looks you were sending them. He turned to you, smiling fondly, and as you looked back, squeezing his hand, he realized this was the most at home he’d felt in a long, long while.

“Well, where to, then?” You diverted your attention back to Himeko and the rest of the crew, subconsciously leaning further into Aventurine’s side.

The group all shared a look, and you raised an eyebrow as if to ask what the hell is that supposed to mean? Finally, Stelle, ever the menace, opened her mouth. “Well, while the two of you were occupied, General Jing Yuan invited us back to the Luofu to attend the Wardance Ceremony.”

A sharp, sudden laugh escaped you, presently ignoring Stelle’s pointed comment about what the two of you had been up to. You didn’t seem to care what the rest of the crew knew, so neither did Aventurine. It was a rather freeing mindset to have. “The Wardance Ceremony? Been a long time since I’ve heard about that. I suppose I’ve been traveling with you all for too long.”

Himeko chuckled good naturedly. “You don’t seem to have any complaints about that.”

You offered her that pretty grin of yours in return, fangs peeking out. “Oh, believe me, I have none. Are we going?” There was that shared look again, before March 7th nodded. “No way. You guys must be itching for a fight then. It’s mostly martial arts contests.”

Alisa smiled, coming to sit down beside you. The girl seemed to have recovered well from her stint with the Family, and Aventurine found it nice to see her up and about. So much so that he even let go of your hand to allow her to take it, although you settled further into him to compensate. “Have you ever competed?”

You snorted. “Nah. Do you think I’d stand a chance there? It should be fun though.” You shrugged, your tail beating with anticipation against his leg, and he exhaled mirthfully at the fact that you didn’t seem to notice.

“Mister Aventurine?” Alisa craned her neck to see around you, making eye contact with him. He hesitated, not expecting to be addressed so directly by any member of the crew. In fact, he’d been ready to be treated as just an extension of you for a while, something he really wouldn’t have minded much at all.

As such, he shrugged in a way he hoped came off as nonchalant. “Well, seeing as I’m the newest guest, my opinion shouldn’t mean too much in the grand scheme of things.” You scoffed, elbowing him. Right. Whenever he would say something that edged too close to the line of self deprecation, you would let him know in no uncertain terms.

“As long as you’re traveling with us, your input is important.” You turned back to him, taking both of his hands this time. You shot a pointed look at the rest of the group, a warning to comply hidden in your tone.  “Right?”

The crew murmured in agreement, although they didn’t seem to harbor enough ill will towards him to ostracize him from the rest of the gang. He sighed inconspicuously, the sound edged with relief. “Well, it certainly sounds entertaining. I’m down.”

Stelle grinned deviously, and he prepared himself for the worst. “Good. Because we already decided to go while you guys were holed up in your room.” A slightly less direct reference to the hours he’d spent with you prior to making the decision to come along. He’ll take it.

You groaned, reaching out to swat at her legs, which she quickly avoided as if used to it. Knowing you, she probably was. “What was the point of asking us then?”

“Inclusivity.” She snickered, and Alisa jumped up off the couch to join her lest she too be within your radius of swatting.

Himeko smiled fondly at your antics, and Aventurine decided he could get used to being a part of this family, albeit an extended member. “Let’s set off then.” He’d made many gambles in his life, but staying by your side was by far the easiest and most advantageous decision he’d ever make.

[tired-truffle]

My Soul to Keep

A Viktorxfem!reader fic

Chapter Word Count: 4.6k

Tag List: @im-just-a-simp-le-whore @ihascat5 @pebble-bb @goooofy-goooober1121 @furblurwurblur @potatointhedirt @webofwhimsy @mad-simp420 @xo-mingx @patchs-curiosity-corner (Let me know if you'd like to be added)

Chapter 2

Masterlist

You’d never imagined being a ghost tethered to a place to be a very fun experience. Being unable to move outside of your haunting space or see new scenery would drive anyone at least a little crazy after a few years. Being tethered to a person or an object, on the other hand, would give you a bit more wiggle room and the ability to explore. Except it would only be at the whim of the person carrying your object, or the person themselves. While you hadn’t figured out if you were actually a ghost or not, less than a minute after Viktor had left his apartment, it became viscerally clear that you were attached to something or someone on the move. Like an invisible wall of force, you were shoved from your spot, hovering uncertainly above the leather couch, and dragged through the floor. 

Your shrieks of terror went unheard as you passed by room after room, making your descent from the upper floors. A man frantically buttoning his vest, a piece of toast crammed into his mouth, groaning his irritation as crumbs scattered over his chest. A woman reading a newspaper, a cup of tea in her hand. A young couple, one wrapped nothing but a thin sheet as they kissed goodbye at the door. 

Wonderful, not only were you some sort of ghost-like creature, but you were now a Peeping Tom too. 

After what must have been upwards of fifteen rooms, you finally reached the ground floor, floating down until you hovered over smooth tile flooring, polished marble tiles laid out in an intricate herringbone pattern that stretched from wall to wall. Towering columns of veined stone rose to meet a vaulted ceiling, where ornate chandeliers hung like crystalline raindrops frozen in time. Their warm light glinted off the gold-leafed accents adorning the walls and archways, rendering an atmosphere of quiet luxury.

A polished mahogany reception desk stood to your left, its surface so reflective you assumed it must be polished on the hour every hour. Behind it, a wall of brass mailboxes glinted, their tiny doors neatly labelled with apartment numbers.

As you floated there, drinking in the details of your lavish surroundings, a soft 'ding' broke you from your curious reverie. The elevator doors slid open, and Viktor stepped out.

It took him a moment to spot you, likely not having expected to see his hallucination lying on the floor of his building’s entry, but unfortunately for you, there was no coverage to hide your embarrassment. Like a flame flickering into existence, his eyes widened as they landed on you, stuttering in his steps. With a resigned sigh, you waved at him and floated back to a standing position. 

Out of all the side effects of your predicament, the floating was probably your favourite. It was the little things that kept you going. 

Recovering smoothly, lucky that the few others in the lobby weren’t paying attention to the newcomer, Viktor resumed his long-legged strides, his shoes clicking against the marble floors. When he reached you, you floated along at his side, hands clasped behind your back with the dignity of someone who did not just fall through the ceiling. 

“It seems like I can’t leave your general vicinity. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.” You elbowed him, even knowing it would go right through him. It was the thought that counted. “I don’t think anyone else can see me though, or a lot more of them would have freaked the fuck out when I appeared in their rooms.”

The subtlest of smirks canted at the corners of his lips. He pushed open the glass door, the creaking of the hinges masking his voice so only you could hear his reply.

“I’ve had worse tag-alongs.” 

That shouldn’t have made you as happy as it did, but you beamed at him anyway, pleased like a student who’d been praised by an overly harsh teacher. 

You hovered in silence beside Viktor, acutely aware of the peculiar situation you found yourself in. The bustling streets of Piltover unfolded before you, gleaming with wealth and innovation that left you slack-jawed with wonder. It was one thing to see it on screen, and another to experience it first-hand.

Sleek, chrome-plated carriages whizzed by, and the people of Piltover moved with purpose, their attire a dizzying array of fine silks, tailored suits, and accessories that sparkled with precious stones. You realized, with a start, that even the most modest outfit you saw probably cost more than you'd ever seen in your life.

Street vendors hawked their wares on the cobblestone roads - miniature clockwork toys, glowing vials of mysterious substances, and gadgets whose purposes you couldn't even begin to fathom. You longed to stop and examine each fascinating item, but the invisible tether binding you to Viktor urged you onward.

After a few blocks of sensory overload, you approached a structure that made even the grandest buildings you'd passed seem modest in comparison. The Academy loomed before you, a colossal edifice of azure stone that seemed to touch the very heavens. Its walls were smooth and polished, reflecting the sky like a massive sapphire.

As you ascended the steps alongside Viktor, you noticed how the stone beneath your feet - or where your feet would be if you weren't floating - clicked and moved to match the height and speed of his strides. Would they get smaller for someone like Heimerdinger?

You turned to Viktor, bursting with questions and observations, but held your tongue, remembering that he couldn't respond without looking like a madman talking to thin air. Instead, you contented yourself with a small smile, grateful for this unexpected adventure and the chance to witness the wonders of Piltover firsthand.

It wasn’t until you were through the foyer and into the elevator - alone with Viktor - that you spoke up. 

“So,” you elongated the vowel as you thought of what to say. “What do you do with this professor?” 

Viktor was young and mostly healthy, no illness eating away at his lungs, and if he was going to meet Heimerdinger first thing in the morning, you imagined it was because he was still working for him. However, there was a chance that he was meeting with the professor about Hextech. 

“I’m his assistant,” Viktor said plainly, confirming your suspicions. 

You frowned, consideringly. “Prestigious.”

He shrugged. “It has its perks.”

The elevator dinged, its doors opening to the tenth floor. Viktor stepped out, cane softly thudding against the carpet and accompanying his muffled footsteps. It was just the two of you, as far as you could tell. 

“You’re welcome to accompany me, though it appears you have little choice in the matter, but I must warn you I will not be able to speak with you,” he said under his breath. “Heimerdinger may appear…aloof at times, but he is sharp as a whip. If he believes that I’ve cracked under the pressure, he will have me immediately escorted to the nearest in-patient facility. That or he’ll lecture me over tea, neither of which I am particularly fond of.” 

You nodded along as he spoke, spinning so you were floating on your back, watching the sparkly tiled ceiling flow by. “I figured as much. Don’t worry about me; I’ll just chill in the corner. You won’t even know I’m there.”

And you’d been so close to being right. 

You’d done as promised, perusing the corners of Heimerdinger’s office while they reviewed their daily tasks, and trailing as far behind them as you could when they set out. The limit seemed to be about twenty feet in all directions before the barrier kicked in and shoved you along. Entirely aggravating - you’d never liked being told what to do, not even by invisible walls. 

Every so often, you'd push against the barrier, testing its limits. It was like pressing against an elastic wall - you could stretch it a bit, but eventually, it would snap back, dragging you along.

As you drifted through the corridors, you noticed something peculiar. Whenever you passed through a person, they would shiver involuntarily, as if a sudden chill had swept over them. You watched as a young student, her arms laden with books, trembled as you glided through her. Her eyes darted around, confused before she shrugged it off and continued on her way.

Intrigued by this discovery, you decided to conduct a little experiment - if you were going to surround yourself with scientists, you might as well try to blend in. You positioned yourself in the middle of a busy intersection where multiple hallways converged. As people walked through you, one after another, you observed their reactions. Some merely twitched, while others visibly shuddered, their teeth chattering for a brief moment.

Interesting, but you weren’t sure what to do with this newfound knowledge.

They didn’t head back to Heimerdinger’s office until late into the evening - it was clear where Viktor got his unhealthy work habits from, if he hadn’t had them already. By that point, you were bored out of your skull, and you couldn’t even get the reprieve of banging your head against the wall. 

All you could do was talk and float around, and since the only person you could talk to was Viktor, that left you with floating as your only option - and there was only so much flopping around into different positions that you could do before you lost your mind. 

Your wish for entertainment came in the form of an overly distracted Heimerdinger. You hadn’t been watching, Viktor hadn’t been watching - busy sorting through the missives that had piled up on the professor’s desk while they’d been out - and Heimerdinger himself hadn’t been watching where he was going, too enraptured in his thoughts. 

Bang! The loud slap of a stack of books toppling to the floor jolted you out of your calm - albeit painfully boring - state. 

Your perspective shifted dramatically, as if the world had grown larger around you. The colours of the room muted, losing their vibrancy, yet somehow, you could see more of your surroundings at once. Your visual field expanded, stretching to the corners of the room that were previously out of sight.

Your closest surroundings blurred, becoming indistinct shapes in your new vision. Yet, you found yourself drawn to the smallest movements - a piece of paper fluttering in the breeze from an open window, specks of dust filtering through the air.

Everything was different, more immediate, filled with scents and sounds you hadn't noticed before. The musty smell of old books mingled with the sharp tang of ink and the faint aroma of Heimerdinger's pipe tobacco.

Your ears twitched, picking up sounds you hadn’t noticed before. Viktor's breathing seemed louder now, the soft rustle of his clothing, the subtle creak of floorboards beneath his feet.

Instinctively, you hissed through clenched teeth as confusion prickled along your spine, your fur standing on end as your back arched. The sound that escaped your throat was alien and feral, nothing like your usual voice. As soon as it happened, you froze, bewildered.

Hold on.

Be so fucking for real right now.

This could not be happening.

Viktor’s wide eyes and slackened jaw said otherwise, his missive falling to the floor like a feather on a gentle breeze. 

You became acutely aware of your new feline form. Your whiskers twitched, sensitive to the slightest air currents in the room. Your tail, a foreign appendage you'd never possessed before, swished behind you with a mind of its own. You flexed your paws, feeling the soft pads beneath and the sharp claws that extended and retracted at will. The fur that covered your little body was a sleek black, looking soft to the touch as though you’d spent hours grooming it.

“Gadzooks!” Heimerdinger exclaimed, his head popping up from where he’d dived behind his desk to avoid being crushed. “That was a close one! Are you alright, my boy?”

Viktor hadn’t even been close to the books, but it was sweet of the professor to ask - not that you could register it in your shock. 

Shaking himself out of his stunned stupor, Viktor turned to face his employer. “Yes, sir. And you?”

“I’m alright, but it did give me quite the scare.” Heimerdinger chuckled to himself, but you were too busy freaking out to fully appreciate how the yordle’s ears wiggled when he laughed. 

Why the fuck were you a cat? And how were you supposed to turn back?

Oh God, were you stuck like this forever now? No, you refused. You’d had enough weird shit happen; you weren’t going to let this control you too.

Closing your eyes, you concentrated on slowing your heart rate. Like water falling off a duck's back, your feline form melted away. A tingling sensation spread from your core to your extremities, and you sensed your body stretching and reshaping. When you dared to open your eyes again, you found yourself back in your ghostly human form, hovering a few inches above the ground.

Frantically, you patted yourself down, checking for any lingering cat-like features. No tail. No fur. No whiskers. You ran your hands over your head, sighing in relief when you felt your hair instead of pointed ears. The world had returned to its normal proportions and colours, the hyper-awareness of scents and sounds fading back to normal.

Still shaken, you drifted over to Viktor, who was helping Heimerdinger gather the fallen books. You hovered close to his ear, hissing in a low, urgent whisper - a human hiss, not a cat hiss - "What the fuck was that?"

Viktor's eyes darted to you for a split second before returning to his task. His lips barely moved as he hissed back, "How am I supposed to know?"

You ran your hands through your hair, tugging at the strands in frustration. "I turned into a fucking cat!" you whispered incredulously, your voice rising slightly in pitch.

Viktor's jaw clenched, and he shot you a warning glance. His eyes flicked meaningfully towards Heimerdinger, who was dusting off a particularly old tome.

You nodded, forcing yourself to take deep, calming breaths – not that you actually needed to breathe, but the familiar action helped steady your nerves. As Viktor and Heimerdinger finished tidying up, you retreated to a corner of the office, trying to process what had just happened and wondering what other surprises your strange new existence might have in store for you.

Sitting in awkward silence wasn’t your favourite activity, but lately you’d been doing a lot of things you typically avoided. 

“Do you still think I’m a hallucination?” You broke the silence, your elbows resting on your knees as you floated above the couch, legs crossed. 

Viktor swayed his head and twisted towards you, his piecemeal dinner of toast and jam abandoned on the coffee table. “I have not concretely ruled it out, but since no one else can see or hear you, that may be difficult. For now, I am leaning towards no. It is much too fantastical for my mind to come up with. Besides, I do not feel as though I have lost my senses. There would be other signs.”

Logical, as you’d expected. 

“I wish I wasn’t real,” you sighed, tilting your head back to look at the popcorn-textured ceiling. “This is all so crazy. I don’t know where to begin trying to find answers.” 

“Do you remember what happened before you arrived here?” 

You shook your head. “Not a thing.” 

Viktor hummed his understanding. “You said that this world should not exist, what did you mean by that?”

Right, you had blurted that out in a panicked rush, hadn’t you? 

“If you don’t think you’ve lost your mind, then you definitely will think that I have when I try to explain it to you.”

He smiled, soft and patient, and in response, your stomach conjured up a flurry of butterflies to tickle your insides. “I promise I will not pass undue judgment. If I was going to, I would have already, given that you’re transparent and can turn into a cat.”

“Fair point.” He had you there, and what else did you have to lose? “Though don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He sat back, motioning for you to begin. 

Taking a deep breath, you squared your shoulders. “Do you have televisions here? Like screens that play pre-recorded videos?” 

“Some do, though it is not particularly common.”

“Thank God,” you breathed, “I really didn’t want to try to explain what that was. They’re pretty common in my world, at least where I come from, most households have them. We’ve got millions of shows and movies to watch. There was this one show called Arcane that was about, uh, here. Like, Piltover and Zaun.” 

He nodded sagely, and you couldn’t find any traces of disbelief in his eyes. He was just…accepting it? Or he was a very good actor. You were leaning toward the latter. 

“You were one of the main characters,” you continued, noting that this did get a reaction from him: a slight raise of his eyebrows. “And judging by a few observations, this is before the start of the show, though it can’t be more than a few years at most. If I had to guess based on my luck lately, we’re pretty close to it, weeks if not days.”

Viktor's forehead creased as he processed your words. "A show…about Piltover and Zaun. I suppose the politics could be intriguing. And I'm a character in it?"

“You are, but I don’t expect you to take me at my word. I can prove to you that I know things that I shouldn’t, and I can predict a few upcoming events, though we must prevent one sequence of events or everything goes to shit, so I may need a little bit of trust from you.”

At this, he looked interested, and you took this as a win. “Intriguing. You may proceed.”

You paused, what could you even tell him? What would be believable? “You…know a lot of things.”

“True.”

“And if you’re still thinking I may be a hallucination then I can’t tell you your history ‘cause you already know it.” You tapped your chin, lips twisted as you thought hard. “I’m trying to prevent the immediate future, so that wouldn’t work either, but…oh! Are you able to go to a doctor anytime soon?”

Viktor blinked, startled back. “A doctor?” 

“Yeah, like a medical one, not Dr. Reveck.” 

“Who is Dr. Reveck?” 

It was your turn to express your confusion. “You know, the doctor in that cave you met as a kid? When your boat went down the stream into his lab?”

Viktor eyed you, suspicion swimming in the depths of his gaze. “He never told me his name.” 

“Oh, uh,” you grinned sheepishly, “I guess you know it now. He’s the inventor of Shimmer. He’s trying to cure his daughter of death. He should probably be stopped, but that’s a later problem.”

“Right.” He was dubious, but he waved for you to continue. 

“Okay, here it goes, and it’s probably gonna suck to hear, so I’m warning you now,” you said, and upon Viktor’s nod, you started. “They never told us what illness you had, or I guess you have, just that you got it from Zaun’s shitty air. Your lungs will start to fail you, you’ll need a crutch, you’ll lose weight, and you’ll start coughing up blood sometime in the next seven years. Eventually, it would kill you. But, many people believed the illness was similar to one that we have in my world: tuberculosis or consumption, depending on the time period.” 

Viktor's face paled as you spoke, his lips pressed into a thin line. He sat in silence for a long moment.

"That's... quite specific,” he said when he was able to form a response. “And rather grim."

“I know. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news. I’m sure that’s a lot to take in, but if it is something like tuberculosis, then the good news is it’s totally treatable before it gets to the active stage. Do you have any of those symptoms now?”

“I don’t,” he said, a wariness to his tone. 

“That’s great!” You clapped your hands, relief flooding through you. What were you supposed to do if the one person who could see you died? “That means you don’t have the active stage yet, or any illness at all, but if it’s caused by Zaun’s air and you haven’t lived there for some time, then it wouldn’t make sense that you pick it up later. Can the doctors here test your blood for an illness like this?” 

“Yes.” His fingers drummed a steady rhythm on the arm of his chair, a nervous habit you hadn't noticed before. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to get checked, though the idea of being ill and unaware until it is too late is unsettling."

Silence stretched between you, broken only by the soft ticking of a clock on the wall and the distant hum of the city outside. You wished you could offer more comfort, but what could you say to someone who'd just been told they might have a potentially fatal illness?

"I'll schedule an appointment as soon as I can," Viktor said, quiet but resolute.

You nodded, relieved that he was taking your warning seriously. "That's good. Really good. Thank you for listening to me."

Viktor's lips quirked into a small smile. "It's not every day a ghostly entity from another world appears to warn you about your health. It would be foolish to ignore such a specific prophecy."

You chuckled, appreciating his attempt at levity. "That’s the spirit."

Over and over in your mind you prayed to whatever gods may be listening that they could catch his illness in time. And if they couldn’t…you weren’t sure you had it in you to stop him from becoming the Machine Herald.

A few days later, he had his appointment set, and until then, you were stuck following him around. It wasn’t all bad, you’d spent most of your time idly floating, watching the scenery as you trailed after Viktor, and the evenings were spent in peaceful companionship. Surprisingly, he was more chatty than you’d expected. Late at night as he pursued his work, he’d talk to you about it, or rather talked at you as you had little to add. But still, you appreciated the entertainment. 

You had avoided turning back into a cat again, if such a thing could be avoided. One thing at a time; address Viktor’s illness, get him to believe that you were real, and then you could figure your shit out. 

On the day of the appointment, you floated beside him as he made his way to the physician’s office. It was in a central part of town, a quick trolley ride away. As you entered the sleek building, a thought occurred to you that you’d nearly forgotten. 

“Did someone teach you to use your cane on the same side as your injured leg?” 

Viktor halted in his steps, said cane clacking against the floor. It was just him in the entryway, and he looked at you with bewilderment. “I beg your pardon?”

You cringed, who were you to tell him how to use his mobility aid when you couldn’t even use your legs? There was no such thing as an inaccessible environment when you could float everywhere. “It’s just that you’re supposed to use a cane on the opposite side as the disabled leg, right? But I thought maybe there was a reason you weren’t doing that.”

He glanced down at the cane and then back up at you. “That’s what my parents taught me.” 

Ah, it was as you feared. No one had taught him to use it properly, and they’d been letting him go his whole life using it in a way that would damage his body over time. It made sense that Zaun didn’t receive proper health education on top of everything else. “Maybe you can talk to the doctor about it while you’re here.”

He pursed his lips, gaze distant as though evaluating memories you were not party to. “Perhaps.” 

After signing in and waiting his turn, Viktor was called back. 

“I’ll wait outside the door if that’s okay with you,” you offered, floating down the long hallway as the nurse brought him to a clinic room. Viktor nodded his understanding. 

You hovered in the hall, your ethereal form passing through the occasional nurse or patient who hurried by, watching as they shivered or shuddered.

As you waited, you observed the diverse array of people moving through the clinic. A young woman with braided hair adorned with gold jewelry passed by, her eyes fixed on a small device in her hand. An elderly gentleman hobbled along, supported by a woman of a similar age - his wife, maybe. A pair of identical twins, no older than ten, chattered excitedly about the latest comic their parents had bought them.

The nurse who had escorted Viktor into the examination room emerged, her shoes squeaking softly against the polished floor. She moved with purpose, her crisp white uniform much too clean for someone who no doubt frequently got her hands dirty. How many changes of uniforms for its staff did this place have to keep up appearances?

Minutes ticked by, and you found yourself studying the patterns in the wallpaper, tracing the delicate floral designs with your eyes.

Finally, after what felt like hours but was likely only about thirty minutes, the door to Viktor's room opened again. This time, a distinguished-looking man in a white coat stepped out, followed closely by Viktor. The doctor's salt-and-pepper hair was neatly combed, and his glasses perched precariously on the bridge of his nose. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, a reassuring expression that immediately put you at ease.

Viktor's face was a mask of calm, but you could see the subtle tension in his shoulders. He extended his hand to the doctor, who grasped it firmly.

"Thank you, Doctor," Viktor said. "Your insights have been most valuable."

The doctor shook Viktor’s hand, his smile widening. "It's my pleasure. Remember what we discussed, and don't hesitate to reach out if you have any questions."

With a final nod, Viktor turned and began making his way down the hallway towards the exit. You floated after him, your ghostly form easily keeping pace with his measured strides. As you followed, something caught your eye, and you did a double-take.

Viktor was using his cane differently.

Where before he had held it on the same side as his disabled leg, now it was on the opposite side. He had listened to your suggestion and brought it up with the doctor. This small change could make a significant difference in his daily life, potentially alleviating pain and improving his mobility.

As you exited the clinic, the bustling streets of Piltover greeted you. The afternoon sun beat down on the cobblestone paths, and you floated alongside Viktor, studying his face for any sign of what the doctor might have told him. His expression remained impassive, but when there was a break in the crowd, he leaned closer to you.

“I will receive a call with the results of the testing in a few days,” he whispered. “But you were correct about the cane. Thank you.” 

You shrugged, entirely unsure what to say. “I hope it helps.” 

An uptick at the corner of his mouth was the only sign of his smile. “Only time will tell.”

A/N: Happy Valentine's Day!! I hope this makes it to you in time, and thank you so so much for all the support you gave for the first chapter <3

If at any point when reading this chapter you thought to yourself: "I just want you to stop sayin' odd shit." I do not blame you. It's not going to get any less weird, but I hope you enjoy it!