#i know its not exactly the prompt but man

[tunastime]

hiccuping tears into the shoulder + ranchers by chance?

hiccuping tears into their shoulder (1087 words) (x)

For the first time in a good, long portion of his life, Tango despises how silent the night gets. It's not without its natural noise—the balmy, sticky humidity and breeze in the grass, or the crickets, the cicadas quieting down, the sounds of animals rearranging themselves to a comfier sleeping arrangement. He should be doing the same, but he's sitting on the edge of the bed, his spine a rigid line. He can feel the blood in his body, he can feel the spaces where his muscles connect to each other, with every breath he can feel his lungs separate out the oxygen. It's at the very least startling, and at the very most, he feels like he might dissolve on the spot if touched. 

Tango knows how death feels—painless respawn and a few seasons of a life game behind him, but to feel someone else die, too. The echo of death alongside your own. He didn't like that! Not good at all. All his blood and heartbeat-y things are rushing around in his ears. He doesn't even hear Jimmy the first time he speaks up from the other side of the bed, with how his voice scrapes out.

"I didn't know they were aiming for us," Jimmy says.

"Of course not," Tango says, furrowing his eyebrows. "I know you didn't."

He's still looking at his hands, running his thumb over the lines in his palm and pushing into the tiny bones and muscle there. Jimmy flexes his hands like he can feel the pressure and bones moving around. He watches him fold his hand tight around each other and slump, pulling his shoulders to his chest. His breath squeezes in his chest as Jimmy deflates tiredly.

"I just don't want you to think—"

"I'm not gonna think this is your fault, alright?" Tango says, frowning at him. "Why would I?"

Jimmy sighs. His jaw works.

"Cause it usually is," he grits. Tango scrunches his nose on instinct, recoiling out of habit before he manages:

"That's not fair, man."

"This whole game isn't far!" Jimmy huffs, waving a hand about.

"Sure but—"

"But nothing, Tango. I just—I can't lose and drag you with me. That's more than not fair."

"I don't care."

"I care."

Before Tango can argue, though, he tastes the faintest hints of anger and frustration at the back of his mouth fade. He watches Jimmy's face contort as he tries to come up with a better sentence, something he probably thinks Tango deserves. Maybe an apology. 

Tango just looks at him. He kind of feels bad, that little bit of gut wrenching cold that trickles in, but mostly he's just confused. Jimmy's words bat around in his brain like dust particles. Dust bunnies. He definitely assumed they were done with this. That maybe Jimmy made peace like he did—though really he hadn't had that much time to make peace, if he's being honest. He's still bitter. He's sure a lot of people are still bitter. But in terms of Jimmy's whole situation? It's not like it could be helped. They just had to be careful. So Tango was being careful, and Jimmy was taking what Tango thought was a calculated risk, so he was mad, sure, but he couldn't really stay mad for a long time. So he takes a long breath and sighs it out his nose. It still tastes surprisingly reminiscent of smoke.

"So what are we going to do?" he asks softly. Jimmy inhales.

"I don't know," he says. "Go to bed? Wake up and start planning?"

Tango hums plainly. He likes that idea. The small spool of feeling in his chest that must belong to Jimmy gives a little tug, like it wanted to take him down with it. 

"Yeah," Tango says, voice coming hoarse. "Yeah, I think so."

For a moment, Tango runs his tongue over his teeth, runs his thumbs over the seams of his knees. He sighs, and then he leans into Jimmy's shoulder with a definitive huff. He's tired. From the ache in his bones, to the breathlessness of dying, to just taking in Jimmy's stress. Man. He's exhausted. Jimmy snorts quietly. He feels him press his cheek against Tango's head. The hand Jimmy had been fiddling with in his lap ends up at the base of his spine, splayed over the fabric. Tango squeezes his eyes shut.

"Thanks Tango," Jimmy says shakily. He sounds like he's on the knife's edge of crying, so Tango fumbles out a hand and lands it solidly on his knee. It's not a terribly comfortable thing to stretch one of his achy shoulders or biceps that far but he does anyway, and Jimmy huffs out a damp laugh. "Guess I'm just... pissed off."

Tango snorts.

"If you think you're pissed, just wait until they rile me up," he says into the fabric of Jimmy's shirt. Jimmy laughs. Tango tries to hold in a grin that he also smothers into his shoulder, but fails. Jimmy's hand skips over his knuckles and squeezes the hand on his knee.

"Sure thing, Rancher," he teases. Tango makes a half-suppressed noise of indignation, squeaking as he bolts upright. He nearly knocks into Jimmy's jaw as he untangles himself with all the grace of a cat trying to weasel out of someone's arms. 

"I'm just sayin'," he grumbles, crinkling his nose. "You seem like you're in a better mood though."

Jimmy sighs, rounding out his shoulders. 

"Think so," he says, working his cheek between his teeth. Tango feels the sensation of prodding in his mouth. Bleh. "Think so."

"Probably a good idea to make good on that sleeping... thing,” he says, reaching up to scrub at his eyes. He barely stifles a yawn as Jimmy stretches, twisting his tall body around in a way that feels surprisingly pleasant to Tango’s stiff muscles. He can’t imagine, especially with the way Jimmy holds all his emotions in his shoulders, that his upper back is doing him any favors. Jimmy makes a little noise in confirmation as Tango turns, attempting to make ample space for him in the small bed. He knows they’ll end up back to back at some point, but as he lies down, shoulder to shoulder, an easy comfort rolls over him. Sure there’s all the red blood rushing around in his ears, and sure he feels it right up on his skin like a bad rash, but for now, next to Jimmy, he shuts his eyes.

They’ll make this time count for something, at least.

[jrueships]

guess whos not going in at all this week, actually

[reidrum]

wine or wine not | s.r

spencer reid x bau!reader

a/n: i think i love writing buildup to smut than actual smut, but i hope you guys like this lmk what you think. this was requested with the prompts "look at me when you come on my fingers" and "muttering compliments kissing down their body" and it was so much fun to write aaaaahh, my requests are open so please send more!!! guidelines in pinned <3

summary: you're hopelessly pining after spencer at a rossi party, and when you run into him in the kitchen when you're getting a refill and he asks if you want to explore the mansion with him, who are you to say no?

cw: 18+ minors dni pls, fingering, p in v, nipple play, soft!dom!spence, spencer being ridiculously hot its criminal, ooc penelope but it was for the plot, pining idiots, wine cellar sex wine cellar sex wine cellar sex, public sex, morgan and prentiss being dumb, rossi being a smug lil shit, a dumb ass title sorry i didn't know what else to name it lol

wc: 4.1k

★・・・・★・・・・★・・・・★・・・・★

these days rossi was always finding some reason to throw a party at his mansion. you’re not exactly sure what it was tonight, a birthday? an anniversary? regardless, you and the team appreciated the excuse to unwind, dress up, and have non murder related fun.

the sun is setting over the rolling hills the mansion is perched on, and you’re sat at a table with the girls— penelope, jj, and emily discussing penelope’s latest dating escapade. you’re trying hard to pay attention, you really are, but it proves to be difficult when you’re focused on the man showing magic tricks to the kids across the room.

you look on yearnfully as spencer pulls a coin from jack’s ear, all the kids are laughing and cheering and he has the biggest smile you’ve ever seen.

“hellooo?” penelope waves a hand in front of you dramatically, “i’m getting to the good part and you’re off in space!”

you jolt back to the present, “sorry pen, i’m listening i promise. so he shows up to your door with maple syrup and feathers?”

“YES, anyways so then he’s like i have a proposition for you…” penelope continues her story but you can’t help but zone out again. your eyes drift back to boy genius as he finishes another trick for little henry before rising up to his full height. it’s in that moment his eyes meet yours and softens as he offers you a small wave. 

you return the gesture back which causes the girls at your table to look in the same direction and they come to a glaring conclusion too quickly.

“ah, that’s why you’re not paying attention. too busy ogling mr. houdini over there.” jj remarks.

“i am not!” you scoff.

“oh you so are,” emily says, “when are you going to let yourself feel your heart’s full content.”

“first of all, i can’t stand you. second of all, it’s not worth it. he would never feel the same about me.” you say as emily rolls her eyes.

this time penelope interjected, “oh don’t be so cynical. you haven’t even tried how could you even know?”

but you did know. it’s not that spencer didn’t like you, he treated you the same as any team member, but that was just it. you wanted him to see you as more. during cases you would try to impress him or make breakthroughs in the hopes he would tell you ‘good job’. a couple times you brought him coffee when you got yours, just to hear him say your name and thanks. work conversations rarely seemed to move past small talk, but you’re a little sure that’s on your part because he just made you so nervous. and like, he’s a profiler. so you’re sure to some degree he knows how you feel, and it just makes you regress into your safe hole even further because you think he’s being nice by not acknowledging it and saving you the embarrassment.

the girls knew about your harbored crush for a month now, since the last bau drinks night you got a little too truthful during truth or dare. you were much younger in comparison to your colleagues, so they offered their sympathies at your unrequited love and tried to get you to come out more and let loose.

which is one of the reasons you’re sitting in rossi’s living room, wine glass in hand, as morgan recounts the craziest date hes ever been on. the other reason, which you wouldn’t admit to anyone, was so you could admire your (not) lover from an acceptable distance and not risk embarrassing yourself.

so here you are, two glasses deep, rising up from your spot on the floor telling everyone you’re going to get a refill. your heels click against the hardwood floors all the way to the kitchen where you just so luckily run into the (your) man of the hour.

“hi.”

you were looking down at your feet as you walked to the kitchen, your head snapping up to meet the voice, “hi spencer.” you said softly.

“if you’re looking for more wine, i think emily just grabbed the last bottle,” you must have outwardly deflated as he continued, “that bad out there?”

“only so much wine can get me through penelope’s sexcapades and derek’s crazy one night stands.” you joke.

he chuckles back, “oh i know, why do you think i’m hiding out in here?”

you laugh again before an uncomfortable yet strangely comfortable silence falls between you both. unknowingly you both take turns gazing at each other, indexing the others features as if this moment would be the only chance you got.

you’re about to take your loss and leave when spencer speaks up again, “you know, i wouldn’t put it past rossi to have a secret wine cellar somewhere.”

“honestly, you’re probably right. what kind of italian just runs out of wine.”

spencer pauses slightly before saying, “do you want to see if we can find it?”

you look at his eyes again and catch a glint of mischief? concern that you’re wine-less? whatever it is, you take the bait.

“i’m game.”

—

rossi’s mansion was humongous. it was well known that he was loaded from his years in the bureau and multiple book deals, but holy shit, the rooms just seemed never ending, and none of them were a wine cellar.

“i don’t know spence, i'm starting to lose hope, and debating to revoke rossi’s italian card.”

you’re both in one of the many studies and are about to leave to find another room, when spencer notices a smaller door next to the study. he slowly opens it and peaks inside to find a descending wooden staircase. he looks at you with a smirk, “i think we just found it.”

he holds the door open and gestures you to enter first, following shortly behind you as he shuts the door. he makes sure to check that it’ll still open even after it’s shut, and you both relax a little seeing it still unlock. you move down the stairs, gripping the handrail and praying you don’t trip over your heels and fall to an embarrassing demise.

spencer descends a step behind you, trying so hard not to let his eyes wander down your bare back to the curve of your hips. once he steps off you both go in opposite directions to explore. you take in the vast amount of shelves and wine racks, taking note of how it seems to be separated by year and by type. running your fingers over the labels, you’re intrigued by a shelf with the year you were born, and pause in front of it. you reach up to a shelf that is just a smidge taller than you, hoping to grab the neck of an old wine bottle.

even in your heels you’re struggling, attempting little hops to try and reach. you’re about to give up when you feel a warm hand on your right hip, while an outstretched arm on your left seamlessly grabs the bottle and brings it down to you, “careful sweetheart, don’t wanna break that pretty head of yours.” spencer says lowly.

excuse me, what the fuck did he just say.

you inspect the bottle he so kindly brought down for you, but it’s a futile effort. you can’t even remember why you wanted to see it. all you can think about is your hands clamming up, sending threats to the wine bottle it’s holding. your mind is fogging up fast, and you’re trying to order your brain to say something instead of going mute while he’s still an inch behind you. with his hand on your hip still.

“oh god,” you start shakily, “you scared me spence.” you angle your body to the left so you can attempt to show how unbothered you are and look at his face.

good save (not).

he’s staring down at you with a hint of a smirk on his lips, like he’s keeping a secret from you. his eyes are intently focused on you when he speaks again, “just didn’t want you to get hurt. s’all.”

with his close proximity, you’re sure he can hear your heart beating through both of your chests, hell it was so loud they could probably hear it upstairs. he’s still got you caged in front of him when he continues, “any particular reason for this bottle?”

“yeah no, i just, wanted to see what bottles of wine he had from the year i was born.” you answer, watching as spencer moves back to give you space when you turn to face him.

he nods, “did you know that wine is associated with the greek god dionysus?”

“no i didn’t, actually.”

“it’s really interesting,” he moves forward a tiny inch, “they call him the patron god of wine, but a lot of people often forget that he’s also the god of fertility and ecstasy.”

oh. “ecstasy?” you whisper confusingly.

“yes, he believes when you drink wine it gives you emotional and physical pleasure.”

“how does that even work?” you nervously laugh.

spencer reaches his arm above your head, never breaking eye contact, and grabs two wine glasses by their stems, “you wanna find out?”

with only so many words, you give another nod. he uncorks the bottle with ease and pours out two glasses, with his having a little less than yours, most likely due to his slow but steady return to drinking casually. clinking your glasses, you take a big gulp hoping it’ll satiate the building nerves. but you’re watching the way his fingers wrap around the glass, his veiny hand showing prominently and you’re unable to focus on anything else.

“you know, i’ve been running something of an observation the last few months.”

you take another small sip, starting to feel less nervous, “oh yeah, what about?”

“you.”

it took everything in you not to spit your drink out all over his suit. 

“me?”

he nods after another sip, “i’ve been watching you, and not in a creepy way i swear. but i’ve been keeping track of your habits; how you take your coffee, your tells when a case gets too much, things like that,”

that didn’t seem overtly terrible to you, you knew spencer was an observer of his environment, always seeking out patterns to aid his predictions. you’re about to speak when he cuts you off.

“i’ve also been noticing how you seem to change, when i’m in your presence.”

you feel like the sweat and nerves are just oozing out of you at this point, and he continues his verbal taunt.

“i’ve seen your breathing rate get faster,” he moves a step forward, “how your cheeks rise with the faintest red, kind of like right now,” another step forward, “and how you try to avoid looking directly at me because you think i’ll find out everything if you do.”

the room has to be at least a thousand degrees at this point, heart beating so fast it’s probably gone to the moon, and your brain just unable to have any coherent thoughts at the realization that maybe you weren’t as subtle as you thought.

he takes one final step to close the gap between you and delicately places two fingers on the pulse point of your neck, “i couldn’t figure out your heart rate from afar,” he pauses to count, “but now that i know it, i can come to my conclusion.”

the air in your lungs has all but escaped, nowhere to be found. “and wh- what is your conclusion d- doctor reid?” your voice betraying you by dripping with anticipation.

“that i make you nervous. do you agree? do i make you nervous?” he says while you feel the hot breath of his whispers ghosting on your lips.

your mouth opens to say something and then shuts, because what the hell are you supposed to say? any and all logic has left the room, but the last working neuron works to make an unthinkable conclusion of your own. there is no way.

spencer moves his fingers to grip your chin between them, guiding your face to look directly into his copper eyes, “i asked you a question angel, do i make you nervous?”

you’re cornered, “y- yes.”

“why’s that?”

“spencer..”

“is it because you’re thinking of me the same way i think i about you?” his thumb starts tracing the outline of your lower jaw. he’s pressed right up against your chest, his other arm covertly moving to snake around your waist. the way you lean in subconsciously towards him, paired with your silence is all the confirmation he needs.

the pad of his thumb traces your lower lip, dragging it downwards a little. there’s a hitch in his breath when his eyes flicker from your lips back up to meet your eyes again. he quietly mumbles, “can i?”

your eyes widen slightly, relishing in the way his arms are holding you firm and steady. this was about to really happen. you’d been pining after him all this time, believing you were destined for unrequited love. but as spencer stands in front of you, looking at you as if he’d been poisoned and the only antidote is your lips, you can’t help but wonder if there’s been a similar weight on his side that’s been holding him back too.

so you nod once again, and trust your voice this time, 

“yes.”

you’re fully expecting him to go into it full force, and kiss you like a man starved. but he lets the premonition bubble for a little longer as he so agonizingly leans down and closes the gap, teasing you with the ghost of his lips on yours without making contact. he waits a moment, and just as he predicted your subconscious betrays you again and you impatiently lean up in an attempt to meet your lips together. spencer can’t help but smile before he softly pressed himself against you.

the feeling of his mouth on yours is something you can only describe as cosmic, like a star exploding into a supernova, emitting a powerful and luminous show of energy. it’s all consuming, the light reaching every neuronal end of your body and electrifying it ten times over. your hands reach up to tangle in his curly hair and he lets out the faintest whimper, spurring you on to grab it more earnestly.

spencer loses all restraint. his hands begin furiously mapping out your body, running up and down your back, reaching down to grasp a handful of your ass. he moves his hands down further to grip your thighs, effortlessly lifting you to sit on the counter behind you. spencer slots himself between your legs and continues kissing you, his mouth marking a hot trail to your neck as he mutters between, “is this okay?”

“please don’t stop.” you moan softly.

his fingers move to deftly slide the straps of your dress off your shoulder, mirroring the movement on the other side while continuing to work his down your neck. he slides the dress far enough down to expose your chest, immediately taking the swollen nub into mouth and running circles around it with his tongue. you let out a sharp gasp at the sudden warmth, whimpers leaving your throat. he repeats the motion to the other one as you cradle his head closer in an attempt to keep him there, as if spencer had any plans of leaving.

he moves his mouth back up to meet yours again, in a lust filled attack sending shock waves straight to your core. you move your fingers to work the buttons of his dress shirt and spencer moves his hand further south and under the hem of your dress, something you don’t notice until his thumbs are rubbing circles onto the plush of your inner thighs. it makes you falter on his last button as he pushes your legs farther apart,  inches closer to where you desperately need him.

spencer looks directly into your eyes as his thumbs reach up to hook onto the side of your panties and slowly move them down your legs. he groans outwardly at the resistance caused by your slickness, “all this for me, baby?”

you’re rendered speechless watching spencer and his ministrations but he continues, “you are so goddamn beautiful, you know that?” his fingers are less than an inch away from your cunt, “i see you walk around the office in those tight pants, your hair and makeup all done, and those blouses jesus,” he reaches your entrance and dives in to collect your wetness, you brokenly moan as he begins to spread it all over. “couldn’t tell if you hated me for the longest time.”

“c- could never hate you.” you whine.

“i know baby,” he slides his middle finger into your hole, “just imagine the fun we could’ve had if we figured this out earlier. but it’s okay, we have all the time now.” he sets a steady rhythm before inserting his ring finger, actively working you towards a barreling orgasm.

“spencer, fuck, oh god.”

“you’re so fucking wet, bet you’re gonna come soon, right? gonna make a mess on my hand?” he baited.

you’re in shambles, one hand deathly squeezing onto one shoulder the other turning white from the grip you held on the counter. the moans won’t stop falling out of you, he works his fingers so skillfully within you it’s impossible to hold any resolve when he curves upwards and hits that spot.

your head tilts back, reeling from the intense pressure coil building inside you, the peak about to hit you any moment now. spencer uses his free hand to move your head back down, “look at me when you come on my fingers.”

that was all it took for the white hot to ravage through you, engulfing every sense and leaving you breathless. he continues moving his fingers through your orgasm, watching as you come back down to him. you don’t waste a second reaching for his belt to unfasten it, slipping your hand down to palm him through his boxers. he moans in your ear as he feels you slip inside, your small hand moving up and down, and getting impossibly harder when you take your hand back up to spit on it to then return to your movements.

you take the moment to lean into his neck and leave bites of your own, finding his sweet spot right behind his ear and sucking hard. spencer’s hands have taken a spot on your lower back beneath your dress, pressing so hard with his fingertips you know there’ll be evidence of this night tomorrow.

“spence..” you mutter in the crook in the neck.

“yeah baby?” he whispers back.

“can you fuck me now?”

he preens at your boldness, and wastes no time pulling his pants and boxers down enough to fully free himself. he pulls you closer to the edge of the counter before pulling his length out and giving it a few strokes. he lets it glide between your folds, gathering your wetness as lubricant as it hits your clit. both of you are panting hard realizing the anticipation has led to this moment. spencer positions himself at your entrance, never breaking eye contact with you, and watches your face drop into a perfect ‘oh’ as he pushes in.

spencer is absolutely wrecked as he hears your breathing pick up, reveling in the vice grip your cunt has on him. you’re no better above him as you’ve broken eye contact to stare at where the two of you connect, watching as he disappears into you and the feeling of being so full overtakes you and you’re letting out soft expletives. he bottoms out and stalls for a minute, waiting for you to signal that you’re okay for him to move. in the time he’s waiting, he takes a moment to really look at your face, how absolutely ruined you look, your cheeks are deeply flushed, hair flying in every direction, and he can’t help but tell you, “you look so pretty.”

your eyes soften as you gaze back at him and nod slightly, and he pulls back all the way to ease in again experimentally. once he hears you moan out loud at the movement, and feels you tighten even more around his cock, he loses any and all restraint he’d been holding onto this entire night.

his hips pick up the pace in harsh snaps to your core, sending ripples of pleasure all over you. your arms are wrapped around his neck attempting to pull him impossibly closer to you, “spencer…fuck…” you drawl with a whine.

“i got you baby, gonna take good care of you, promise,” he says back in between grunts. the sentiment causes you to squeeze on his cock again as he attempts to continue, “if you keep…fuck…keep squeezing me like that i’m n- not gonna last long.”

one hand in his hair and the other leaving dark red scratches on his back, you feel your second orgasm of the night hastily creep up on you. he can tell you’re close and quickens his pace as he thumbs your clit. you moan his name out once more before reaching your peak, feeling like your body is on fire as he continues to fuck you through it. 

spencer feels his own release building up, “wh- where should i..?”

“inside, i’m on the pill just please come inside me.”

it was more than enough for spencer’s movements to stutter as he released his hot load in you, groaning out loud as he finished.

he slows to a half, still hilted inside of you but softening post orgasm. you’re both breathing heavily as you look up at each other and take in the other’s fucked out faces. spencer presses a chaste kiss to your forehead before resting his own on it, “that was..”

“intense,” he quirks his eyebrows at you, “in a really really good way.” you add quickly.

he smiles down at you, “i wasn’t kidding, what i said earlier. i think about you an embarrassingly high amount each day. i’d love to take you out and make this a real thing.”

“yeah?” you gape incredulously, “thought i was the one embarrassing myself if you were able to notice all those things i did when you were near me.”

he laughs, “no, no it was endearing, definitely made it easier to be as forward as i was tonight knowing you wouldn’t freak out.”

you’re about to respond when you hear the door to the cellar open, you’re both hidden from view but know it’s only a matter of seconds before someone catches you. you both look at each other in panic as spencer pulls out of you, tucking himself back in and zipping up his pants. you grab your panties from the floor and begin to pull them up your legs when he notices his come dripping down your thighs. he swiftly gathers the release on his fingers and shoves it back inside you, causing you to let out a near pornographic moan as he pulls up your underwear all the way.

“did you guys hear that?” a voice sounding like emily said.

“see this is why i don’t do big houses like this, too many creepy ass noises.” morgan.

“mansion,” rossi corrects, “and for a couple of profilers, you both are stupid if you don’t know what that sound was.”

your eyes widen to match spencer’s, you’ve been caught.

“was it a mouse or something?”

“no more like, bunnies,” he joked with an innuendo, “come on, i found the bottle i was looking for, let the bunnies do their thing so they can leave and go home to do whatever it is bunnies do.”

“you’re a weird old man david…” emily muttered.

the door closes and you both let out a big breath, and burst into a fit of laughter, “how the hell are we gonna show our faces to him on monday?” you whine.

“that is a monday us problem,” he starts, “but right now, i think it’s time for me to take you home.” he winks.

two stuffed bunnies show up on yours and spencer’s desk on monday. you’re both redder than a tomato as rossi chuckles when he walks by. prentiss and morgan are still confused.

[dat1angel]

DP x DC Prompt, Danny/Bruce

A grown up Danny moves to Gotham. Maybe its for work, maybe its for the ecto-rich environment, maybe its cause all his friends have ended up there and he decided to follow. They've taken care of the GIW and his parents have accepted him so Danny has no issues with being openly meta. Bruce catches wind of a meta in Gotham and pays Danny a visit as Batman. He give Danny the "No metas in Gotham" speech to which he is promptly told to fuck off. Danny's response is essentially: "Fuck you, I live here and I'm not just gonna pack up my life and leave because a man in a fursuit with no actual authority told me to".

Bruce can't exactly force Danny to leave so he decides that if Danny is gonna be here then he'll keep an eye on him to give him some extra protection. While watching over Danny, Bruce starts to notice little things about him. The endless kindness he seems to possess. The subtle Midwestern accent. The way his eyes literally light up when he indulges in his passions. The way his hair perfectly frames his face when it's still damp from his morning shower. Bruce finds himself absolutely smitten. The only problem? Danny can't stand him.

Danny has held a grudge against Batman after the whole 'you aren't welcome in my city' thing. Any time he sees the Bat he'll flip him off or just glare if he has the young one of his sidekicks with him. Which, Bruce can admit, is fair. Bruce wouldn't take very kindly to being told to leave like that either. No problem though, he'll just get to know him as a civilian right? Wrong. Danny doesn't like billionaires on principle so thats a non-starter.

Now Bruce is left to figure out how to win over this man who seems to get along with everyone except him.

[wooahaes]

svt - whatever you say, beautiful

pairing: non-idol!svt x gn!reader

prompt: i'm not arguing with a man who has big brown eyes. whatever you say, beautiful.

warnings: established relationship aus. food and alcohol mentions. jeonghan and reader lovingly calling each other 'ugly' like an old married couple. 96z roommates au (jun). soonyoung's terrible mayo-ketchup concoction (jun). reader gets called beautiful back (jun, soonyoung). friends -> lovers (jun, soonyoung, jihoon). bickering as a love language (minghao, seungkwan). sexual implications from a third party (chan telling seungkwan to let him know if he needs to put headphones on or leave).

daisy's notes: i wrote that vernon drabble and gave myself brainrot. also on jeonghan's: ik there's cultures that do this lol but for those unaware: pls don't take it as a serious thing haha its meant to be akin to calling someone silly or goofy. i just think it gives old married couple energy to be like 'you're a nuisance but you're my nuisance and i adore you wholeheartedly.' like seungkwan tells them: just tie the knot if they want to, because they already act like they've been married for seventy years.

choi seungcheol

seungcheol was sprawled out in your bed, blanket securely tucked around him while he scrolled through his phone. sleepovers, at this stage in your relationship, weren't exactly uncommon... but the giddiness still hadn't worn off. the two of you didn't intend on moving in together for at least another year, both of you enjoying living on your own for right now after so, so much time of living with other people. still... that would never stop you from enjoying the sight of your beloved in your bed, ready for sleep, and winding down by checking his social media for the second or third time today.

until you saw him stop. he furrowed his brow, that handsome face completely perplexed. and you fought back a grin, because you knew exactly what was confusing him.

today the two of you decided to publicly reveal your relationship to more than just immediate family and very very close friends. seungcheol had been thrilled over it: he'd always been wanting to show you off since you started dating. but when you asked for a little time, he didn't fight: he just met you where you were. and now that everyone knows...

"what is this?"

he turned his phone to face you, giving you full view of the caption you lovingly wrote out. it sat underneath a collection of pictures, some taken by you, others by him, and one taken by one of his close friends in preparation of this special day... and, of course, it was a silly little joke.

i'm not arguing with my man and his big brown eyes. whatever you say, beautiful. ❤️

you snickered, crawling into bed next to him. "what's wrong with it?"

"nothing!" but he was pouting, and you knew what was coming next. "did you see my post?" he was already moving to pull it up, as though you hadn't read and re-read it a million times while he was in the shower.

so you decided to torment him. just a little bit. "you don't like it...?" you frowned, putting on your best 'kicked puppy' look.

"i do like it!" he was quick to try and assuage your worries. he turned over so that he could face you. "but... when we decided to tell everyone, i thought you wouldn't post a meme as the caption."

"so you hate it." you crossed your arms, pouting as hard as you could muster.

"i don't hate it! i didn't say--i didn't mean that, i just--" he looked up, watching you for longer than a few seconds. then he snorted, hand resting over his heart for a minute. "you're going to be the death of me."

with a snort, you crawled closer to him, all but dragging him up so that you could kiss him. "you know you're the normal one here."

he giggled, capturing your lips in another quick peck. "maybe i am," he said. "... i do like it, though. just warn me next time."

yoon jeonghan

joshua (hannie's coworker): [IMAGE.JPEG]

joshua (hannie's coworker): can you come get him he's bickering with seungkwan rn

joshua (hannie's coworker): (it's mostly seungkwan bickering but jeonghan is actually fighting back a little)

joshua (hannie's coworker): (it's literally over who's paying for chan's birthday dinner. cheol literally picked up the check half an hour ago right after they started.)

you: omw. also idk how seungkwan does it. i'm not arguing with a man with big brown eyes. whatever you say, beautiful.

the moment you pulled up outside the restaurant, you should have known exactly why jeonghan was grinning at you. he waved from the sidewalk, turning back to his friends to talk just a bit longer. he didn't move, which... on most days, you wouldn't care. but it was late, and you had work in the morning, and (according to joshua) they just spent the past few hours just chatting after their meal. five minutes melted into ten, and then into twenty...

and so you rolled down your window, yelling out a 'happy birthday!' to chan that finally got jeonghan's attention. another grin, and that was enough to tell you that he'd been waiting for that. he wouldn't do it for everyone, but chan? you knew their friendship was different. he hugged the guy one last time, and then made his way over to the car, climbing into the passenger seat. with a final wave to his friends, you pulled back onto the road, and started the journey home.

"so... you really think my eyes are beautiful?"

ah. that was the other reason the fucker wouldn't stop grinning at you. of course it couldn't just be one thing with jeonghan.

"you think i'm beautiful?" he watched you with this knowing smile, as though the two of you hadn't been dating for years now. as though you hadn't drunkenly confessed it before. "i'm starting to think you actually like me."

"you're just now realizing that?" you flicked on your blinker, coasting into the turn lane. "do you think i'd be living with you if i didn't?"

"you never call me beautiful to my face anymore, you know," he said, reaching for your bottle of water. without a care, he uncapped it, taking a long sip from it. "you just call me 'ugly' whenever you call me something."

that was far from true, to be fair: he was your love, your baby, your honey... and he was 'ugly' when you were particularly affectionate. "i have to keep you humble, ugly. you already know how beautiful you are."

his eyes twinkled a little as he looked at you, that fond smile telling you all you needed to know. "i know, ugly." he'd never been afraid to throw the word back at you, and you hoped that the tiny thrill it brought you never died.

no wonder seungkwan once said the two of you should go ahead and tie the knot. "you already act like it," he'd said, side-eyeing the two of you before taking a long sip of whatever coffee-flavor-of-the-day he'd picked out.

he reached over, prodding your cheek. when you glanced over, just enough to let him know you were listening, he just leaned against the center console with this handsome smile he reserved for you. "i love you."

and maybe he was a little drunk. just a little. but you let him have this one. "i love you, too, handsome."

joshua hong

"am i not worth the effort?" joshua couldn't even fight his playful grin now, his phone in his hand. "you couldn't even come up with an original post for our anniversary?"

with a roll of your eyes, you glanced back over his own post for a moment, pausing your search for movie snacks. he'd written out this long, sappy love letter to you about how he wanted to spend the rest of his life alongside you. it was sweet, and a little silly when he recounted the embarrassing story of how the two of you realized your feelings for one another (all it took was one spilled milkshake, courtesy of jeonghan), but overall a very public display of his adoration toward you. the picture-perfect, romance novel act of love from your boyfriend.

in other words: he was hamming it up so that people would gush over how he was the most adoring boyfriend, and how lucky you two were to have one another based on everything he said. in reality, he was literally eating your snacks right now. and later that night, he'd put his cold feet on you and then laugh over it.

"uh-huh." you continued searching through the cabinets after pocketing your phone. "should i have told everyone about how you somehow always manage to eat the last poptart in the box, even though you straight up told me that you keep count just so you can tease me over it?" you tossed an empty box into the bin, making a mental note to add them to the list. "or the time you literally ate all of my fries when we were on that road trip?"

"you're never gonna let me live that one down, are you?"

"didn't mention how god awful your workout clothes stink, either." you grimaced at the memory alone. "seriously, dude, how fucking hard do you go?"

"i forgot to wash them twice!" he turned around on the couch. "all because i said i thought it was cute when you mumble in your sleep and keep me up all night--"

"listen. i'm just doing damage control for you, hong," you pulled down a bag of chips, carefully rolled and clipped to keep them fresh. making your way back over, you continued, "really, you should be hiring me. i called you beautiful and mentioned those big brown bambi eyes." you threw yourself down next to him, bag crinkling as you unrolled it. you held up the first chip, an offering to him that he leaned over to take. "i think i deserve payment for it all."

but he grinned at you, settling back in. "i'll think about it. i'll get the big box of poptarts next time," he poked your side, just hard enough to get you to move off of his blanket, and then drew you right back in once he could throw it over you. "and i'll let you pick the first movie."

with a roll of your eyes, you reached for the controller. "what a gentleman."

wen junhui

your life was truly, sincerely, over. this was it. this was the big one. the big fuck-up that would kill you from embarrassment alone. if you were a sim in the sims 4, little sim jihoon would be sobbing over your body right now as the grim reaper came to take you away.

instead, he was just stiffling his laughter, patting the top of your head as you bury your face in a pillow. "it's not that bad."

"it's terrible! i was only posting that picture because we looked good!" you jerked up, staring at him. "and--and jun liked it! did he not read the caption?!"

"oh, he read it," soonyoung was doing something unholy in the kitchen, from the sounds of the ketchup bottle being opened alongside the smell of mayo. not another thing to ruin your day. "he's on his way home, by the way."

yep, this was how you died. surrounded by two of your roommates and being confronted by the guy you've had feelings for for... fuck, how long had you known him? since college? he'd been there for you after a particularly nasty breakup not long after the two of you met, and that was when your stupid heart fell for him. you'd always pushed back against it: it wasn't the right time. he was dating someone at one point. he wouldn't like you back. but the more the two of you started spending time alone, the deeper you fell.

"have you thought about just telling him how you feel?" jihoon asked, stealing your pillow and hugging it against his chest. "i know it's scary, but i don't think it'd go badly."

soonyoung looked over, condiments smeared on the outsides of his mouth as he chewed. he swallowed, wiping his face with a paper towel as he spoke, "even if he didn't like you, he'd let you down easily."

"soonyoung!" jihoon turned to face him. you rarely saw jihoon mad, but this had to be the closest.

soonyoung realized what he said. and immediately took off, shutting himself back into his room as jihoon raced to encounter him first. while he tried to jostle the door open, the yelling faded into background noise.

jun... what?

the apartment door opened after a while, wonwoo standing there with jun right behind him. without hesitating, you hopped up off of the couch, immediately excusing yourself as you went to hide in your own room. jun called after you, and you just shut the door behind you, face in your hands. this could not be happening. this wasn't happening. if soonyoung was telling the truth, and, because jihoon yelled at him, he definitely was... what now?

jun knocked on your door. everything outside of your room was silent now. if jihoon was chewing out soonyoung, you'd probably hear some of it. yet... quiet. peaceful quiet that you weren't exactly used to with this bunch.

"can we talk?" he spoke up after a moment. "i don't exactly get the caption, but... do you really think i have beautiful eyes?"

oh. he had no idea it was some meme you'd seen online that always reminded you of him. yet the gentle way he'd asked made your heart flutter all the same. you said nothing, just sitting with your back against the door.

"it's okay if you do." you could hear the sound of him moving, and slowly, it sounded as though he was sitting, too. "i... i think you have pretty eyes, too." was it possible to hear his uneasy smile in the way his voice shook just a little, his nerves so, so evident? "the others left, by the way. so we could talk. wonwoo was confused, but jihoon dragged both him and soonyoung out for a walk."

that answered one question, at least. again, you just said nothing, curling up as tight as you could. your heart hammered in your ears, and you shut your eyes. was this really happening?

"i've liked you for a long time," he said, voice just as gentle as it was before. like he, too, was scared of what this all meant. the two of you were crossing a line you never thought you'd even tread near, let alone vault over. "it's okay if you don't feel the exact same way. but... you're sweet. and i--"

you bit the bullet. you got up, opening your door to see jun turning to face you. he'd been sitting there, back against the door, talking to the air while you'd been too scared to face him. he stood up as quickly as he could, watching you carefully.

he was the one who spoke first. "hi."

"hi." you said it back, heart racing. "i think you're beautiful."

and oh-so-shyly he smiled back at you. "i... think you're beautiful, too."

maybe this would be the start of something good.

kwon soonyoung

with your eyes screwed shut, you knew that seungcheol was going to give you so, so much shit about this when you told him. knowing your luck, it was going to go horribly, and you'd probably die right here and it'd be your ghost haunting seungcheol... but that was something you could deal with.

yet the moment 'tiger kwon' popped up on your phone, you knew you couldn't avoid this forever. you'd pester soonyoung later for changing his name in your phone again. for now, you just answered the request for a video call, and you were met with those pretty eyes staring at you in the low light.

"hi." he giggled. "i don't think that text was meant for me."

astute observation, considering the first three messages before you gushed about his eyes and called him beautiful were "FUCK" and "CHEOL I CAN'T DO THIS" and then a picture of the two of you from when you grabbed dinner together earlier. you expressed your romantic frustrations in the only way you knew how: a screenshot you'd seen of someone's tweet. the same thing you'd said to seungcheol many, many times before.

"so what does that even mean?" he's grinning, and you knew that it's half-genuine. he was smart enough to get the gist of it (to put it simply: you were, as you'd been told, down bad) but you weren't sure how often soonyoung saw memes like this. he was watching your face, those cute eyes shining with the light from his phone screen, and he rolled onto his stomach. "when did you get worse at technology than me?"

was this what confessing to soonyoung would bring? a lifetime of having a cute man tease you oh-so-lovingly?

"are you alive?"

you managed to squeak out a deeply embarrassed, "yep."

he just giggled, head resting on his hand. "do you text seungcheol like that a lot?" he waited. and when you didn't answer, too embarrassed to speak, he continued on, "i think he and jihoon trade war stories, then. jihoon..." his cheeks were dusted red. "jihoon hears a lot about you."

holy fuck. your stomach was doing flips. "soonyoung?"

"this is embarrassing, isn't it?" he chuckled, eyes focusing on his screen again. "jihoon said it's some sort of joke. vernon showed it to him once. but... i think you're beautiful, too."

truly, this man would be the death of you if he kept smiling at you like that. like you were his world already, eyes shiny and cheeks red.

"i..." your mouth felt dry. "can we... maybe... a date?" something about seeing his face right now made your mind go blank.

he chuckled. "i'm free this weekend," he said, still smiling. "we'll talk tomorrow morning. okay?"

"okay." you licked your lips, just trying to come down from this high. "goodnight."

the moment he ended the call, you were texting seungcheol: LET'S FUCKING GO GOT A DATE W SOONYOUNG!!!

and in return, he sent you three words: about fucking time.

jeon wonwoo

people always warned you about marrying the love of your life. the honeymoon period was something strong, that tinted your days with sugary kisses and honeyed skies until it all dissolved when reality washed back over the two of you. yet you had been married to wonwoo for two years now, and that sweetness never seemed to melt from your lives. the honeymoon period was over, yes, but the work you put into your relationship kept things lively. arguments came and went, and you always found yourself enamored with the man who guarded your heart in the same way you guarded his.

that was why anniversaries were special. not because they were another milestone, another celebration of a year the two of you made together... but an excuse to gush about wonwoo. you kept it to two days in particular: your wedding anniversary, and his birthday, both dates set months apart. wonwoo was different than you, however: he didn't want to broadcast his feelings for the world to see. he reserved all the sweet things for words he physically wrote down for you to read, or as things he said to you outright when he was sappy enough.

and you? well... he knew your true feelings would never be one-hundred-percent out there. those were reserved for him. but if you wanted to gush about how much you loved him, then who was he to stop you?

he'd been scrolling through his instagram feed that night while brushing his teeth, only to snort when he finished reading your post. the duality of your relationship was beautiful: he'd posted a short, sweet caption for you underneath a lovely quote from a book the two of you loved. and you had gushed... and finished it off with a meme that you sent to him the moment you saw it. i'm not arguing with a man who has big brown eyes. whatever you say, beautiful. the same words you teased him with when you were in a particularly playful mood.

so when he returned to you, he just crawled into bed, pressing kisses against your face. his affectionate moods would always take you by surprise, and he was glad for that. it spiced up the relationship just a little that he was still able to surprise you after all this time.

"you're so cute," he curled up with you, pulling you into his arms. "happy anniversary. i love you."

you snorted a little. "i see you've noticed."

"should i have read it sooner?"

you waved him off, "no, no... i'm glad you didn't see it until now. check the comments when you get the chance. a bunch of your friends loved it."

he was sure that they did. they all seemed to adore the duality of the two of you more than he did. the quiet, studious wonwoo and his silly love who made him laugh more than anyone else. but he knew as well as you did: no one would love your dynamic more than the two of you did.

he was your home, just as you had become his.

lee jihoon

all jihoon wanted to do was ask if you wanted to go to dinner. he'd suggested a place, you'd suggested another, and he mentioned not wanting that kind of cuisine... only for the words to appear on his phone within the next few minutes: i'm not arguing with a man who has big brown eyes. whatever you say, beautiful.

... beautiful?

"soonyoung!" he yelled out for one of his housemates. if he wasn't here, then seungcheol would come in. yet he heard the sound of footsteps quickly approaching, soonyoung sliding against the wooden floor a little as he looked in. "read this."

so he did. he read it once, and then again before looking up. "... they're flirting with you, i think."

"that's weird, right?" jihoon looked up. "they don't like me back."

"how do you know that?" soonyoung grinned, leaning against the empty doorframe. "you don't know that. they're hitting on you. shoot your shot."

"i'm not going to--"

his phone started to ring. he looked down, wide-eyed, as he realized you started to call him. before he could debate denying the call and pretending the text never came, soonyoung bolted forward, answering it before immediately leaving his room. the little shit--

"oh my god," you said, "i'm so, so fucking sorry--mingyu's here and i was trying to look up other places to eat on my laptop, and he had the bright idea to text you that shit. i left my phone alone for one minute, and this is what happened--"

"why would he text me that?" jihoon could feel his heart begin to hammer in his chest. why would mingyu tease him like that? mingyu knew that you were off limits when it came to this kind of thing. unless...

"i--well, i--" you stammered, all sentences melting in your mouth before you finally let out a long sigh. in the background, he could hear mingyu begin to laugh. "shut up!" and then the sound of a door slamming behind you. "fucking--" you let out a sigh. "sorry. made the mistake of putting you on speaker."

"that's okay." jihoon leaned against the back of the chair. "but my question...?"

with another sigh, he could hear you settle into something. a chair, a couch--he wasn't sure. "this isn't how i wanted this to go... but... i like you. and i guess mingyu's had enough of hearing about it. it's okay if you don't feel the same, but... that's all."

quiet. neither of you moved to speak, to pitch another restaurant to go to. jihoon opened a new tab on his browser, already typing in a new search for the best places to take a first date.

"jihoon?"

no point in not taking the leap now. you'd already taken the first step: he could do the next one. "can... can tonight be our first date, then? instead of us getting dinner as friends."

quiet.

"jihoon..." your voice was soft. "i'd love that."

note to self: thank mingyu.

xu minghao

"what does this mean?" minghao looked up from his phone, where you could clearly see the post you'd made earlier. it was a combination of candids and the actual pretty pictures you'd taken of him, all captioned with a joke. he began typing something out, "we bickered about toast this morning."

"oh my god, hao--"

then your phone buzzed. you looked down, and there it was: minghao calling you out on your own damn post. when you looked up from your phone, he just had that stupid smug grin on his face. he crossed his arms, leaning back in his chair as he waited for you to defend yourself.

"it's a joke. it's a meme. maybe you should learn them, old man."

he rolled his eyes. "it's a lie and i'm not standing for it. everyone knows that we argue about everything."

even before the two of you started dating, you'd bicker about the smallest things. none of it was ever serious--the two of you had only fought a handful of times in the entirety of knowing one another--but you remembered the annoyed look you would get sometimes. just go make out already had been what his friends would say. eventually, it turned into mingyu telling minghao to go ahead and give you the marriage papers already. the two of you were in it for life, weren't you?

which, ultimately, turned into you and minghao bickering about that, too. the two of you hadn't even been dating at the time, but you would both be lying if you said that conversation hadn't made the two of you figure out your feelings. you'd retorted that minghao wouldn't get along with your parents like that, leading to him actively calling them to prove that, yes, in fact, he would.

(you would simply never live down both of them going "he isn't your boyfriend? we were waiting for you to be ready to tell us," and the subsequent call where your mother chewed you out for hanging up on her right after.)

"we don't argue about everything."

minghao gave you a pointed look. "strawberry jam."

you pinched the bridge of your nose. "not this shit again. i thought we agreed that butter is--"

... fuck, he was proving his point.

"fine," you said. "we bicker a lot. doesn't mean i can't lie via meme."

he just smiled, happy to have won whatever little argument this almost turned into. "everyone knows this is our love language," he said, head resting in his hand. "but fine. you can lie through your memes."

and thus he put the two of you on equal grounds once again: a truce, in a sense. just like most of your little debates ended in.

kim mingyu

"you know you could just call me pretty if you wanted to."

your face burned at the way mingyu was giggling now. all you did was text him a meme (yes, from the other end of the couch) and wait for his response. he'd read it under his breath before bursting into giggles, so, so enamored with the way that you were. he always had been: mingyu, unlike you, wasn't shy when it came to his affection. he complimented you constantly on anything and everything, whether it be your appearance or the way you rambled to him or the way you clammed up "all cutely embarrassed" (his words, not yours) when you realized just how much you said. you told him once that you weren't the most open about your feelings or the loudest.

and he'd merely kissed your forehead and said that was okay. he was loud enough for the both of you. if loving him quietly meant that you loved him, then that was all that mattered to him.

you whined his name at him, trying to hide your face. you knew that you always would get this doe-eyed, dreamy look on your face whenever he teased you like this. you caught a glimpse of it in a mirror once when you were at a store buying furniture, and swore to yourself you'd never let him catch you like this so obviously ever again.

of course, that was moot because mingyu saw that sappy look on your face and treasured it every time... but for your own sake, you couldn't let him notice.

yet he laughed anyway, crawling over to pull your hands away from your face. "i mean it!" he squished your cheeks, "just call me pretty next time. that's what you wanted to say, right?"

you pushed his hands away from your face, just so that you could speak clearly. "i think you have pretty eyes."

his smile dropped, eyes going wide. and he slowly pulled away, face turning redder by the second as he turned from you. "you can't just say it like that! i wasn't prepared!"

you felt a little bold this time. "whatever you say, beautiful--"

the groan that mingyu let out, fully flustered by you now, only made you feel more confident in teasing him. no wonder his friends loved to pick on him... he was so cute about it.

lee seokmin

the minute you finished saying it, seokmin had burst into giggles. all because you wanted to jokingly flirt with your beloved and see his reaction. he had looked up from his phone, where he'd been idly googling to find dinner options, and then you could see those gears turning before he started laughing.

"really?" he reached over, drawing you into his arms. "so you won't argue with me tonight?" seokmin squished your cheeks to pucker your lips, planting an loud kiss against them. "all because you think i'm beautiful?"

you just fought back a laugh, reaching up to toy with the hair at the base of his neck. "whatever you want, beautiful."

another giggle burst past his lips, and he dropped one hand down, sliding it up your thigh. "do you mean it? or are you just flirting with me?" he gently squeezed your thigh, just a little. "you don't have to flirt with me like that. i'm already yours."

ever the romantic. you drew him in for another quick kiss, soflty laughing against his lips. "gotta keep you here somehow," you teased. "it's hard to compete with you when you're mister perfect."

his nose brushed against your own. "i think you keep up just fine." he paused, drumming his fingers against the outside of your thigh idly. "can i confess something?"

you watched him curiously. "huh?"

"your best friend..." his hand slid up to your hip before he loosely draped his arms around your waist. "when we got together, they messaged me to tell me you talk about my eyes a lot."

oh no. "you know you have pretty eyes--"

"like a baby seal." he giggled. "and something about having puppy dog eyes, too."

ohhh no. of course they'd rat you out. "but am i wrong?"

he just nuzzled his nose against your own for a minute, planting a tiny kiss against the tip of it. "i just like you. you're so silly, it's cute."

with a smile, you just settled against him. "i mean it, though. pick wherever you want, beautiful." his giggles only made you happier. "i'll pay."

boo seungkwan

"chan and i bicker less than we do."

seungkwan wasn't phased by your flirty word or the way you were trying to call him beautiful (my boo-tiful boo, if your silly phone contact was anything to go by). he just looked up from his phone with a flat expression, which... probably meant he saw that post somewhere for himself. the lack of originality probably also got you here.

"okay, fine, that's true," you said, rolling your eyes. "you're still beautiful, though."

"i know that," he said. "but we argue a lot over silly stuff. vernon said he thinks it's a love language."

another roll of your eyes. "seungkwan, we don't argue that much."

"don't we? remember that time the neighbors got concerned because we got a little too heated about the way one of our dramas ended?" he crossed his arms. "i still think the ending was good, but you got angry over the way it tried to incorporate greek myth and--"

"it was incorporating greek tragedy and didn't give it the sad ending!" you threw your hands up in the air. "don't promote it as being based on the myth if you aren't going to have a tragic ending!"

"it didn't have to! it was a retelling! things don't have to adhere strictly to--"

chan's door opened, and he walked out of his room. he looked at the two of you before groaning. "this fight again?"

"we're not arguing!" the two of you said together, turning to face him.

chan just rolled his eyes, making his way over to the kitchen. "sure..." then he took one look at the two of you, shaking his head. "i'm going to see if yeonjun wants to go out. don't do anything until i'm gone or have headphones on."

"we don't--"

"you do. just keep arguing or whatever," he pulled out his phone, walking back to his room.

his door shut. and the two of you just looked at each other. seungkwan rolled his eyes, flopping back down on his end of the couch.

"i hate him," he said offhandedly, no venom behind it. you knew just as well as seungkwan did that if chan was in trouble, seungkwan would be one of the first to run there. "who does he think he is? he always acts as if he knows our relationship better than we do."

you slid over closer to him, and he lifted an arm so that you could cuddle in. "he's a jerk," you said, again, no real malice behind it at all. "you should come live with me."

he rolled his eyes. "you always say that." he turned his face, kissing your temple. "like we don't have plans already."

once his lease was up. but you just looked up at him, smiling a little. "whatever you say, beautiful."

that shy smile told you all you needed to know. keep calling me sweet things, then.

chwe vernon

"uh-huh." he didn't even look up from his phone, scrolling through his youtube history. "did i send you this video?"

you frowned. "you're not even going to say anything?"

"you've used that on me before." he continued to scroll. he looked up for just a moment. "also, i'm thinkin'... maybe we could go get tacos for lunch? haven't been to that place in a while." vernon turned his attention back to his phone. "i'm down for whatever, though."

with a groan, you slumped into the couch, already googling for cheesy pick-up lines. the back-up plan, always, for when you need to tease your boyfriend. "hey, nonny? do you have a map--"

"because you're lost in my eyes," he said without missing a beat. "actually, i'm really craving tacos now. i think we could get an order to-go if you don't feel like going out."

he hated you. this had to explain everything. "do you believe in love at first sight--"

"i might," he moved over so that he was closer to you, pulling your legs into his lap. "so, were you being legit about the not arguing thing? because i might take my chance and order anyway."

with a roll of your eyes, you gave up. you weren't going to win this time around. "get your tacos, beautiful," you reached up, turning his face toward you. "i'll pay."

he snorted, bursting into giggles as he leaned over to kiss you. "you're such a dork."

you just smiled into his kiss. "but you love it."

lee chan

you loved confusing chan so, so much. all he did was ask what you wanted for dinner, and you hit him back with "whatever you want, beautiful. i'm not gonna argue with a man who has big brown eyes." thus began the confused looks as he looked at you, then his phone, unsure of how to respond to that.

"... what?"

"i said we can get whatever you want," you shrugged. "i'm not picky--"

"that's not what you said." he frowned just a little, clearly aware that you were teasing him in some way... but not quite connecting the dots quite yet. "you never call me beautiful," was what he settled on a moment later.

which was true. you often opted to call him handsome, usually with a soft laugh and a smile that showed just how endeared to him you really were. on occasion, you'd call something about him pretty--the way he styled his hair, or the makeup he wore once when mingyu roped him into being a model for him--but beautiful? as much as you thought he was (chan deserved all the complimentary words, in your humble, unbiased opinion), you'd never voiced that opinion to him directly. the closest was the time you told one of your friends that he had beautiful eyes.

he narrowed his eyes at you. "is this a joke?" for a split second, he glanced down at the phone in your hands. "... are you recording?"

"i can't call my man 'beautiful'?" you put on a fake pout, just to tease him further. "you really think i'm cruel enough to make fun of you like that?"

chan, however, knew you. he knew that you were easily swayed into pulling pranks on him. that time he introduced you to jeonghan was enough proof of that--and every subsequent trip with his friends always seemed to result in them picking out his weak spot and turning you against him, just for a simple joke. if it bothered him, he would have said something... but it did leave him fully aware that you were the kind of person to lovingly tease him.

lovingly, he told himself. he knew it was. but sometimes he wondered if you were put on this planet just to mess with him in a way he'd secretly love. if you were going to be the death of him, then at least he'd die loving you.

"okay." he made his way over, pulling up a restaurant. he showed you his screen, and immediately you focused on the fact that this place was far from cheap. "i want to go here."

"channie, we--"

"you just said you weren't going to argue," he smiled at you, leaning against you. "hm?"

with a sigh, you shook your head. "whatever you want, beautiful," you reached up. "i'll just eat ramen for the next few weeks--"

he snorted, leaning over to kiss your cheek. "just book it for our anniversary, then." he paused for a moment, just watching you with a tiny smile. "... do you really think i have beautiful eyes?"

how could you say anything other than 'yes' when he was staring at you with them?

taglist: @twancingyunhao @wonuziex @synthetickitsune @staranghae @porridgesblog

@actuallynarii @weird-bookworm @bangchansbae @laylasbunbunnyunny

[yoonjae20]

Danny and Constantine's deal.

Inspired by @stealingyourbones 's prompt per @silverblueglitter 's request.

Read on ao3. Masterpost.

When the boy had sought him out, reeking of Death Magic John had wanted to say no on principle.

You don’t get that aura from being involved in normal stuff. John didn’t want to imagine what the boy did to exude such a strong presence and he’s the one who regularly tricks and gambles with Demons. At first he had been convinced the boy had a curse on him or that he was possibly possessed by an angry spirit (and how ironic that had been in retrospect). 

To say that John had been taken by surprise was an understatement. One moment he was sipping on a truly awful cup of coffee, while smoking a cigarette and looking at a British newspaper and the next the boy appeared like out of thin air, settled in the chair opposite to him. 

The problem? John had been in the House of Mystery — which meant that no one should have been able to find him there. Bloody hell, John had constant problems finding it himself, considering it was sentient and would manifest in different places just to spite John — at least that’s how it felt to the man. 

He had startled, his coffee swapping over — but before it could stain either his newspaper or his dress shirt it froze in the air. The Death Magic surrounding the boy almost seemed to spike for a moment. 

“Blimey!” John cursed out. “How in Satan’s name did you get in here, mate?”

“I just walked in.”

“You-” John felt himself fuming, before his voice dropped into something falsely calm. “You just walked in?”

“Yes.”

John let out another string of curses before he grabbed the cup with the frozen coffee still inside and threw it at the wall, shattering it. The House of Mystery shifted around them, only the coffee table and two chairs with them on them remaining and taking his pack of cigarettes with it as if to laugh at his misery. 

“That feels like a bit of an overreaction, but who am I to judge,” the boy said with a shrug. 

John groaned, head in his hands before he collected himself. Okay. Whatever. Taking the last drag of his cigarette he put it out by twisting it on the coffee table.

“So,” he started. “What do you want?”

“A friend of yours told me that you know your way around spells and magic.”

“I don’t have friends,” John stated, deathly calm. 

The boy gave him an innocent, but impish smile that screamed “Welp, what can you do?” 

“Get lost kid,” John said. “I’m nothing but a con-man.”

“A con-man that lives in a magic house that changes its assortments of rooms as it pleases.”

John narrowed his eyes. Now thinking back, the room he had been in before the boy appeared hadn’t been next to the front door. Not even near it. The House Of Mystery once again changed around them as if to confirm the boy’s words. 

“You just walked in?”

“I just walked in,” the boy agrees. 

John leaned back to stare at the ceiling, contemplating what he did to deserve this. No — cross that, he knew exactly what he did to deserve this. 

“I always knew you’d get me, John. I said so.”

He shook his head to disperse the memory before he leaned back even further, settling his feet on the table just because he could.

“So,” he prompted.

“So,” the boy echoed back.

Suddenly the table beneath his feet disappeared and John flailed as he lost his balance. The chair toppled and he crashed to the floor. The boy suppressed his laughter as John peeled himself off the floor.

“Blummin’-“ John bit back another curse. 

“You know you almost seem like a supernatural Doctor Who — only your Tardis hates you,” the boy snickered. 

“Ha, ha,” John deadpanned as he picked up the chair and let himself fall into it. “Very funny.”

The boy’s expression changed from amused to serious as he looked John in the eyes. 

“Become my mentor.”

“Not a chance in hell,” John scoffed. “Go bother someone else.”

“I don’t want someone else.”

“Tough luck.”

They almost seemed at a stalemate for a moment as the boy paused to think. 

“What I give you something in exchange,” the boy offered.

“No offense mate,” John said, “but I doubt you have anything I’d be interested in. You’re what? 12?”

The boy scowled.

“I’m 14.”

“Close enough.” John waved him off. “I’m not a babysitter.”

“I know that for most magic users, the higher and more difficult the spell the more dire the consequences,” the boy suddenly says before John can open a portal to throw him out. “Some people just have the talent and big magic reserves — but I don’t think you are one of them.”

“Hey,” he warned, but the boy just continued to smile at him, not daunted by his tone. 

“I can solve your problems.”

John squinted his eyes as he crossed his arms. He knew that his magic reserves were minuscule — honestly that’s the reason why he didn’t try to depend on magic if he could. Why deplete them and risk over exhaustion if the right words have the same effect?

“And exactly how would you do that?”

The Death Magic around the boy flared for a bit as he produced a green glowing ball of energy. John doesn’t need a spell to be able to tell that it could power his spells and that he could use it to fill up his magic reserves if need be. 

“With this.” He closes his hand, the orb disappearing. “In exchange, teach me.”

“What? How to use Death Magic effectively?”

The boy rolled his eyes.

“No,” he disagrees. “I mean manipulation. Show me how you were able to swindle Demons and get away with your life.” 

John grinned.

“Deal.”

John barely evades an attack as he picks up the phone.

“Do you not watch the news, brat?” he questions through huffs of air. “This is a bad time.”

“You’re like a cockroach, I’m sure you’ll survive,” Danny sounds bored and John doesn’t even have the time to feel outraged — moments like these are when he regrets agreeing to Danny’s deal. The boy is more trouble than it’s worth. 

He groans as he is forced back to where the rest of the Justice League Dark is fighting.

“So?” he prompts once again.

“So,” Danny says, cheekily. 

“Can we for once not do that while I’m fighting for my life?” John hisses and Danny cackles. 

“Fine, fine,” he agrees. “I just wanted to tell you some good news.”

John knits his eyebrows together as he casts a spell with one hand — he isn’t trusting that one bit. Danny has a way to get into trouble and John is often the one who has to get him out of it. Honestly he would think his lessons on manipulating are failing considering what a bad liar he is — if he didn’t know the boy has been actively manipulating him into helping him. At least he got something out of it.

He grabs into his pocket and pulls out the condensed energy from Danny and absorbs it, sighing in relief when his magic reserves get filled up again. That was close. 

“Spit it out already,” John huffs out. 

“Well you said I’m not utilizing what you are teaching you, so I decided I should do something fun-” Oh no. “So I asked around and oh and behold — I got myself a ticket to a very special Poker Night.”

“And?” 

“And now I’m the proud owner of 70% of your soul!”

John blankly stares at the phone in his hand before he puts it back up.

“You little-”

The line beeps and he’s about to throw his phone at the next enemy when a sudden voice behind him startles him.

“Sorry your expression was just too good to pass on,” Danny snickers. “I needed to see it in person.”

“HAVE YOU BEEN HERE THE WHOLE TIME?”

Danny leans back, floating in the air as he shrugs.

“Maybe, or maybe not.”

John gets the sudden urge to strangle the boy — never mind that’s just how it always is. He pinches the bridge of his nose as he breathes out slowly.

“Constantine,” Zatanna appears next to John and he doesn’t yelp — thank you very much. “Who is your friend?”

“He is not my friend,” John says blankly while Danny chirps, “I’m the major shareholder of his soul!”

John tries to smother the boy with his hand, but Danny just cackles. He withdraws his hand, disgusted after the teen licks it. They are gathering the attention of the rest of Justice League Dark who are still fighting and trying to hold back the invasion. 

“Ah,” Zatanna sounds awkward. “I wasn’t aware you are a father, Constantine.”

Danny bursts out in laughter as John stares at the magic user in bafflement. 

“Why do I even try?” John complains as Danny pats the man’s back, still snickering. John searches through the pockets of his trench coat and pulls out his flask. “I can’t have this conversation while sober.”

Danny snorts as John empties the flask. 

“You guys need help?” Danny questions as he looks around the battlefield. Of course he would be excited about this. 

John sighs, but gives his permission anyway.

“Knock yourself out.”

Danny whoops and absolutely decimates the entire invasion fleet. 

Danny’s right leg bounces up and down as he looks at the clock. Just 10 more minutes until lunch break — then he can slip away. Constantine had relentlessly called him the past hour which could only mean the man is in need of new ectoplasm. He can only hope that the situation isn’t too dire. He chances a look at his phone and winces. 15 missed calls.

“Daniel Fenton.”

Danny freezes in his spot and slowly looks up. Mr. Lancer is looking down at him with narrowed eyes and crossed arms.

“What is so important that you can’t pay attention to my class?” The man holds out his hand. “Phone. You’ll get it back at the end of the day.”

Danny sighs as he feels the man’s disappointment. There he goes — and he had been doing so well lately now that he figured out how to deal with his roster of rogues.

Just as Danny is about to place his phone in his teacher’s palm it lights up with another call. Mr. Lancer frowns at the name and it’s with horror that Danny realizes that he saved Constantine as “Con-Man”. Before he can stop the man he accepts the call, turning it on speaker.

“Danny.”

Oh fuck, Constantine sounds pissed. 

Danny can’t help but feel guilty. He knows Constantine had survived even before Danny provided him with energy for his spells — but he also knows the man is slowly starting to depend on the extra magic boost.

“I called you 20 times!”

“16,” Danny can’t help but correct. 

“You little brat-”

“I’m in class,” Danny interrupts meekly.

Danny can practically hear the moment Constantine realizes what power he holds as his voice turns from angry to amused.

“I see,” he says simply. “I need a new delivery.”

Danny sinks deeper into his seat as the man continues, wanting nothing more than to use his powers to turn invisible and disappear. 

“I’ve run out and you know that your stuff is the best.”

Danny closes his eyes. This is karma for all the times he trolled Constantine, isn’t it? He’s purposefully phrasing it in a suspicious way — hell without context it sounds like Danny is selling him drugs. 

Danny cringes as he answers, inadvertently making it worse, “I’ll get you the next batch as soon as school is over.”

“Good.”

The line goes dead and the silence is deafening. Danny doesn’t meet Mr. Lancer’s eyes.

“Class is dismissed,” the teacher says. “Danny, please stay back.”

Danny lets his head fall against his desk as he groans. 

What follows are the most embarrassing and awkward 15 minutes of his life as Mr. Lancer lectures him and sends him into the break with a “Don’t do drugs” pamphlet. 

[reilemon]

Beneath the Collar

♡︎ synopsis: What do you tell yourself when you develop a crush on a hot priest? 'It'll pass.' But what if it doesn't?

♡︎ pairing: priest!Zayne x fem!reader

♡︎ cw: personal sacrilege, mutual masturbation

♡︎ word count: 13k

♡︎ a/n: the fifth story for kinktober 2024. i know i wrote something else as a prompt for this story, but it kinda didn't fit into the vibe. I hope you'll still like it.

♡︎ Thanks to my dearest friend and beta reader ♡︎@its-de♡︎ for helping.

divider by @cafekitsune

You’d been absentmindedly wiping down the counter, eyes flicking to the clock every couple of minutes. You were anticipating the weekend as if it was your lifeline. The shop was nearly empty, just a couple pastries left. You could already taste the freedom that awaited once you locked up. Saturday nights were your escape. You’d head out of town and finally let loose with your old friends. You couldn’t wait to slip into a tight dress, feel the beat of music thrumming through your veins, and drown the stress of your quiet life with a few too many drinks.

You loved the buzz, the way you could disappear into the crowd. It was so different from the slow, predictable pace of this town—so different from the way you had to be here, composed, calm, responsible. You could already imagine the way your friends would greet you with shrieks and hugs, the taste of sweet cocktails on your lips, the feel of someone’s hands on your waist as you danced the night away.

You hadn’t realized how tightly wound you’d become until you started thinking about it. The endless days of baking, of small talk with customers who didn’t really know you, of going home to an empty apartment. This wasn’t the life you’d imagined.

The chime above the door rings, pulling you back from your thoughts. You straighten instinctively, slipping back into your practiced routine, eyes flicking up with a tired smile ready—until you see him.

The man who steps in isn’t like any customer you’ve seen before. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in dark, understated clothes. Your eyes are immediately drawn to the stark white collar around his neck—the unmistakable sign of a priest. Yet you can’t help but stare at his features - his sharp jawline, the raven-black hair falling slightly across his forehead, and those intense green eyes. He looks cold, distant, his gaze hard and unreadable as it sweeps the room before landing squarely on you.

You can feel your heart pound as your breath catches. You aren’t supposed to feel this way. He’s a priest, for God’s sake. Yet here you are, rooted in place, unable to tear your eyes away from him. You shouldn’t be thinking about how strong his hands look, or how his lips might feel if they ever touched yours. Guilt twists in your gut, making you flush with shame.

You swallow hard, the professional smile faltering for a second as your thoughts race. What is a man like him doing here? He doesn’t look like the type to indulge in something sweet.

He steps forward, approaching the counter, and the closer he gets, the more you can feel your façade slipping. You force yourself to break eye contact, focusing instead on the pastries.

You need to say something, anything to break the tension. “Good evening,” you finally manage.

“I’m sorry for coming in so late,” he says, his voice deep and smooth, instantly making you feel butterflies. “I was hoping to grab something before you closed.”

You nod, trying to keep the conversation professional, though your mind is anything but. “Of course,” you reply, forcing yourself to meet his gaze again.

His eyes flick over the display case before returning to you, making your heart flutter. “Macarons,” he says after a moment. “Do you have any left?”

You blink, thrown off by the unexpected request, by how he knows exactly what he wants. “Ah—no,” you stammer, shaking your head. “Sorry, they sold out earlier today.”

He nods once, but doesn’t seem disappointed. You half-expect him to say something more, maybe ask about the next batch or try one of the remaining pastries. But he doesn’t. His eyes flick to the empty spot where the macarons should’ve been, then back to you.

"Thank you," He doesn’t smile, just offers a polite nod before he turns and walks toward the door. The air feels lighter the moment he steps out, but your heart is still racing, your mind still tangled in thoughts you shouldn’t have.

You stand there for a moment, unsure of what just happened, your hand still resting on the counter as if anchoring you back to reality. Slowly, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

‘What the hell was that?’

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

Later that evening, you stand in front of your mirror, smoothing your dress down over your hips, but your thoughts are miles away. You’ve been looking forward to this night all week— but now, you can’t stop thinking about him.

As you spray the perfume on your neck, your mind drifts back to the way those cold green eyes had fixed on you with such unnerving intensity. You replay the interaction over and over in your head as you fix your lipstick, each swipe of color across your lips bringing back the memory of his deep, steady voice.

You grab your heels and slide them on, trying to push the image of him away. It’s your night - you should be thinking about the friends you’ll be laughing with, the strangers you might flirt with, but your mind keeps drifting back to him. And that damn collar, the way it stood out against his sharp jaw, mocking you.

You sigh, frustrated with yourself as you grab your clutch and head for the door. Tonight is about fun, freedom. As you step outside, you convince yourself that by the end of the night you will forget all about him.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

You stand just outside the church, a box of macarons clutched in your hands. The crisp autumn air hits your face, cooling the remnants of your hangover. You wince slightly as the last pulse of your headache throbs behind your eyes. But it’s nothing compared to the nervous energy swirling in your stomach. The night before is a blur of music, laughter, and drinks—too many drinks—and yet, through it all, he was still there. No matter how hard you tried your mind kept circling back to the priest.

You woke up early this morning, despite the dull ache in your head, the need to see him again pulling you out of bed far earlier than your body wanted. You spent more time than usual getting ready, trying to make yourself look presentable. Like you hadn’t spent half the night dancing under neon lights, sweat mingling with perfume. Like you were fresh and composed, not some hungover mess delivering macarons to a man who probably didn’t even remember you.

Now, as you stand outside the church, watching as the last of the congregation trickles out from Sunday mass, you can’t help but feel a bit ridiculous. ‘What the hell am I doing?’ You glance down at the box in your hands. Last night, you’d come home and found the extra macarons sitting in your fridge—fresh, untouched. And somehow, in your alcohol-soaked brain, you’d convinced yourself that bringing them to him would make sense. That maybe, just maybe, seeing him again would clear your thoughts.

Inside, you hear the faint echoes of voices, the last goodbyes being exchanged. Your pulse quickens, the nerves settling in deeper now. ‘What if he thinks I’m crazy?’ You glance up at the church doors as they swing open again. More people spill out, some of them familiar faces, regulars from your shop. You offer a small, polite smile to those who glance your way, though the last thing you want is to be seen here, holding this box like some desperate girl with a crush.

The crowd thins, and finally, you see him. He steps out of the church, tall and composed, his dark coat catching the cool breeze as he exchanges polite nods and handshakes with the remaining parishioners. Your heart stutters in your chest when his eyes land on you, sharp and focused, just like yesterday. His gaze flickers with confusion as he approaches. The contrast between the two of you couldn’t be more stark. He’s the picture of calm and control, while you feel like a bundle of frayed nerves.

"Good morning," he greets, his voice low and even, though there’s a hint of curiosity in it. His eyes drop to the box in your hands, and then back up to meet your gaze. "I didn’t expect to see you here."

You force a small smile, suddenly feeling foolish again for showing up like this. "I, um..." You glance down at the box before awkwardly extending it toward him. "I brought these... for you. Macarons. I had some extras, and I thought..." Your voice trails off as you realize how ridiculous you sound.

He hesitates for a moment, clearly taken aback by the gesture, his brow furrowing slightly as he looks between you and the box. "That’s very kind of you," he says after a beat, his tone polite but still laced with confusion. He takes the box from you, his fingers brushing yours briefly, sending an unexpected jolt through you. "But I’m afraid I don’t understand. Why bring them here?"

You feel your face heat up, the embarrassment creeping in again as you try to explain. "I just... yesterday, you asked about the macarons. And I had some left at home, so I thought..." You trail off again, unsure how to finish without sounding completely absurd.

His eyes soften slightly, the confusion changing into something more like understanding. "I see," he says quietly. He looks down at the box in his hands, then back at you. "Thank you. This was... thoughtful."

There’s a long, awkward pause before you gather the nerve to ask, "Have you visited my shop before? I mean, you knew we sold macarons, but I don’t remember seeing you."

He glances away for a moment, then returns his gaze to you, his tone still measured and calm. "I have stopped by a few times, yes. But more often than not, my colleagues bring me your macarons. They speak highly of your pastries." His lips twitch slightly, not quite a smile, but the closest thing you’ve seen from him. "They’ve made sure I know where to find the best sweets in town."

You blink, processing that information. ‘So, he has been there.’ A strange mix of relief and disappointment washes over you—relief that he’s not a complete stranger to your shop, but disappointment that you missed those visits. Still, knowing he’s tasted your work fills you with a sense of pride.

"I see," you murmur, nodding. "I wasn’t sure, since... well, you don’t seem like the type to indulge in sweets."

He raises an eyebrow. "I do, on occasion," he says, then adds, almost as an afterthought, "Especially macarons."

Another silence falls between you. The cold morning air feels sharper now, the quiet around the church almost too loud as the last of the parishioners filter away, leaving just the two of you standing there.

You feel the urge to say something, anything. "I hope you enjoy them," you say quickly, nodding toward the box in his hands.

His eyes linger on you for a moment longer than feels comfortable. "I’m sure I will," he replies, his voice softer now, though his serious demeanor never wavers. "Thank you again. This was... unexpected."

You nod, unsure what else to say, and suddenly, the weight of what you’re doing—standing outside a church, hungover, giving a priest macarons—hits you all over again. You swallow hard, feeling the need to leave before you make things even more awkward.

"I should probably go," you blurt out, taking a small step back. "I didn’t mean to interrupt your morning."

He watches you, his gaze steady, and for a split second, you wonder if he’s going to say something to stop you, but he doesn’t. Instead, he simply nods. "Take care,"

You turn and start walking away, your heart pounding in your chest, the cool air biting at your skin. You feel a little silly, a little reckless, but something about the way he looked at you, the way his eyes softened just a fraction when he accepted the macarons... it stays with you.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

The next Sunday arrives quicker than expected, and this time, you're determined to play it cool. You still went out the night before, but you kept it light—a couple of drinks, no wild partying. The ache behind your eyes this morning is faint, nothing like last week’s pounding. You’d woken up with enough time to fix your hair and choose an outfit that’s both casual and appropriate, though you spent longer than you’d like to admit deciding on it.

As you step inside the church, the scent of old wood and candles washes over you, calming your racing heart just a little. The crowd is larger than you expected—families, couples, elderly regulars. You quietly slip into a pew near the back, hoping to blend in.

You settle in, your eyes scanning the front of the church, seeking him out. There he is, standing at the altar in his robes, his presence as commanding as ever. He’s facing the congregation, his expression stoic, speaking in that calm, steady voice that fills the room with reverence. At first, he doesn’t notice you. He’s focused on his sermon, his attention on the crowd as he guides them through the service.

And then, as if he can sense you watching him, his gaze flickers toward the back of the church—and locks onto you.

For a moment, the rest of the congregation fades into the background. It’s just you and him, his eyes lingering on you longer than they should. There’s no surprise in his expression, but his gaze isn’t the distant, detached look you remember from before. Your breath catches, and for a second, you’re not sure what to do. You glance down at your hands, trying to steady yourself, but when you look back up, his eyes are still on you. He’s quick to recover, though, returning his focus to the sermon, but the brief connection leaves your pulse racing.

The rest of the mass is a blur. You try to listen, to follow along with the prayers, but all you can think about is the way he looked at you. The quiet intensity of his gaze, the way it felt like he was seeing more than just another face in the crowd.

As the mass ends and people begin to rise from their seats, you remain seated for a moment longer. You watch as the crowd shuffles toward the exit, murmuring quietly amongst themselves, offering their thanks and farewells. For a second, you think about slipping out quietly and disappearing before he notices you again. It would be the easiest thing to do—walk away, avoid any awkward conversations.

But just as you start to stand, your eyes find his across the room. He’s still speaking with a couple of elderly women near the front, but his gaze shifts—briefly, unmistakably—back to you. And there’s something in that moment that makes it impossible to leave. Before you know it, you’re moving toward him, your pulse quickening with each step.

You tell yourself it’s only polite to say hello, maybe thank him for the sermon. It’s what people do, right? But the truth is, you haven’t attended a church service in so long, you’re not even sure how you’re supposed to talk to a priest. What do people even say in these situations? Your mind races as you approach, trying to figure out what you’re supposed to say.

When you reach him, he finishes his conversation with the elderly women, offering them a polite nod before turning his attention to you. For a moment, you stand there, unsure of how to start, but before you can stumble over a greeting, he speaks first.

"Good to see you again," Zayne says, as he offers you a barely visible smile. It’s subtle, just a small upturn at the corner of his lips, but it’s enough to make your heart race. "I don’t recall seeing you here before last week."

You blink, feeling like you’re caught red handed. You fumble for a response, trying to sound as casual as possible.

"Oh, no, I—I haven’t been here before," you admit, glancing down at your hands before looking back up at him. "I mean, I used to go to church when I was younger, but... it’s been a while." You force a small smile. "I’ve been in this town for a few months now, but I guess I still feel kind of... new. I’m trying to, you know, be a part of the community."

It’s a half-truth, but close enough to reality.

Zayne listens intently, his expression thoughtful as he considers your words. "It’s understandable," he says after a moment, his voice softer now. "Moving to a new place can feel... isolating." His gaze lingers on you. "I’m glad you’re finding your place here."

You nod, trying to ignore the fluttering in your chest. "Yeah, I think I’m making some progress."

You’re unsure of what to say next, but Zayne is the one that speaks next. "Those macarons you brought last week," he begins. "There was one flavor I hadn’t tried before—rose, I believe?"

You hadn’t expected him to bring it up. "Oh, yeah," you say, a giddy smile creeping onto your lips. "I like to experiment with new flavors in my free time. I wasn’t sure if anyone would like that one."

He nods, with a faint smile. "It was... different. Unexpected, but in a good way."

Your smile widens at that, unable to contain the warmth blooming in your chest. You hadn’t realized how much his opinion would matter to you. "I’m always experimenting," you admit, feeling more at ease now. "Sometimes I stay up late trying out new combinations."

The air between you feels lighter, warmer. "I can tell you put a lot of effort into it."

The compliment catches you off guard, and you’re not sure how to respond. But before you can say anything, Zayne shifts the conversation slightly. "We’re hosting a bake sale next week," he says, "It’s for a local charity. I was wondering if you’d have the time to volunteer."

Volunteer? At the church? You’ve never done anything like that before. But the idea of working with him, of contributing in some way—it tugs at you, and before you can think it through too much, you find yourself nodding.

"Yeah, I’d love to," you say quickly, the giddiness from earlier still bubbling beneath the surface. "I mean, I’m sure I could make time."

His gaze softens, and there’s that almost smile again. "Good," he says. "I think your talents would be appreciated."

You nod, feeling strangely content. Working with him, even if it’s just for something simple like a bake sale—seems like a small step forward, a way to stay close without pushing too far.

As the crowd continues to thin, you realize you’ve lingered long enough. You take a small step back, your heart still racing from the interaction. "I’ll see you next week, then," you say softly, offering him a final smile before turning to leave.

"Yes," he replies. "Next week."

You can feel his gaze on your back as you exit the church, the weight of it lingering long after you step outside into the cool autumn air. And though you try to tell yourself that it’s just a bake sale, just a way to be part of the community, you can’t shake the excitement simmering beneath the surface.

Next week couldn’t come soon enough.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

The bake sale was a success. The air was filled with the scent of baked goods and laughter, but you hardly had time to enjoy it. Zayne, ever the center of attention, had been pulled away in a dozen directions the entire day. When you’d arrived early that morning, hands full of pastries and stomach full of butterflies, you barely got a chance to exchange more than a quick greeting.

He had smiled at you, brief but warm, though his attention was quickly snatched away by people needing his assistance, asking for advice, or organizing last-minute details. Of course, he handled everything with calm efficiency. You watched him navigate the chaos with admiration, though a part of you ached for more than those fleeting glances you stole throughout the day.

Now, as the sun begins to set and the crowd dissipates, everything is finally winding down. The tables have been mostly cleared, the leftover baked goods packed up, and most of the volunteers have either left or are chatting amongst themselves. You’re still tidying up, folding a tablecloth when you feel a presence beside you. Zayne.

"Need any help?" he asks.

You offer him a small smile, shaking your head. "I’ve got it," you say, too aware of how close he’s standing. "But thank you."

"You did a lot today," he says quietly. "The bake sale wouldn’t have been as successful without you."

The compliment, though simple, warms your chest, and you can’t help the slight flush that rises to your cheeks. "I’m just glad I could help," you reply, glancing at him, and there it is again—his gaze, lingering just a fraction too long.

"Will you be attending mass tomorrow?" he asks after a pause, his voice soft, almost hesitant.

For a moment, you’re not sure how to answer. Attending Sunday mass on a regular basis was not something you imagined for yourself when you moved here. But neither was the crush on a priest. You tilt your head slightly, offering a small smile. "I might," you say. "But... I’d be more than happy to help out around the church too. If you need extra hands for events or... anything else." The offer hangs in the air.

Zayne’s eyes hold yours for a moment longer, before he nods, his lips curving into that barely-there smile that always makes your heart race. "I’ll keep that in mind."

As you both finish the last of the cleanup, the weight of the day settles over you. The connection between you and Zayne feels more real.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

Days pass after the Sunday mass, and your mind is restless. You had hoped—foolishly—that this crush would fade. That the flutters in your stomach and the lingering heat in your chest, and somewhere else, would disappear. But it hasn’t. If anything, it’s grown stronger. It’s more than just attraction now—it’s curiosity, fascination, a desire to know him beyond the surface.

You had gone to mass that Sunday, and the entire service, your eyes had found his. After the service, you exchanged pleasantries as usual, but there was something beneath the surface. The way he smiled at you, as if holding back. And then, before you left, he had handed you his phone, suggesting that you exchange numbers, “in case there’s any more help needed with events.”

It was a perfectly reasonable request, and yet, your hands had trembled slightly when you typed your number in. A simple exchange of phone numbers shouldn’t feel like this, but you couldn’t shake the thrill it gave you.

Now, days later, you’ve been staring at his name in your phone for what feels like hours. Your fingers hover over the screen, your mind spinning with a thousand excuses you could use to text him.

‘Just invite yourself over.’ Tell him you’ve been working on new desserts and want to share them. It’s innocent enough—after all, you’ve done it before, and he was more than happy to accept. Why should this time be any different?

You lean back, the phone still in your hand, your thoughts a tangled mess. ‘It’s not wrong to want to see him, is it?’ When you’d exchanged numbers, had there been something in the way his hand brushed yours? Something more than just casual contact?

Your thumb hovers over his name on your phone, heart pounding in your chest. ‘One message. That’s all. Just one message to bring him something.’ It’s innocent. Harmless.

You begin to type. “Hey, I’ve been experimenting with some new dessert recipes. Thought you might like to try them. Could I drop some by?”

Before you can second-guess yourself again, you hit send.

The message disappears, leaving you staring at the screen, your heart racing.

Your phone buzzes a minute later, and you can hardly breathe as you open the message.

“That sounds great. I’d love to try them.”

His reply is simple, casual, but the effect it has on you is anything but. You glance around your apartment, suddenly feeling the weight of what you’ve done. You’re going to see him again, and this time, the meeting will be more personal, more intimate. ‘Just you, him, and those damn desserts.’

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

You close the shop with shaky hands, flipping the sign to "closed" and locking the door behind. You try to calm your nerves as you walk toward the church.

‘Why am I doing this?’ you ask yourself for the hundredth time. You always shared your new recipes with your two employees—they were your taste-testers, your go-to feedback. So why now? Why are you heading to a priest, of all people?

‘He’s the customer experience,’ you remind yourself, a weak excuse at best. However, if anyone could give an honest opinion, it would be him—level-headed, composed, with that quiet seriousness that always unnerves and excites you. It’s just an opinion, nothing more. You repeat it like a mantra as you approach the church.

The doors creak open as you step inside, the familiar scent of incense filling your senses. The church is mostly empty, the soft glow of evening light filtering through the stained-glass windows. As you enter, you spot Zayne standing outside the confessional. He’s speaking quietly with an older woman, but his eyes flick up as soon as you walk in. The moment he sees you, his expression changes for a split second, barely noticeable, but it’s enough to make your heart skip a beat.

The woman finishes her conversation, offering him a polite smile before heading toward the door. Zayne watches her go, and when she’s gone, he turns his full attention to you.

His lips curve into a subtle smile. "Good evening," he greets you with that calm authority that always makes you feel both at ease and strangely vulnerable at the same time. "Thank you for coming. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble."

You shake your head, trying to keep your voice steady as you return his smile. "No trouble at all. I just closed up the shop, so... it worked out."

He nods, his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer before gesturing toward the back of the church. "Shall we?" He leads you down the quiet hallway, until you reach his office—a small, private room tucked away from the rest of the church. The walls are lined with bookshelves, a modest desk in the middle, and a soft lamp casting a warm glow. Zayne closes the door behind you, and for a second, the air between you feels thicker than it had before.

You sit across from each other at the small desk. You set the box between you, showing a display of your latest creations. Zayne’s intense green eyes take in the array of sweets.

"These look incredible," he says as he leans in. He reaches for one, pausing as if to savor the moment. "Shall we start?"

You nod, your voice wavering as you describe the little creation.

As he finishes the first dessert, followed by more praise, his eyes drift over the others in the box. His eyes linger on a small orange-tinted one. His brow furrows slightly, and he glances up at you. "Is that… carrot?" he asks, with reluctance in his tone.

You laugh softly, "Yes, it’s a mini carrot cake," you say, your voice light and teasing. "I’ve been thinking about adding it to the menu."

Zayne’s smile tightens just a little. His fingers hover near the pastry, but he doesn’t reach for it. "Carrot cake... that’s..." He trails off, clearly searching for the right words, though his discomfort is obvious. "I’m sure it’s delicious," he adds, his tone strained with effort.

You can’t help but chuckle softly at his expression, the idea of Zayne being uncomfortable with something as simple as a carrot cake is both endearing and amusing. "You don’t like carrots, do you?" you ask, raising an eyebrow at him with a grin.

Zayne shifts slightly, his ears tinged with a faint blush as he gives a sheepish smile. "I’ve never been... fond of them," he admits.

You laugh again. "That’s completely fine," you say, shaking your head. "You don’t have to try it if you don’t want to. I won’t be offended."

Relief washes over his face, and you can’t help but find it charming. "Thank you," he says with a smile, his voice more relaxed now. "I’m sure it’s wonderful. Just... not for me."

You nod, smiling back at him as you make a mental note not to add the carrot cake to the menu after all. Who would have thought Zayne, of all people, would have such a small but specific dislike?

As you both settle into a comfortable rhythm of tasting the remaining pastries, the earlier tension eases, replaced by the easy conversation and laughter that flows between you. There’s something natural, almost soothing, about this—sharing these quiet moments, watching his reactions as he tries each new flavor, the occasional teasing smile crossing his lips.

You hesitate for a moment, then decide to push the boundary just a little. “I won’t ask what made you become a priest at such a young age,” you begin, offering a shy smile to lighten the weight of your words. “But I have to admit... I do wonder what you do when you’re not here. What’s Zayne like when he’s not... well, Father Zayne?”

Zayne’s lips twitch slightly at the question, as though he’s surprised but also amused by your boldness. He leans back in his chair, his posture relaxing a bit.

“Well,” he begins, a faint chuckle escaping his lips, “I don’t have much free time, to be honest. Between the church, the community events, and my other responsibilities, it’s hard to find a moment just for myself.”

He pauses, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. “But when I do get some time, I like to read. Mostly fiction—novels, stories that take me somewhere else for a little while.” His voice softens with a hint of something like nostalgia. “I also try to visit new restaurants when I can. There aren’t many options in this town, so sometimes I take trips to the city just to try something different.”

There’s something so relaxed, almost vulnerable, in the way he talks about it that makes you feel like you’re seeing a side of him that few people do. A side that isn’t weighed down by the responsibilities of his role, but is simply... Zayne.

He shifts the conversation, leaning forward slightly as he looks at you. “What about you?” he asks, his voice warm with genuine curiosity. “When you’re not experimenting with food, what do you do in your free time?”

“Well,” you begin, shifting in your seat, “when I do take a break, I like to drive out of town, too. I’d meet up with old friends, go out for a drink or two... but honestly, I like the quiet here. It’s different. Calming, in a way.”

Zayne nods, his expression thoughtful. “I can see that. There’s something peaceful about being here, away from the noise. But I imagine it must get lonely sometimes.”

His words strike a chord in you, and for a moment, you feel a vulnerability creeping in. You hadn’t expected him to understand, but somehow, he does.

“Yeah,” you say softly, almost to yourself. “It does.”

You glance at him, and for a moment, you feel like you’re seeing him in a new light— as someone who, like you, is navigating his own struggles, his own desires.

The rest of the evening continues with light topics and soft laughter. But as you glance out the window you see it’s pitch-black outside. You glance at your watch, feeling a pang of reluctance as you realize it’s time to go.

“I should probably head out,” you say softly, not wanting to break the moment but knowing it has to end.

Zayne nods, though there’s a hint of something in his eyes that shows he feels the same reluctance. He stands, walking you to the door of his office. “Thank you for the desserts,” he says, his voice feeling more personal now. “And for the conversation.”

You smile. “Thank you for listening. And for the... honesty.” There’s a moment of hesitation before you step toward the door, the space between you suddenly feeling too close. He opens the door, and as you step out into the quiet hall, you glance back at him one last time.

His eyes linger on you. “Goodnight,” he says, his voice low, and for a second, it feels like there’s more he wants to say, but the moment passes.

“Goodnight,” you reply, turning to leave, your heart still racing from the quiet intimacy of the evening.

As you walk out into the cool night air, you can’t help but feel that this connection—whatever it is between you and Zayne—has deepened. And as you head home, your thoughts linger on him, wondering where this path will lead.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

The next day, your phone buzzes. You glance at the screen, and your heart skips a beat. It’s a message from Zayne.

“The desserts were incredible,” it reads. “You have a real gift for combining flavors. Thank you again.”

You smile, rereading the message a few times before typing out a casual reply. His words, the thoughtfulness behind them, mean more than they should. You tell yourself it’s just feedback—he’s just being kind, just acknowledging your work—but the fact that he took the effort to write this message... it lingers in your mind.

Days pass, and the messages continue. They’re not frequent, but every other day, you’ll receive something from him—a thoughtful comment on one of your desserts or a small exchange that feels more personal than before.

One evening, your phone buzzes again. This time, it’s a picture—a grainy snapshot of a small, scruffy-looking cat sitting outside the church doors.

“This little guy hangs around the church sometimes. I think he’s starting to expect me to feed him,” the message reads.

You can’t help but laugh softly to yourself as you look at the picture. You quickly type out a response: “He’s adorable! Have you tried petting him yet?”

A minute later, Zayne replies: “I’ve tried. He runs away every time I get close.”

You smile to yourself, finding the image of Zayne—a man so composed, so in control—being outwitted by a stray cat endearing. You imagine him, kneeling down, trying to coax the little creature closer, only for it to scurry away. There’s something so human about it, so... normal.

“That’s adorable,” you reply, the smile still on your face. “Keep feeding him, and he’ll come around eventually.”

The conversation carries on like that—simple, easy exchanges that make you feel more connected to him in ways you hadn’t expected. But with every message, every small insight into Zayne’s life outside of his role as a priest, the ache in your chest grows. The attraction you’d hoped would fade has only grown stronger, and now it’s not just about the way he looks or the way his voice makes your heart race. It’s about him—his quiet strength, his thoughtfulness, the way he seems to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders but still finds time to send you a picture of a stray cat.

You know you shouldn’t feel this way. He’s a priest, and you’re well aware of the boundaries that are supposed to exist between you. You’ve tried telling yourself that it’s just a crush, something that will pass.

But it hasn’t.

Late at night, you lie in bed, staring at your phone, your thumb hovering over the screen as you reread his latest message for the hundredth time. You feel a warmth spread through your chest, a soft ache blooming alongside it—a gnawing longing.

Your set the phone beside you as you exhale, closing your eyes. The ache doesn’t go away. The thought of him consumes you. Every night, it’s the same. You tell yourself not to think about him, not to let your mind wander to those places where it’s dangerous to go, but you’re powerless to stop it.

You imagine his hands—strong yet gentle—the way they would feel against your skin. You think about his lips, how they’d taste, how they’d move against yours, how they’d trail lower. Your body heats at the thought and before you can stop yourself, your hand slips beneath the waistband of your panties. The room feels too quiet, too still, as your breath quickens, and all you can think of is him.

Every night, you touch yourself to the thought of him. It’s become your secret ritual, a way to chase the frustration and desire that builds up inside you. You picture the way his body would feel pressed against yours, the way his breath would hitch as he gives in, as the control he fights so hard to maintain finally snaps. You can almost hear his voice—low, rough with need—as he murmurs your name, telling you how much he’s wanted you, how long he’s been fighting it.

Your fingers move faster. And just as you reach the edge, teetering on the brink of release, you whisper his name into the darkness, your voice barely audible.

When it’s over, you lie there, breathless, your heart pounding in the silence of your room. The guilt creeps in, just like every night.

During the day, at the shop, you go through the motions—serving customers, smiling, chatting. But your mind drifts back to him, and you wonder –

‘Does he ever think about me like that?’

You think of him during the slow afternoons at the shop, when the world feels like it’s moving on without you. You wonder what he’s doing, if you cross his mind in those rare moments when he’s alone. Or if you’re just another parishioner to him, someone he texts about cats and pastries and nothing more.

The next time your phone buzzes, and you see Zayne’s name light up the screen, your heart skips a beat, followed by that all-too-familiar flutter in your belly. He’s sent another picture of the cat, this time with a playful caption:

“Still no luck with petting him. I think he likes to torment me.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. Warmth spreads through your chest, but the ache follows closely behind.

You type out a response, light-hearted to match his tone. “Maybe he’s playing hard to get. He knows you’ll keep trying.”

The response comes seconds later, “You’re probably right. I’ll keep trying. Maybe one day he’ll trust me.”

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

The next Sunday mass comes, and you sit quietly in the back, as you’ve grown accustomed to. Zayne stands at the altar, delivering his sermon with the same calm and captivating demeanor. The words, though meaningful, drift over you like a gentle breeze—comforting, yet distant. You can’t help but let your mind wander, your gaze occasionally flitting up to meet his. Each time your eyes find his, there’s a momentary spark, a flicker of something that passes between you.

At first, it’s subtle—a glance, nothing more. But as the moments pass, the weight of his attention seems to grow heavier. His gaze lingers on you for just a heartbeat longer than it should. The words coming from his mouth slow for the briefest second, just enough to notice, before he corrects himself and continues. But the flicker is there, a momentary lapse in the composed, unwavering Father Zayne.

You feel a rush of heat rise in your chest. ‘Is he losing focus because of me?’ The thought sends a thrill through you, though you immediately try to brush it off as wishful thinking. But then, it happens again.

Zayne’s sermon flows smoothly as usual, but this time, when his eyes find yours again, there’s a subtle shift in his expression. His voice falters, just slightly, as if he’s momentarily forgotten his place. He pauses, clearing his throat, his gaze quickly flicking away. You feel your heart pound in your chest, and you know he felt it too—his usual calm shaken, if only for a moment.

It doesn’t go unnoticed. A pair of elderly women seated a few pews ahead of you exchange a glance, their heads turning slightly as if they’re trying to figure out what—or who—might have caused the good Father to stumble. They lean toward each other, whispering quietly, but you can’t make out what they’re saying. You shift uncomfortably in your seat, a mixture of excitement and guilt flooding through you.

Zayne continues, his voice steady once more, but you can see the subtle tension in his posture now—the way his hands grip the edges of the lectern just a little tighter, the slight crease between his brows as if he’s fighting to regain control. You try to focus on the sermon again, to pull yourself out of this strange, charged moment, but it’s impossible.

When the service ends, and the last of the parishioners trickle out, you step forward, your heart still pounding in your chest. Zayne looks up, and you can tell he’s still unsettled from earlier.

But he smiles. "Good morning," he says, his voice quieter now. "I—uh, hope you enjoyed the service."

You nod, offering him a small smile in return. "I did. Though, I have to admit... I still don’t understand most of it."

Zayne chuckles, "As long as you’re here, that’s what matters," he replies, and for a moment it seems as if there’s more he wants to say but can’t quite find the words.

Before either of you can speak again, you glance toward the doors and realize that, during the service, the skies outside have opened up. Rain pours down, tapping against the windows with a steady rhythm. You curse softly under your breath, realizing you hadn’t brought an umbrella.

"Looks like I’m stuck for a while," you murmur, half to yourself, half to Zayne.

He follows your gaze, then turns back to you with a thoughtful expression. "You don’t have an umbrella?" he asks.

You shake your head, feeling a bit foolish. "No, I didn’t think it would rain today."

Zayne pauses for a moment, as if thinking about something, before he speaks again. "I could walk you home," he offers. "I have an umbrella, and I need to head out anyway. We could talk about the next bake sale on the way."

Your heart skips a beat at the prospect of walking alone with him.

"Are you sure?" you ask, though you already know what his answer will be.

Zayne nods, that soft smile returning to his lips. "Of course. It’s no trouble."

And just like that, the decision is made. You follow him to the coat rack near the entrance, where he retrieves a large, dark umbrella. He opens it with a swift motion, then gestures for you to step under it with him. As you do, the two of you step out into the rain, the world around you suddenly feeling smaller.

You walk side by side, the umbrella barely covering both of you, forcing your bodies to press close together. His arm brushes against yours every few steps, the warmth of his presence almost too much, making it difficult to focus on what he’s saying. The scent of rain mingles with the faint hint of his cologne, and it makes your head dizzy.

At one point, your eyes meet again, and for a split second, Zayne’s step falters, just slightly. His words stumble as he’s explaining something about the church’s plans for the sale. He catches himself quickly, but when you glance up at him, there’s a flush of color in his cheeks. And in that moment, you wonder – ‘Is he affected by this as well?’

As you walk, the rain begins to lighten, turning into a soft drizzle, but neither of you rush to part ways. The conversation continues, easy and unhurried, and for a moment, you forget about everything else—the church, the responsibilities, the complicated emotions swirling between you. It’s just the two of you, walking in the rain.

When you finally reach your street, Zayne stops in front of your building.

"Thank you," you say with a smile.

Zayne smiles, that familiar softness in his eyes again. "It was my pleasure."

There’s a brief pause, and for a moment, it feels like something hangs in the air between you. But before either of you can break the silence, Zayne steps back, offering a small nod.

"I’ll see you soon," he says, his voice quiet.

You nod, watching as he turns and walks away. As you head inside, you can’t shake the feeling that the space between you and Zayne is growing smaller with every encounter. You wonder if the boundary between friendship and something more is becoming increasingly blurred.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

The next day, you couldn’t stop replaying it all in your head. The way he had looked at you, the subtle hesitations in his words, the fleeting touches. You found yourself waiting for a message from him, hoping for a hint that he felt something.

But the message never came.

You tried to brush it off at first. ‘He’s busy.’ The church had its demands, and the bake sale was coming up soon. He probably had a hundred things to take care of. But as the days passed, the silence grew heavier. Each time your phone buzzed, you found yourself hoping it was him, only to feel that familiar stab of disappointment when it wasn’t.

When you finally couldn’t stand the silence any longer, you sent him a message, keeping it casual. You told yourself that it wasn’t a big deal, that he’d reply, and everything would be fine. But when his response came, it was short, almost curt.

Your stomach sank as you stared at the screen. You told yourself you were imagining things, that maybe he was just having an off day. But the pattern repeated itself. Another message from you, another short, impersonal reply from him. It was as if a wall had gone up between you, growing taller with every passing day.

And then there was the shop. Zayne had always made a point of visiting at least once a week, stopping by for a quick chat and dessert. But that week, he didn’t come. Each day, you glanced toward the door, half-expecting to see him walk through it with that quiet smile, but the door never opened for him.

The absence weighted on your mind, leaving you questioning everything. ‘Did I do something wrong?’ you wondered, replaying your last conversations over and over in your head.

You tried to focus on work, on the bake sale preparations, but your mind kept drifting back to him. You thought about sending another message, something more direct. But each time, you hesitated. ‘What if he’s distancing himself on purpose?’ The thought left a hollow feeling in your chest.

By the time the weekend approached, the doubt and confusion had hardened into something else—hurt. You couldn’t understand why he had gone so cold, why the easy warmth between you had turned into this frigid distance.

And as you stood behind the counter of your shop, watching the door and waiting for a familiar face that never came, you realized something. ‘He’s avoiding me.’

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

The next Saturday, the church is buzzing with activity. Tables are set up along the hall, covered in pastries, cakes, and breads that you had carefully crafted over the week. The sight of them should be enough to fill Zayne with excitement. He usually enjoyed events like these. Always eager to chat with volunteers, admire the work of the community, and, if he was honest with himself, look forward to seeing you.

But today, as he scans the room, his gaze lingers on the table where your pastries sit, beautifully arranged and ready to be sold. He can feel a flutter of anticipation. ‘She’ll be here.’ he thinks to himself, hoping to see you among the busy volunteers. You hadn’t come to last Sunday’s mass, and even though he had tried to keep his distance, part of him had been looking forward to seeing you today. He hadn’t realized how much he missed your presence until you weren’t there.

But as the minutes tick by, his eyes sweep over the table again, and something unsettling clicks into place. You’re not here. Instead, your two employees are standing behind the table, chatting with customers, offering samples and smiling as they go about their work. The sight of them, rather than you, feels like a punch to the gut.

Zayne takes a deep breath, as he walks over to the table. He exchanges polite greetings with your employees, but his mind is racing. ‘Why didn’t she come?’ He expected you to be here, after all the work you had put into the preparations. He glances around the room again, hoping maybe you’re somewhere else, mingling with the other volunteers. But you’re nowhere to be seen.

The knot in his chest tightens. For the first time in days, the weight of his own silence, his distance, hits him with full force. ‘She didn’t come because of me.’ His guilt, which he had been trying to push down, now rises to the surface. This time, for a different reason. He remembers the unanswered messages, the short replies, the way he had deliberately pulled away, thinking it was the right thing to do.

He moves through the rest of the bake sale with that guilt gnawing at him. Every time he passes your table, he feels the weight of your absence, the emptiness it leaves behind. And though he tries to focus on the event, shaking hands and exchanging small talk with parishioners, his mind is elsewhere—on you, and how he pushed you away with his silence.

As the crowd thins and things begin to slow down, he can’t resist any longer. He approaches your employees again, keeping his tone casual.

“She did an incredible job with everything,” Zayne says, offering a small smile as he glances over the leftover pastries. “I was hoping to thank her in person, though. Is she around?”

One of your employees, a young woman with a friendly smile, looks up at him. “Oh, she’s not here,” she says. “She’s actually out of town right now. I think she’s with her friends for the weekend.”

Zayne’s chest tightens. ‘Out of town?’ ‘With friends?’ The information feels like another blow. He hides his reaction, nodding politely.

“Ah, I see. Thank you both for participating,” he says, his voice a little more strained than he intends.

As he walks away from the table, the guilt intensifies. The thought of you spending the weekend elsewhere, with your friends, leaving the bake sale in the hands of someone else, feels like a quiet rejection. ‘She didn’t want to see me.’ The guilt twists in his chest, tighter and heavier than before.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

You stood in your kitchen for a few minutes, debating what to do. You weren’t planning on attending tomorrow’s Sunday mass—again. The thought of sitting there, with Zayne at the altar, pretending everything was normal, made your stomach twist. But the tablecloths. They needed to be returned, and the idea of just dropping them off quickly, quietly, without having to see anyone—without having to see him—seemed like the easiest solution.

You didn’t expect the rain. The sky had been calm when you left, but halfway to the church, the clouds burst open. Within seconds, the rain comes down in torrents, soaking through your clothes as you clutch the tablecloths tighter, your feet pounding against the wet pavement.

By the time you reach the church, you're drenched, the fabric in your arms heavy and useless. Gasping for breath, you push open the door. Your shoes squeak on the stone floor as you step inside, water dripping from your clothes and pooling beneath you. You wipe a hand over your face, trying to gather yourself.

"Hey," a voice calls from deeper within the church.

Your heart skips a beat. You recognize that voice immediately. Of course, it had to be him.

You’re standing there, dripping wet, trying to catch your breath and your bearings when Zayne steps closer, his eyes scanning over your soaked clothes. There’s a flash of concern in his expression, though he quickly tries to mask it with something lighter, a smile playing on his lips.

"You really don’t like carrying an umbrella with you, do you?" he teases softly, trying to ease the tension, and it works—just for a moment. You chuckle, shaking your head.

"I guess not," you manage to say, a small smile tugging at your lips despite your shivering.

His smile fades slightly as he takes in the sight of you, soaked and visibly trembling. “You’re freezing,” he says, his voice gentler now, more serious. “Why don’t you come to the rectory? You can dry off and change into something warm.”

The idea of going to the rectory, the space where Zayne lives, feels like crossing a line, a line you’ve been tiptoeing around for weeks. You shake your head, stepping back slightly. “I’ll just call a cab. I’m just here to return these,” you say quickly, you murmur, gesturing to the tablecloths. "I don’t want to intrude."

But Zayne steps forward, his brow furrowed as he looks you over. "You’re not intruding." he says, his voice more insistent now. "You’ll get sick if you walk back out like this. Please, just let me help."

You look up at him, the concern in his eyes stirring something deep inside you, something you’ve been trying to suppress. The rain outside is relentless, and despite your instinct to retreat, you find yourself nodding. "Okay," you whisper.

Relief flashes in Zayne’s eyes, and he nods, stepping aside to lead the way. "Good. Follow me."

Zayne leads you into the rectory, the warmth of his home. He guides you toward a small bathroom. “Take a hot shower,” he says, “I’ll put your clothes in the dryer, and I’ll leave some of my pajamas for you to change into.”

You nod, stepping inside the bathroom and closing the door behind you.

As the hot water runs over your skin, you feel the tension in your body begin to ease, the heat chasing away the lingering chill. You try to focus on the steam rising around you, on anything but the fact that you’re in his home, about to wear his clothes.

When you finally step out of the shower, you glance at the folded set of Zayne’s pajamas waiting for you on the bathroom counter. You slip into them, the soft material comforting against your skin, and can’t help but take in the smell of his fabric softener – fresh, floral scent. As you step out the bathroom, suddenly you’re self-conscious, aware of the fact that you’re not wearing a bra. The loose fabric brushes against your skin with every movement.

You walk timidly toward the living room, your heart pounding in your chest. As you step into the room, you find Zayne waiting for you, seated on the far end of the sofa. He’s placed two steaming mugs of tea and a plate of biscuits on the coffee table. The room feels intimate, almost too intimate, with just the two of you here, the rain still tapping against the windows outside.

Zayne looks up as you enter, and for a moment, his breath seems to catch in his throat. His eyes widen slightly, and a blush creeps up his cheeks as he takes in the sight of you in his clothes, fresh from the shower. He clears his throat, his gaze quickly dropping to the tea in front of him, but the redness on his face betrays him.

You feel your own cheeks burn in response, suddenly hyper-aware of the way the loose fabric hangs on you. You move quickly to the far end of the sofa, sitting down with careful distance between the two of you.

"Thank you... for the shower," you say. "And for letting me stay while my clothes dry."

Zayne glances at you, his eyes flickering briefly over you again before he focuses on his hands resting in his lap. "Of course," he murmurs, his voice a little strained.

You give him a small smile, wrapping your hands around the warm mug of tea, grateful for something to do with your hands.

Zayne speaks first, before the uncomfortable silence could stretch, “I heard you were out of town,” he says, his voice soft but probing. “What are you doing here?”

His question catches you off guard. You hadn’t expected him to bring it up so directly.

“I was supposed to be,” you say quietly, your fingers tightening around the cup of tea, the warmth barely grounding you. “But... the friend I was supposed to go out with caught a cold. She cancelled last minute.”

The explanation hangs between you, and even though it’s true, it feels flimsy. You look down, staring into your cup. ‘I shouldn’t have come here.’

Zayne’s gaze remains fixed on you, as if he’s waiting for something more. Then, he continues. “And the bake sale?” he asks, “You didn’t come.”

The question lands like a blow. You know why, of course. Your throat tightens as you try to form a response.

“I—uh, I got caught up,” you say, your voice faltering.

You know how weak that lie sounds. But he doesn’t push.  Instead his gaze softens as he looks at you. "I’m glad you’re here now," he says quietly.

You stare at him for a moment, his words sinking in, and a small, ironic chuckle escapes your lips before you can stop it. "I find that hard to believe,"

Zayne looks at you, a flicker of confusion crossing his face, his brow furrowing slightly as he waits for you to elaborate.

"I thought..." you begin, but then pause, biting your lip as you glance away, trying to gather your thoughts. "I thought you didn’t want me around."

The room falls into an uncomfortable silence.

Your eyes find his and the vulnerability in them makes your chest tighten.

"I’m sorry," he says softly. "For keeping my distance. For... pulling away."

The apology lingers between you, and for a moment, you don’t know what to say. You can feel the weight of his words, the sincerity behind them, but also the pain. He’s struggling—just as much as you are, maybe more.

"I thought..." he starts, his voice faltering for a second. He pauses, his hand moving to the white collar at his throat. "I thought keeping my distance would help, that it would protect both of us. But it only made things worse."

You swallow hard as you watch him. His fingers linger on the collar for a moment longer before he drops his hand, his eyes filled with a quiet regret. He takes a deep breath before continuing. "I started hearing things. Rumors. People talking about... us." The words make your heart skip a beat. "It was like a wake-up call, a hard one." His fingers brush the collar again, this time more deliberately. "That I’m a priest. And I took vows. Vows I can’t break."

You want to say something, anything, to ease the guilt you see in his eyes, but before you can, he continues, his voice even softer now. "But no matter how much distance I try to put between us, you’re always on my mind." He looks away for a second. "Everywhere I go, everything I do... I can’t stop thinking about you."

You don’t know what to say, what to do. Zayne’s vulnerability, his confession of how deeply you’ve affected him, makes the tension between you almost unbearable.

His eyes meet yours again. "You’re everywhere," he whispers, his voice almost breaking. "And I don’t know what to do about it."

Zayne’s words linger in the air, pulling at your heartstrings. You want to say something, to ease the pain, and you don’t know if you can. Not when you’ve been feeling the same way.

"Zayne..." you say softly, "I don’t want to be the reason you’re struggling," Zayne’s gaze drops to the floor, shoulders tense. Seeing him like this makes your chest tighten, but you can’t stop now. There’s too much unsaid.

"But I can’t stop thinking about you either," you confess, your voice trembling slightly. The words make you feel exposed, but it’s the truth you’ve been holding in for so long. "You’re in my thoughts all the time. It’s like... no matter where I am, no matter what I’m doing, I just want to be near you."

Zayne looks back at you, and you fight every fiber in your body to close the distance between you.

"I care about you, Zayne," you whisper. "And I hate seeing you like this. But I can’t pretend that what I feel isn’t real."

He’s quiet, his breathing shallow as he processes your words. Neither of you has the answers, but in this moment, it’s enough to know that you’re not alone.

"I’ve tried to ignore it," you continue, your voice shaky but honest. "I’ve tried to stay away, to give you space, but..." You take a deep breath, gathering the courage to say what’s been burning inside you for so long. "It’s not just the little things. It’s all of it. The way your touch lingers... even when you barely graze my skin. I keep thinking about it, imagining more, wishing you would... touch me, hold me.”

Your cheeks burn as the words leave your lips. This is it. There’s no turning back now. You’ve held this in for so long. And now, it’s out there between you, impossible to ignore, to pretend it doesn’t exist.

"I want to feel you," you confess softly. "I want to feel your hands on me. I can’t pretend I don’t need this anymore."

For a moment, Zayne doesn’t move. His breath is shallow, his eyes locked on yours as his fingers flex slightly against the fabric of his pants. You wait, breathless, watching him.

"I want to touch you," he whispers finally. "I’ve thought about it more than I should. About how it would feel…” Then, his expression falters, frustration flashing across his face. “But I can’t."

The empathetic side of you understands him completely, and you don’t want to push him. But at the same time, you can’t just let this moment slip away.

Your hand moves instinctively, slowly sliding down your chest in a deliberate motion. "You don’t have to." you murmur.

You don’t wait for him to respond as you reach up, your fingers tracing the top button of the shirt. Then, one by one, the buttons come undone, exposing your skin to the warm air of the room. You hesitate for just a moment, your breath catching in your throat as you look at Zayne. His gaze is fixed on you, the unbuttoned shirt, eyes betraying everything his words deny.

Your fingers slide along the edges of the unbuttoned shirt, and, with a steadying breath, you shrug your shoulders slightly, letting the material slip down your arms. The shirt falls away, delicately sliding off your skin. Your skin is bare now, exposed under the dim light, your chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. Your nipples are hard as the air brushes over your skin.

Zayne’s reaction is immediate. His eyes widen, and you can see the deep flush flood his cheeks and ears. His gaze roams over your body, taking in every inch of exposed skin, his pupils dilated. He’s stunned, frozen in place, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing—what he’s allowed himself to see.

His hand twitches, as if he wants to reach out, to touch you, but he doesn’t. He’s rooted to the spot, his body betraying him with how tightly he’s gripping the sofa, the knuckles of his hand turning white from the force of his restraint. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak—he’s completely consumed by the sight of you.

Without another word, you let your hand slide down, your fingers brushing against the waistband of your pants. Zayne’s eyes follow your movements. You pause for a moment, savoring the anticipation. Zayne lets out a ragged breath, his body tensing as he watches you, helpless to do anything but stare. Your fingers tremble as you hook them into the waistband of your pants, eyes never leaving Zayne’s. You push the pants down slowly, the fabric sliding over your legs and pooling at your feet, leaving you sitting in just your underwear.

For a moment, you hesitate, your heart pounding in your chest. You give him one last chance to stop you, to pull back before things go any further. "If you want me to leave," you say, your voice low, "you should say it now."

Your words hang in the air, the final chance for him to take control, to push you away. But Zayne says nothing. His lips part slightly, but no words come. He doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t tell you to leave. Instead, his eyes stay locked on yours, his silence a wordless plea for more.

That’s all the confirmation you need.

Your hand slides down slowly, Zayne’s eyes following every move. You let your fingers brush over the front of your underwear, and you know he can see the obvious damp spot, his presence alone having you already soaked through the fabric.

His pupils dilate as he watches, and for a second, you think you hear him let out a soft, involuntary sound—something like a groan—but it’s barely audible. His chest heaves, and his grip on the sofa tightens even more, as if he’s hanging on by a thread.

"I think about you all the time, Zayne," you whisper, your voice trembling. "And when I do... this is how I touch myself." Your hand presses down on the damp fabric. "There’s nothing wrong with this," you continue, your voice silky and sweet. "Not if you just watch."

The words feel like a challenge, a tease. Zayne’s face is a mixture of conflict and desire, but he doesn’t stop you. His eyes are glued to your hand, to the way your fingers move against the fabric of your underwear, his gaze filled with hunger he can’t hide anymore.

Your hand moves in slow, deliberate circles over your underwear, the friction sending jolts of pleasure through your body, and you let out a soft moan. The sound makes his jaw tighten, and he shifts in his seat, clearly aroused but still holding himself back. His gaze flicks back and forth between your eyes and your body, torn between wanting to pull away and being unable to look anywhere but at you.

Then, finally, his voice breaks the silence. "Take it off," he rasps, his voice trembling with the weight of his words. His eyes meet yours, and there’s no mistaking the command in them now. "I need to see... all of you."

His words send a rush of heat through you, making your entire body tingle. There’s no hesitation in his voice this time. Without a word, you hook your thumbs into the waistband of your underwear, your fingers trembling slightly as you slowly slide the fabric down your hips. The underwear slips down your legs, falling softly to the floor, leaving you completely exposed before him. You sit there, vulnerable, your skin glistening with arousal. You can feel his gaze on every inch of your body, lingering on your thighs, your hips, and finally, on the slick wetness between your legs.

"You’re... so beautiful." he breathes, his voice barely audible, filled with astonishment and desire. Zayne swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he tries to steady himself. "Show me," he says, his voice low, trembling with desire. "Show me how you touch yourself... when you’re thinking about me."

Your heart races, your entire body flushed with heat as you slowly slide your hand down your stomach, your fingers grazing over your slick skin. You let out a soft moan as you begin to touch yourself, your eyes fixed on Zayne. He’s completely captivated, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he watches you.

Your fingers move with a growing urgency, sliding over the slickness between your folds. The sight of you touching yourself, moaning softly, has him teetering on the edge of his restraint. You’re watching him just as intently as he watches you, and you need to see more.

"Touch yourself too," you whisper softly. His eyes snap up to yours, stunned. "It’s not so bad," you add. "You’re not touching me. We’ll just… watch each other."

Zayne’s jaw clenches. His eyes are locked on yours, a storm of guilt and desire brewing beneath the surface. But then he slowly reaches up and unclasps the white collar at his throat.

For a moment, he holds it in his hand, his fingers trembling as he looks down at the small strip of fabric. Then, with a quiet exhale, he sets it aside on the table beside him. His hands move to the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one by one, each motion slow, as though he’s still hesitating at the threshold. When he’s halfway down, Zayne pauses, then pulls the shirt over his head in one fluid motion, slipping free, leaving him bare from the waist up.

The muscles beneath his shirt are more defined than you had imagined. Your eyes roam over every line, every curve of his body, taking in the way his chest moves with each heavy breath. He sits there for a moment, shirtless, his collar gone, his identity as Father Zayne falling away along with it.

He’s just a man now—just Zayne.

You swallow hard, your fingers still moving, your own arousal building with each second that passes. "Please," you whisper. "I want to see you. All of you."

Zayne’s hesitation doesn’t linger for long, before he undoes his belt, his eyes never leaving yours. Your pulse races as the pants drop to the floor, leaving him in nothing but his underwear, his arousal straining against the thin material. His eyes flick to yours, searching, almost pleading. He’s asking without words—asking if this is what you want, if this is what you’re ready for. And you are.

You nod, biting your lip, your body trembling with anticipation. With a shaky breath, Zayne hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear, and you can see the tremor in his hands. But he doesn’t stop. He slides them down slowly, the fabric falling in one fluid motion, leaving him completely naked.

Your breath hitches, a soft gasp slipping from your lips as you take in the sight of him. His erection stands thick and heavy, the tip glistening with need. Every inch of him is raw, masculine, breathtaking. He’s stunning, more than you could have imagined, and for a moment, you’re lost in the sheer power of him—his vulnerability and strength laid bare before you.

Your fingers slide over yourself again, the slick heat of your arousal making you moan softly, your body shuddering from the touch. Zayne’s erection throbs visibly as he watches you. His hand twitches at his side, his body screaming for release, but he waits for you to give him permission, waiting to be told it’s okay to let go.

"Touch yourself," your voice is breathy, filled with need. "Please, Zayne."

His eyes flick between your hand and your face, but then, slowly, he wraps his hand around his length. The sight of him finally surrendering, of his strong hand gripping himself, sends a surge of heat straight to your core. You can’t help the soft whimper that escapes your lips as your fingers move faster.

Zayne lets out a low groan, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment as he strokes himself. The room is filled with the sound of your combined breathing, the soft moans that slip from your lips, the slick sound of your fingers slipping inside your wet entrance. You’re both completely lost in each other now, and there’s no going back.

Zayne’s hand moves slowly, rhythmically over his length, his breathing heavy and uneven as he watches you, his eyes filled with a hunger so intense it makes your pulse race even faster. His breath catches in his throat, and you know he’s still holding back.

“Relax,” you whisper, your voice shaky but filled with warmth. “It’s okay... I want this. You don’t have to hold back.”

Your words seem to wash over him, his eyes flickering with something like relief. His gaze is locked on your body, the way your fingers are soaked with your wetness, the slick sound filling the quiet space between you. His jaw clenches as he tries to steady himself, his hand stroking his length with increasing need.

"You’re... beautiful," he murmurs, his voice hoarse, barely more than a breath. "God, you’ve been... in my head... in my dreams... almost every night."

His confession makes your squeeze around your fingers, a soft moan escaping your lips. The raw honesty in his voice, makes your body tremble as you teeter on the edge. Your fingers press harder, your breath coming in shallow gasps as you feel the tension in your body building, coiling tight, ready to snap.

You can see he’s close too—his hand moving faster, his body tense with the effort of holding on. But even now, even with his own release so close, his eyes are locked on you, filled with a hunger.

"I want to see you," he whispers, his voice low and rough. "I want to see you... let go. I want to hear you... Please..."

That’s all it takes. His voice, thick with need, and the sight of him on the brink, unravel you completely. Your breath hitches, turning into ragged gasps as pleasure overtakes you, your fingers moving faster, desperate to prolong the sensation as wave after wave crashes through you, each one more intense than the last. And all the while, Zayne watches, his hand moving faster, desperate to join you in the release.

Your breath steadies, your hand still resting on your wet folds, the space between you now feels too wide. "Come closer," you whisper. "I want you closer... please."

The raw need in your voice, the tenderness of your plea, draws him toward you, erasing any hesitation. He hovers over you, kneeling between your legs, not quite touching but close enough that you can feel his breath on your skin. His arousal still hard and throbbing, inches away from you, his gaze filled with so much want that it makes your own body heat up again.

"I’m... I’m so close," Zayne gasps, his voice shaking, laced with desperation.

"Let go," you whisper, your voice soft but unyielding. Your eyes lock with his, your breath hitching as you speak. "Let go on me, Zayne."

His eyes widen at your words. He looks conflicted for a moment, as if he’s about to argue, to get up and find something else—a tissue, anything to keep from crossing that final line. But the hunger in your gaze, the trembling of your body beneath him pulls him back into the moment. The sight of your hand sliding over the slickness between your thighs seals his fate. His hand tightens around himself, his strokes quickening as his control shatters.

"Please," you whisper, your soft plea the final push he need.

And then, with a deep, shuddering breath, he finally lets go.

The first hot spurt of his release hits your belly, warm and wet, the sensation eliciting a soft gasp from your lips. His body trembles violently above you, his muscles taut and shaking as his hand moves over himself with desperate need. He groans deeply, the sound raw and primal, as more of his release follows, thick and hot, landing between your thighs, coating your skin. His breath hitches, his body tensing with each spasm of pleasure as he watches the way his release paints your skin. His hand continues to pump his length, his chest heaving with ragged breaths, caught in the overwhelming force of his orgasm. 

Zayne closes his eyes as the last drops land on your flushed skin, his body still above yours.

For a long moment, neither of you move. The air is thick with the weight of what just transpired, but there's no guilt, no regret. His breath is still ragged, your own chest rising and falling with the same uneven rhythm.

When Zayne opens his eyes, they’re soft with awe—filled with pure, unguarded admiration.

"You..." he whispers, his voice rough and shaky, barely able to finish the thought. His eyes trace the glistening trail of warmth he’s left on your stomach, the way it pools between your legs, marking you with the undeniable proof of how far you’ve both fallen. "You’re... perfect."

A soft, breathless smile plays on your lips. "So are you," you murmur back.

For a moment, Zayne just stares at you, his eyes filled with something deeper than words can express. Then, he leans forward, pressing a soft, featherlight kiss to your forehead. The gesture is so tender, so filled with affection, that it takes you by surprise. It feels fragile, like something you both need to hold onto, if only for a little longer.

When he pulls back, his eyes meet yours again, and for the first time, there’s a sense of peace. Just the quiet aftermath of something real—messy, complicated, but undeniably real.

And for now, that’s enough.

[favefandomimagines]

You’re Losing Me (a.b)

Summary: a simple courtship was not what you wanted from Anthony and you aren’t sure he’s going to give it to you.

AN: more angsty fluff for our fave Viscount!!

Prompts 1,3,4,8 and 14 used! I switched it up a bit to have a happy ending 😉 @lilithlunastark

Anthony Bridgerton was not a man accustomed to hesitation. As the Viscount and head of the Bridgerton family, decisiveness was practically stitched into the fabric of his being. Yet, standing before the grand fireplace of Bridgerton House, his hands clenched into fists, hesitation consumed him.

The letter in his hand had been crumpled and smoothed so many times it barely resembled paper anymore. The words on it, however, were clear: Y/N was leaving London.

He’d read those words countless times since the letter arrived that morning, the ink seared into his mind: I need space, Anthony. I can’t do this anymore.

Y/N had been in his life for months now. Though their relationship had always been complicated, they had settled into a routine—a tentative sort of courtship.

They’d spent time together, attended balls, would promenade in the garden, and had shared quiet conversations in the Bridgerton drawing room.

There were soft, stolen glances, and moments where it felt as if there might be something more between them. But the truth was, Anthony had always kept her at arm’s length.

He’d never made any promises, she always did. Thinking that one day he’d hear her. He never hinted at anything beyond their tentative connection. It wasn’t that he didn’t care for her—no, he cared deeply.

It was that, in his mind, marriage was a far-off thing, a burden he wasn’t prepared to shoulder. His family, his duties, his fears about love—all of these things weighed heavily on him. He had convinced himself that, for all their chemistry, there was no future for him and Y/N.

Yet, Y/N, with her bright, curious eyes and the way she laughed as if nothing in the world could go wrong, had slowly, unknowingly, slipped under his defenses. And now, her letter felt like the knife of reality digging into his chest.

He knew exactly what she meant by "this." Their tumultuous relationship, full of passion and pain, had reached its breaking point. And though he’d always prided himself on being able to command order out of chaos, Anthony felt helpless.

He could still see her face from their last argument, the way her lips trembled as she fought back tears. The way she’d looked at him—like he’d broken her heart—haunted him.

||

The memory of their fight played vividly in his mind as he stormed through the crowded docks.

They had been standing in the drawing room, the light from the evening sun casting long shadows across the space. Y/N had her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her expression both defiant and heartbroken.

“You don’t understand, Anthony,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “I can’t keep doing this—this dance where I’m always the one chasing you, waiting for scraps of affection. I need more.”

Anthony, his pride stung, had crossed his own arms in a defensive stance. “And you think I don’t? You think I don’t want to give you everything? Do you have any idea the weight I carry every day, Y/N? The expectations, the responsibilities—”

Her laugh was bitter, cutting him off. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare use your title as an excuse for pushing me away. You don’t think I see it? Every time things get difficult, every time I try to get closer, you retreat. You hide behind that cold, stoic mask like I’m not worth letting in.”

“That’s not fair,” he said, his voice rising. “You know I care for you—”

“Care for me?” she interrupted, her eyes blazing. “You care for your horses, Anthony. You care for the family estate. Don’t patronize me with that word. I wanted you to love me.”

He froze at her words, his throat tightening. Love. He had never said it. He had felt it, burning in his chest every time he saw her, but the words had always felt like a vulnerability he couldn’t afford.

Her silence in the face of his hesitation was louder than any accusation. Finally, she sighed, her shoulders sagging in defeat.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “This courtship, this... this nothing—it’s not enough for me. I deserve more than this half-hearted attempt at love. I deserve someone who doesn’t treat me like a passing interest.”

And with that, she had walked out, leaving him standing in the empty room, the weight of her words suffocating him.

||

The docks were bustling with the noise of carriages and sailors, the cries of seagulls punctuating the cacophony. Anthony scanned the crowd, his heart pounding with a sense of urgency he hadn’t felt in years. If she boarded that ship to Edinburgh, he wasn’t sure he’d ever see her again.

He found her standing at the edge of the pier, her trunk already loaded onto the ship. She wore a pale blue traveling cloak, the color washing her face in soft, muted tones. But even from a distance, Anthony could see the tightness in her jaw, the resolve in her posture.

“Y/N!” he called, his voice cutting through the din.

She turned, surprise flickering across her face before it hardened into something unreadable. “Anthony,” she said flatly. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to stop you.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You have no right to stop me.”

He took a step closer, his voice raw with emotion. “You don’t get to walk away from me now, not after everything we’ve been through. Not after everything you promised.”

Her lips parted, but she said nothing. Maybe he really was listening to her. Anthony saw the flicker of doubt in her eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

“I can’t stay,” she said after a moment. “This—whatever this is between us—it’s too much. I thought I could handle it, but I’m not strong enough. I can’t fix this, Anthony. I’ve ruined everything.”

How could he expect her to go back to their suffocating routine when she had bared her soul to him the night prior. They simply couldn’t.

“No,” he said fiercely. “You haven’t ruined anything. If anyone’s to blame, it’s me. I’ve been a fool, Y/N, and I’ve taken you for granted. But I can’t lose you. I won’t.”

Her laugh was bitter, her arms crossing protectively over her chest. “Do you have any idea how much I’ve hurt, Anthony? If I told you how much I’m hurting right now, would you even care? Or would you just turn away like you always do?”

The accusation stung because it was true. How many times had he withdrawn when things became too difficult, too emotional? How many times had he failed to be the man she needed him to be?

“I care,” he said, his voice trembling. “God help me, Y/N, I care more than you could ever know. And I’m sorry. I should have told you the truth. The truth about how I really felt about you. But I was afraid. I’m sorry for not trusting you.”

She stared at him, her expression unreadable. For a long moment, he thought she might turn and walk away. But then she sighed, her shoulders sagging as if the weight of the world had finally become too much.

“Why now?” she asked quietly. “Why are you only saying this now, when I’m already leaving?”

“Because I’m an idiot,” he admitted. “Because it took the thought of losing you to realize how much you mean to me. Y/N, I love you. I’ve loved you from the moment I met you, and I’ll love you until my dying breath.”

Tears filled her eyes, but she didn’t look away. Slowly, she took a step closer. “Do you mean it, Anthony? Because I can’t do this again. I can’t keep putting myself through this if you’re not serious.”

“I mean it,” he said without hesitation. “I’ll prove it to you every day for the rest of my life, if you’ll let me.”

Her lips trembled, but a small smile broke through. “You’d better. Because if you break my heart again, Anthony Bridgerton, I swear I’ll make you regret it.”

He laughed, relief washing over him as he pulled her into his arms. “You have my word.”

As the ship’s whistle sounded in the background, signaling its imminent departure, Anthony held Y/N tightly, vowing never to let her go again.

[primofate]

Is it a crime to post unfinished drafts? It's been sitting for 2 years already. I'm letting this one go.

Genshin Series - The sides of him only you get to have and see Part 5: Angry/Frustrated [All male characters]

Other works in this series: (Part 1 - Soft and Gentle) (Part 2 - flustered) (Part 3 - clingy) (Part 4 - Worried)

Warnings: some fluff, some angst, depending on the prompt, lots of different scenarios, some protective, some a bit yandere, some aggressive... quite long cause i got carried away >_>

Personal favourites in this work: Ayato, Bennett

Aether

When his investigation about his sister’s whereabouts turns up into a dead end

“...What if I never find her?” His voice is just a whisper as the two of you sit side by side around the campfire. Paimon is already sleeping off to the side, exhausted by the day’s events. 

You can hear the desperation in his voice, and it cripples you as well, the hurt that comes with losing a loved one and being unable to find them. You let yourself fall sideways and lay your head on his shoulder, hoping to give him some comfort. “...We’ll keep looking, Teyvat’s a big place, you know,” you whisper and it seems that your answer only serves to frustrate him more.

“That’s exactly the problem... Sometimes I don’t know where to start and I don’t know where to look first... I just...” His fists clench for a moment but he relaxes with a small sigh minutes later, arm wounding around your back to pull you closer to his side. “Sorry... I don’t mean to complain so much,” 

You shake your head as you bask in his warmth. “You’re allowed to feel this way, Aether. I’m right here beside you, okay?”

His gaze softens, head leaning towards the crown of your head to place a kiss there. “Thank you, Y/N,” he wouldn’t know what to do if he lost you as well.

Albedo

When someone is too rough with you.

Could he request you not to work at the tavern? Possibly, yes. But Albedo was not the type to tie you down or tell you what to do. Plus, you were capable of taking care of yourself. 

Sometimes he would pick you up from your shift, however, today the Cat’s Tail was a little understaffed and you had to work a few more orders before you could go. 

“Hey!” You jump as one tavern-goer stands and smashes his glass of beer on the table with a loud THUD. “This isn’t what I ordered!” Frankly you were used to this by now, but it didn’t mean that you were any less startled. You calmly walked over to the table and took back the mugs that you just placed when the same person grabs your wrist.

The mugs sway in your hand, the beer in it pouring over your fingers a little as it sloshed. “Sir?” You ask as the man’s hand tightens around your wrist. 

The man grunts and growls “Make sure you tell the bartender to give me a discount for giving the wrong order!” Drunkards were like that. They were loud and sometimes couldn’t control themselves, you twist your wrist away successfully and relay the message to the bartender, though you noticed that Albedo was there too, waiting for you to come back. 

Albedo catches your arm and lifts your wrist up to eye level. There’s a blank look on his face that you can’t quite read and for a moment his eyes dangerously flicker to the group of tavern-goers who gave you trouble. You sense that he’s a little irked. “It’s okay ‘Bedo, I’m fine, just the usual rowdy people, you know?” You reassure him and his stern face drops, replaced by that of defeat with a small sigh.

It’s “just the usual” you say. He doesn’t quite know how to feel about that, if this was “usual”, yet he understood. Every job came with its risks and this was already relatively safer than being an adventurer. Albeo sighs again and brings your wrist up to his lips, his eyes yet again dart towards the said table. He really wanted to have a word with those rude men, but he avoided conflict for your sake. 

“Alright, Y/N. As long as you keep your promise,” he reminds you. Jogging your memory that you had promised to tell him if something dire really happens at work.

Ayato

When his status affects you

You’re aware that ever since you and Ayato were married, his shuumatsuban had also been following you around. Ayato reassured you that it was for your own good, and you somewhat agreed. You weren’t that bothered by it, since the shuumatsuban were so good at concealing their presence, it seemed like nothing changed in your every day routine.

“Master Ayato,” and so imagine Ayato’s annoyance when he receives a report from one of his men that you were being tailed by someone suspicious. “...Capture him,”

In the secret dungeons of the Kamisato residence, there is a pitiful man sitting in the middle of a cell with bars. Kamisato Ayato stands in front of him, cold and calculating look on his face. “State your reason for tailing Y/N,” he would break this man quick, and get all the answers he needed for your safety.

“I-I-I swear I’m not a bad guy! I just--Someone told me they’d pay me a huge amount of money to kidnap Y/N!” Ayato doesn’t break his cold gaze from the man, but he also can’t control the way he unsheathes his sword and starts to clean it with a cloth, as if getting ready for an execution.

“Then for your own good I suggest you give me all the names of these people who bribed you,” His tone is calm, but also eerie. “After that’s done, you won’t lay your eyes on Y/N again... Is that understood?” 

He couldn’t afford for anything to happen to you, specially not when it was because of him.

Bennett

When his bad luck affects you

Bennett had been quiet the whole way back to Mondstadt. As per usual a few things happened that proved his luck was horrid. 

Today seemed to be one of the worst.

Not only did you not finish the commission given to you, but things happened one after the other.

First, the two of you couldn’t find the monster you were looking for. Second, when you finally found it, it proved to be difficult to subdue. Third, the treasure the two of you found was not really treasure at all. Fourth, you could not find the item that you were supposed to bring back to town and finally, fifth, a once wonderful, cloudless and breezy day suddenly turned glum and the rain poured down on your heads.

Bennett was utterly defeated, and you knew it cause he had been quiet up until the gates of Mondstadt, when the two of you finally took shelter for a moment from the rain. He usually would still be upbeat and positive, no matter what he went through, but seeing you sneeze and shiver in the rain, on top of being tired and grimey, he really couldn’t help but hate his bad luck.

You glanced at him at the corner of your eye, he was looking at the ground with his brows furrowed. The look of frustration was foreign in his face but you said what you always did after an adventure with him. “...Today was fun, Bennett. Let’s go again tomorrow!”

His head snaps up in an instant, eyes wide and tracing your face for any lies and dishonesty. All he saw was your bright smile and eager disposition. Truthfully you had learned to be incredibly positive because of him, and if he needed a little bit of that positivity, then you were willing to give it back, no matter how hard things were.

For a split second his lips looked as if they trembled, his shoulders relaxed and a wobbly smile appears on his face. He nearly barrels into you with a hug, and mumbles “You’re the best Y/N,”

Bennett always thought that you were his sun, and he loved every bit of the time he spent with you.

Chongyun

When he isn’t able to protect you

“’Yun?” You call out from your sitting position on your bed, and Chongyun, for the umpteenth time that day, slightly jerks up on the chair next to you, eyes darting towards your face. 

“Hm?” he says, trying to brush off the fact that he had been zoning out, small, shy smile on his face.

You’re silent for a moment, staring back at him. The cogs in your mind working a bit more. “...You’re upset aren’t you?” 

The way he tenses up at your accusation tells you the answer, but still he denies it. “N-No,” 

You sigh, your bandaged arm resting on your side. The wound didn’t hurt that much, but Chongyun was the one who insisted he’d feed you instead of making you use your dominant, injured arm. He was so embarrassed when he offered it. Face red and unsure what to say except that he was holding the bowl of porridge your mother made in his hands and that was enough of a cue for you. 

“...Aah,” You open your mouth again, and that’s when Chongyun snaps out of it, realizing that he hadn’t even finished feeding you. So he proceeds to give you another spoonful. 

“You know it’s not your fault, right?” You confirm after you swallow that bite and he again tenses up without saying anything. 

You knew he hated it when the two of you went adventuring together and you ended up getting hurt. Occasionally it would be him with the injury, but when you got injured, somehow, to him, it was a graver matter than him getting hurt. 

That statement opens his dam of insecurities. “I’m too weak...If I had been a little faster...”

“I must be pretty weak too then, if I wasn’t even able to dodge it,” you counter and you see him open his mouth in protest but close it again, knowing that you had laid a trap for him if he disagreed. He went silent again. 

“...I think you’re really cool Chongyun, the way you handle your claymore makes you look really handsome,” you giggled a little cause you knew he was going to go red and sputter out a response. 

“W-W-What do you mean?” He proceeds to shove another spoonful in your face, probably so that you wouldn’t actually be able to reply. “A-Anyway...I...I’ll work harder to protect you,” he finishes his sentence and you don’t protest nor say another thing anymore, seeing as he at least got some of his good mood back. 

Dainsleif

When you don’t keep a promise

“You said you would meet me by the tree in Windrise. Imagine my distress when you didn’t show up,” Dainsleif had his arms crossed over his chest, eyes actually glaring at you. 

“I know but you know how things can get. The job was a little more difficult than expected and it took longer to finish,” 

You’d found yourself trudging deep through the forest to locate the cabin he considered his “home”. Far away from everything else and nearly impossible to locate if you had never been there before. You arrived by morning, knocking at his door and unsurprised with the dumbfounded look on his face. 

He still welcomed you in, but he didn’t say a word and the air was tense even as he placed a glass of water on the table for you. 

Then you were here, getting the lecture from him. 

“Then you shouldn’t have promised to be there. It’s a simple thing to communicate with me that you’re not sure when you’ll be done, I would have waited,” He continued and you sighed, cause you knew that he was right. You really shouldn’t have promised you were going to be there on time. It’s not as if it’d be the end of the world if you were a day or two late. 

“I know, I’m sorry. I guess I just wanted to see you as soon as I could and I wasn’t thinking,” you should’ve known by now that promises were a heavy thing to Dainsleif. 

You heard him give out one of his own sighs and then his hand cups your chin and tilts it up to meet him eye to eye. “I trust you understand why I’m angry,” his voice had levelled down a little, and though he was frustrated earlier you can always see the worry behind his gaze and the love in his eyes. 

You smile a little and nod your head, still a little apologetic. “If I can’t find you, if you happen to go missing, do you know what that would do to me?” He asks you, eyes finally dropping the glare and just softly gazing at you.

“I know,” you whisper and lean your face closer to his hand. Your arm reaches out to hold his coat, tugging on it a little as if a small child. “...I know you weren’t able to sleep...and I spent the whole night trying to make it back to you...so can we rest for a bit?” You suggest and he found it a good idea.

He wordlessly sweeps you into his arms and kisses your forehead, bringing the two of you into the bedroom.

Diluc

When you forget to tell him where you’re going and he doesn’t know where you are

“Adelinde, did Y/N mention skipping dinner today?” Diluc asked his head maid. He was alone at the dinner table and you were nowhere to be found in the mansion. 

Adelinde considered her words carefully. A slight misuse of words would send the young master into a spiral of worry and anxiety. She was a hundred percent sure you had just forgotten to tell someone that you were going to be out for dinner, because you’ve done it before, bless your bad memory, but Adelinde really wished you would at least tell the young master. 

“...They didn’t mention, Master Diluc...but I’m sure they must be out on some errands in Mondstadt,” it was a gamble for Adelinde to state that, because she also didn’t know where you were, and she would be in deep trouble if you didn’t come home at all.

Diluc started to eat, albeit slowly and glanced at Adelinde when she made that statement. “...Did they mention going on an errand?” he asked again, to which Adelinde now had to truthfully reply. “...No,” 

Cue the distress in Diluc’s features. Furrowed brows, cutlery not even moving, eyes calculating. You could practically see all the assumptions run through his face. Maybe you were in trouble, maybe you were taken, maybe you were lost somewhere and needed help. You would have said something if you were going to be home late, no? 

Diluc dropped his cutlery on the table, and he started going back through his memories to determine whether or not you actually had said anything about today. He would have remembered, and as far as he could tell, you didn’t say anything about not having dinner with him today, or anything of the sort.

He was about to push himself up and away from the table, to double check at Mondstadt if anyone had seen you, when the front door opened, revealing you with a basket of goods and a smile on your face. Diluc practically deflated, your name a sigh on his lips, “Y/N,” 

You knew that look, and you knew that look that Adelinde was giving you. “Oh Archons. I’m sorry, I went out in a hurry and just forgot to tell anyone where I was going,” your smile dropped almost immediately as you scurried over to the table with an apologetic gaze on your face turned towards Diluc.

You knew how worried he could get, he could already feel the adrenaline starting to pump through him, thinking about all the worst case scenarios. Diluc sighed once again, repositioning himself properly in front of the table and picking up his cutlery again. He was slightly angry, you could tell. Mostly because this wasn’t the first time it had happened. “...Put your things down and we can eat,” he simply said and you pouted a little while passing the things over to Adelinde, then sitting on your side of the table.

“...I don’t get my welcome back kiss?” You chide him playfully, to which his eyes lazily graze over you and back to his plate of food.

“When you start remembering to tell someone where you’re going in the middle of the night, I’ll start giving you your welcome back kisses,” he strictly exclaims and you could only grumble under your breath.

Gorou

When he spends too much time training or working and loses time with you

“Hahhhh...” Gorou plops down on the tatami floor of his home with a loud and long sigh. Not only was training and the patrols a little harsh today, but that was another day gone without getting to see you.

How long had it been now? Eight, nine days? He was starting to get really antsy about not being able to see you and he knew it wasn’t anyone’s fault but his. 

That night he couldn’t immediately fall into a peaceful sleep. He tossed whenever he thought of you and turned whenever he started thinking too much of what the two of you would do together the next time you saw each other. It was like planning out a whole date in his mind but realizing that he didn’t even have any day offs soon. So he would deflate and be disappointed in himself, try to go to sleep, then get carried away thinking about you again, causing him to snap his eyes open and repeat the thinking process.

“Arrghhh!” At some point he shakes his head and shuts his eyes tight, the frustration getting to him. He had to sleep, or he’ll have a really tiring day tomorrow. 

When he woke up the next morning to knocks on his door he immediately thought he had overslept. He scrambled to his feet, swinging the door open with his still disheveled fluffy hair and said “I-I’ll be right there! I just--” then he reels back, blinking, realizing that it was you standing there are the door. “Y-Y/N?! What’re you doing here?”

He smooths his hair down, tries to pat down his wrinkly house clothes but his eyes are tacked on to you, wide and happy. 

“I figured I’d visit you this time, since you seem really busy,” you laugh sheepishly, scratching your cheek. “I hope I’m not intruding,”

“Of course not!” He replies quickly but coughs on his hand right after. “I-I mean. Yeah, you’re always welcome here,” he smiles and beams at you, but then slumps his shoulders right after. “I...I still have work though, so I won’t be able to spend a lot of time with you...”

You shake your head and wave your hands “That’s alright! I can still spend lunch and dinner with you, right? That’s more than enough for me,” 

His heart blooms with a warmth that engulfs his body, his cheeks might have turned red. You were just oh-so sweet to him and oh-so kind, he didn’t know what he did to deserve an angel like you.

Heizou

When he can’t help you with your problems

Heizou is a genius at solving problems, but he knows that sometimes there are problems that he can’t solve nor he shouldn’t interfere with. One of those was problems within your family.

Sure, he had solutions and probably ways to diffuse the rising tensions in your family, but he wasn’t really in the right place to do so. All he could do is listen to you rant and complain about how things are getting so much harder with your mom and dad, and you just wanting to run away from it all, move out as soon as you can but you were tied down with the obligation of caring for your sick mother. 

It pains him and frustrates him, watching you stress over it day by day, but as much as he wanted to tell your parents that they were affecting you this much, there are some things that he shouldn’t meddle with. 

All he could do was offer advice. “...Perhaps move out and live somewhere close to them? It would still give you the advantage of privacy,” he suggests, as he sits next to you on a bench, arm coming around and behind your back, hand resting on your hip.

“I would, but the houses nearby are actually pricey, mostly because they’re family houses, not for a single person rent,” You lean sideways into him. He’s always so good at giving you solutions, though you’re unaware of the internal battle inside him, seeing you so distraught like this.

“...Well why not live with me then?” You can hear that familiar mischief in his voice, and though you know he’s joking it still flusters you. 

“D-Don’t say that as a joke, Heizou!” He chuckles at your reaction, just as he expected, but he leans in to place a kiss atop your head, his next sentences sending a shiver up your spine. “It’s a joke now, but someday I’ll make it real, regardless of what your parents say,”

Of course he ends it with a wink.

Itto

When someone hurts you and he witnesses it

Itto doesn’t get angry easily. He just doesn’t have the capacity for it. He was loud, yes, but good natured overall and never means any actual harm to anyone. 

Unfortunately you can’t say the same thing about some people in Inazuma. For the most part, people were friendly, amicable, helpful...but sometimes there were the odd balls that just appeared out of nowhere, wreaking havoc when they wanted to.

Just the other day a group of ronin who claimed to be the strongest group of vagabonds roaming Inazuma entered town and they were loud and gruff about it. “Where’s the best inn in town?” They asked at the entrance, and a kind man directed them towards it.

The next day that man was bullied by the same ronin. “We said the BEST inn in town, not the most EXPENSIVE!” You had witnessed it, the man who was just trying to help them was starting to cower backwards, the ronin were complaining about the price of the room, how they wanted the man to pay for it and you just couldn’t stand that blatant bullying.

“What’s your problem? Of course it’s going to be expensive!” You appeared behind the group and just couldn’t help but be angry at their stupidity and overall disgusting behaviour. One of them looks at you, then starts to laugh and the others follow suit, all laughing at you as if you were a clown on the streets.

You didn’t falter and merely crossed your arms above your chest. “If you have nothing better to do then maybe you should look for a job so you can pay for your next inn,” was provoking them a good idea? Of course not, and you knew that.

One of the ronins grabs you and twists your arm behind your back. You could only let out a whimper at the sudden motion but as soon as it happened it was over. You found yourself suddenly pushed behind, looking at Itto’s back as he shoves the ronin away with a harsh force. 

“The hell do you think you’re doing touching Y/N like that?!” Itto’s voice is loud, louder than when he’s excited about eating ramen or louder than when he’s discovered a magnificent onikabuto. The anger in his voice is unusual, you don’t immediately recognize it as his.

Itto’s tall. Taller than any of the ronin around you and suddenly it’s as if the ronin become meek little mice, stepping away from him and you. “W-We were just--”

Itto brandishes his claymore, “Less talking, more fighting. You want a real arm wrestle? Come at me,” you can’t imagine what kind of face he’s making, but the ronin--actually just cowards--runs at the sight of Itto’s weapon and he’s just about to go after them when you call out to him, telling him to calm down.

He doesn’t listen easily, but you place a hand on his arm and he stops, still glaring and huffing at the sight of those stupid ronins running away. 

Scaramouche

When you have to be paired up with another Harbinger for work

“You’re going with who?” There’s poison dripping from his voice, but you’re so used to his antics by now that it doesn’t scare you one bit.

“Tartaglia. The Tsaritsa said--”

“Fuck what the Tsaritsa says,” Scaramouche cuts you off. “You’re not going with that fool,” He stands and paces back and forth now. You simply sit at the table and watch him, knowing that he’s going to throw one of his “tantrums” again. “Possibly the worst person to go on a mission with,” he continues to grumble, now biting on his thumb.

“You always get worked up whenever the two of us are paired up together. It really isn’t that bad,” you exclaim, shrugging your shoulders and he stops walking to glare at you. 

“So it’s a little bad? Is that what you’re insinuating?” He doesn’t let you finish and adds. “You don’t know how dangerous he is,”

You couldn’t help but stifle a laugh quite obviously. “Scara, I think you’re more dangerous?”

Tartaglia

“I’m different,” He mumbles under his breath.

When his alone time with you gets interrupted

Thoma

When you get sick but he’s busy

Venti

When he hasn’t seen you in days

Xiao

When he wants you to stay

Xingqiu

When a book he’s reading isn’t as good as he thought it would be

Zhongli

When someone doesn’t respect your boundaries

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[55sturn]

“ a gold star for the sweetest boy! “

ib: whoever has written the prompt of giving gold star stickers to their sub! and this is also inspired by events that happened between my girl and i last night!

dedicated to: @eph3merall and @mattscoquette

disclaimers/warnings: light smut [ slight dry humping/thigh riding + male masturbation + handjob ]. fluff. swearing. pet names [ baby, darling, sweet boy ]. sub!matt. soft dom!reader. praise praise praise. slight mommy kink.

matt was secure in his masculinity. but he also had zero shame in letting his femininity and softer side make an appearance. he had no issues in letting you paint his nails whatever new colour you bought, nor did he have any problems with you coating his waterline in thick black eyeliner. he was secure in who he was, in letting you take control. for example,

outside of the bedroom, casual dominance was second nature to matt. he would cover the corners sharp of your shared furniture and counters every time you bent down near them, he would gently grab your bicep to pull you out of harm’s way when you weren’t paying attention, he would answer for you if you weren’t zoned out, etc. he didn’t do it to show control over you, but rather to show that he knew you, that he cared enough to pay attention to small details.

but inside the bedroom, he was almost always reduced to tears of overstimulation, to breathless whimpers while begging for you to touch him. he loves to prove to everyone else that he listens to you, but when his bedroom door shuts and the lock clicks, he loves to show just how well he can listen. just like he is right now.

“c’mon sweet boy, show mommy how you make yourself cum when m’not around.” you hum, your voice as sweet as honey, but so demanding all in the same breath as you slowly rolled your panty clad hips against the solid bulge forming beneath his grey sweats, the sole article of clothing that landed you two in this situation.

you loved the amount of power you had over matt during sex. there was something so utterly intoxicating about seeing such a strong and secure man crumble to pieces beneath your touch and stare. the whines that began to fall from his reddened lips causing you to grind against him harder.

“f-fuck.” matt stutters, keening into your touch, subconsciously rolling his hips against yours as more pressure was applied. he needed to feel your hand wrapped around him, but he knew he wasn’t going to get it that easily.

as his eyes meet yours, he couldn’t help but feel compelled to do exactly what you ask, and he’s quick to tug his sweats and tight boxers down to mid-thigh, feeling his face warm as you watch his fully hardened cock slap against his stomach before leaning to the side.

you feel yourself growing impossibly turned on as he spits into his palm, wrapping his hand around his own cock, coating his shaft with it, using it as makeshift lubricant before slowly pumping himself. and the longer he goes on, the tighter his grip becomes as he raises his hand toward the pink head of his length, before pulling his hand back down and twisting, alternating direction each time he bring it back down. and he continues on, until you feel his hips buck and twitch against your own, signalling that he’s nearing his orgasm.

“keep going darling. i know you can hold off for longer than this.” you order, unable to help yourself from grinding against his thighs, the sight of his touching himself because you told him to making you wetter than you thought possible.

his whimpers and moans become more frequent, as well as higher in pitch before you gently hold his wrist, slowing his pace , and subconsciously edging him as you smirk at the loud whine that crawls its way up from the back of his throat.

“you’re doing so good f’mommy, aren’t ya baby? puttin’ on such a pretty show, gettin’ me all worked up.” you praise, removing his hand and replacing it with your own, dragging it up and down the length of his cock at a speed that you know drive him a little crazy, applying just the right amount of pressure to have him seeing stars behind his hooded eyes.

“please let me cum, mommy. yes, i’ve been s’good for you.” he whimpers, his voice sounding so desperate and so broken, just the way you want it to. and with a subtle nod, you’re quick to pick up the pace and tighten your grip, watching as his stomach tenses, feeling his thigh muscle contract as he pushes his hips into your fist, essentially fucking your hand through his high.

and you’re right there, lips pressing against the shell of his ear as you start whispering sweet nothings to him, telling him how well he did, how he always listens to you so, so very well, slowly pumping him through his orgasm and into borderline overstimulation before taking your hand off him, cleaning yourself of his release.

after retrieving a cloth from the bathroom on the other side of his door and cleaning his cum off of his body, you began giggling to yourself as you rummage through your nightstand beside his bed, hiding the sheet of gold stars behind your back as matt sits up in bed, your menacing giggles catching his attention. and before he can ask, you’re sticking a gold star to the middle of his chest,

“a gold star for the sweetest boy.” you hum, squealing as he pulls you back into his lap, hissing at the contact you make with his sensitive cock before flipping you both over and sliding down the bed.

“time to show you just how sweet i can be, mommy.” he grins, taking the hemline of your panties between his teeth, tugging them all the way down your legs and flinging them over his shoulder, before spreading your thighs.

STARS CORNER omg no way ??? star writing sub!matt content ???

[seris-the-amious]

'Nom Noms' ~ HCs

// Yes, I as chewing on my ballpen, yes I thought of Zayne LaDs

Prompt: How the LaDs men would Indirectly kiss you <3

Warnings: Caleb is a bit of a FREAAAK

[Posted on 3-27-25]

Zayne has uncosciously inherited your habit of chewing/nibbling on pens while being deep in thought, specifically when he sees you writing your annual reports

There came a day you left one of your pens in his bag, the small one he brings during meetings, and it just so happens to be the one he pulls out

He.. hesitantly takes glances at it from time to time as he writes, taking notice of the small dents from you biting the poor thing just a bit too hard

Curiosity seemed to get the best of him as he paused his note-taking to just...

*nom.*

Theres a hint of stawberry-- a h ! It must've been the new chapstick you bought. He quietly fights a smile creeping to his face as he remembers your task for him earlier that morning

"Zaynie can you keep this for a bit? My Desk is too messy i'll get it before you leave" ..You d i d n 't

His gnawing becomes more and more obvious as if he's trying to salvage the left over taste of your lips.

Eventually he almost flinches at one of the Chief Resident's voice; "Everyone take 5, we will resume the meeting shortly."

Snapping out of his thoughts as he gathers his things, he wonders 'why the sudden break?' Until Dr. Greyson taps him on the back with the friendly smile

"The Chief must've felt bad for you, Dr. Zayne" he began "Everyone knows how diligently you work without complaints, but seeing you snacking on a pen during a meeting was enough for them to know you need a break." He chuckles, offering to treat Zayne at the cafeteria for today

Oh boy, who's going to tell him that all he was snacking on was nothing but the traces of his adoring lover? Not me.

He's now been making sure he has at least one of your chewed pens in his pocket/s, the fresher the better.

Lets be so fr here this man chews on all of your hoodie/jacket strings AND cuffs.

You both tend to share or swap hoodies whenever one visits the other in their apartment, you chew on the strings as you scroll while you nibble on the cuffs when you're hungry

Xavier was VERY quick to pick this up, so whenever he sees you nomming your cuffs he would order you take out or bring you to convenience store dates, but this isn't about that.

Whenever you go on business trips or missions in different cities, he would leave almost no hoodie un-chewed! >:l Once the strings go soggy he'll just put on another hoodie, and then another... and then he probably tuggs on the cuffs with his teeth too

Once you come back and he visits to return the abused clothing, you were deffinitely suspicious. "Xavier, why are my hoodies.. d a m p?" "I.. took them to the laundry this morning" "Xavi.. its pouring outside" "...exactly?" "X A V I E R."

He denies all allegations of devouring the garments during your absence, but how could you scold your sweet-and-innocent boyfriend when he pulls out his bunny face?

"You were gone for too long.. I needed something to remind me of you.." :(( he pouts, nuzzling himself onto you

You let it slide f o r e v e r n o w, but you tell him to buy new strings to replace the ones that have gone too far to save

[probably happens monthly-]

Here me out, M U G S. Champagne Glasses even. Sylus the man-he-IS✨️ would deffinitely taunt you whenever he drinks from the same cup/s you do

At first it was subtle, when it was your morning coffee time, he would brew his drink after you're done on the same mug you used

"Sy, is that my mug?" You stared. "Sweetie, dont you always tell me to get two of the same one so we can match?" He drawled, taking a sip without ever breaking eye contact from you.

A few minutes later you check the pantry aiming to get a glass for/of water-- ...The other mug is still there.

Whenever he invites you as his plus one in one of those N109 Zone gatherings and balls, he would purposely wait until you've grabbed one of the service champagnes or ordered from the nearby bar

Once you do, he strikes. "Having fun, kitten?" He crosses his arms at the sight of you swishing the half-finished champagne glass "Mm. It's alright, but deffinitely an improvement from the last party you went to" you tilted your head focused on the golden liquid

"I see." He nodded, before you could look at him he gently- but quickly lifts your hand holding the glass to his lips, purposely sipping from where your lipstick has stained

"S-Sylus!" You squealed, face erupting into flames "Careful kitten, your face might as well blend with your dress and I just might think im talking to a ghost." He chortles, almost breaking into a laugh as you slap him on the biceps.

He deviously licks his lips and basks in your flustered state "what's wrong? Isn't right I have a taste?" You flare up even more.

The people almost gape at the sight of Big-Bad-Boss of Onychinus being so carefree especially at the hands of his beloved, they dont dare disrupt their shared moment.

You take note to hide or finish your drinks faster, but that bastard always finds a way to get to you.

Utensils. This man loves the way you keep your spoon/fork longer in your mouth to savor his cooking.

"Hey pipsqueak, are you going to eat the spoon too?" He'd joke as you roll your eyes-- N O. Lies. This man is the one eating that spoon. Honestly he'd eat anything (minus Cilantro maybe) that you leave on your plate if he could like the puppy he is.

Caleb would usher you to go do whatever in your room whenever you tried to offer washing dishes as thanks. Once the coast is clear, when he finishes scraping the left overs(bones/fats etc.) off your plate and into the bin, he takes your spoon into his mouth to eat the remaining remnance of you food on the spoon

Like Xavier, he will deny all allegations of making out with- using your utensils saying things like "You know I dont waste food, pipsqueak" he'd say either winking or suspiciously innocent

On the less freaky side of things, when going to cafes he'd insist on sharing forks whenever you grab cakes, he enjoys the intimacy(and making you flustered-)

"Don't you know, pip? This is the equivalent of sharing kisses!" He'd chirp, to which you complain "Am I not giving you enough- scratch that, your fleet missions last wayyy longer than mine! I should be savoring this, not you" you huffed as he laughs

"Dont worry pipsqueak, my vacation comes soon" he winks, taking a bite from your shared fork

That was deffinitely the day you caught on to why you sometimes caught him using your spoons and forks, you blush at the thought <3

// I surprisingly had a harder time thinking about this than I thought-- I wasn't expecting Caleb to be easier than Raf

Perhaps he's a little bit of everyone. Whatever you put in your mouth goes in to his!

Your Pen:(cil?) "RAFAYEL PUT THAT DOWN I NEED IT" you yelled from the bottom of his riddiculously tall ladder "hmph! That will teach you that I come first before your reports." He stuck his tongue out to you, continuing to ruin the poor thing in his mouth

"Raf.. you do know I do what you're doing to that pen too, right?" He proceeds to throw a fit on why humans eat unedible things like they're aliens despite he himself doing so anyways "It's because im a Lemurian, not a Human" 🙄

Your Hoodie Strings: "What? Dont you humans do whatever this is? Eugh, I can still taste its conditioner" Then he proceeds to continue because he knows you've put your mouth into it

"Whats with that look? Shouldnt you be proud that im more open to trying your so-called traditions?" He'd stubbornly say "..Cutie? Wait- NO COME BAACK"

Mugs/Glasses: "Raf! I can't share mugs with you if im sick!" "Yeah yeah right, we Lemurians have better immune systems than your kind"

He got sick the next day. Blames it on working too much.

On other days he's just being a prick as usual "Let's see whats so important about this beverage that keeps you from being in bed with me-" "its water, raf." "Oh." "I knew that-"

Utensils: "..Just say you want matching silverware?" You say completely unaware of his true intentions

"Nuh uh, the food better this way." He shrugged as you sigh and go back to the kitchen to get another set for yourself

You later realize the implication and then thought maybe he wasn't so bad? ...until he starts using it more than you do so you just buy him a matching set much to his dismay

Conclusion: He's just a fish, leave him be. >:l

MASTERLIST

// I HAD SO MUCH FUN WRITING THISSS, hope you enjoyed! Sorry I wasn't able to do our feesh much justice :((

[Had way too much fun writing Sylus's part and Imagining Zayne's predicament-]

[pierregazly]

tying you to me ꨄ max verstappen

max verstappen x reader

warnings: sweet max, random coincidences to lovers trope, happy ending [wc: 4.3k]

[4 times] in which something coincidentally led back to max, and the [1 time] it turned out nothing was just a coincidence (in which everything has always tied max to you).

Time, curious time  Gave me no compasses, gave me no signs  Were there clues I didn't see? 

It felt like a never-ending nightmare. 

One thing after another, one bad day after another, one bad week after the next. It felt like it was never going to end. 

The person that was supposed to be that person, the man that was supposed to be forever, the person that was going to be standing at the end of the aisle... leaving with a simple apology and a ‘I’m sorry, it’s me, not you’... it was incomprehensible.  

It had been weeks, and you still couldn’t wrap your head around what had gone wrong. Was he telling the truth? Was it really him? Or was it you? Had you done something wrong? Had it been you that caused the blunder? The inevitable demise?  

Everyone had been adamant that it wasn’t you, it was so evident it wasn’t meant to be. Nothing connected to him, there were no signs pointing to him being the one, there was no inevitable connection. But even with those words of affirmation, it didn’t change the internal feelings, the internal heartbreak that felt like it was never going to end. 

All you ever wanted was that connection, that string, that feeling, that pulled you to another person, that proved they were the person meant to be for you. It was devastating to think back and know that it was so obvious, he just wasn’t that person. 

The coffee shop you currently sat in had become a morning staple after the last few weeks. After coming back to Monaco for a much-needed reprieve from the rest of the world, the little coffee shop nestled into the charming walls of Monte-Carlo had become a necessary distraction to the outside. 

The employees all knew you by name now, often passing by the table and inquiring about your day, inquiring about the book you were reading, or the work assignment shown on your computer screen. Always engaging in polite conversation back, it was one of your favourite places to be. 

People-watching was the only negative of it. The loving couples who passed through, all cuddled up together as they ordered their drinks for their walk throughout the city, the older couples who sat just tables away and reminisced on their lives together. It was the only thing that drove you crazy about the charming little shop.  

Watching them occupied your thoughts more time’s than you cared to admit. Daydreaming and losing focus on the outside world was a commonality, especially in the little coffee shop. 

It was exactly where you found yourself currently, your eye’s peering to the left as you watched an older man place his hand over who you assumed to be his wife’s hand. Their wedding bands shining brightly in the Monaco sun, soft smiles on their faces as they peered at one another, your heart begging to be let out of this turmoil, begging you to turn away and focus on something else, anything else. 

Its wish was granted when you felt the cold of a drink begin to sink into your shirt, instantly soaking your skin, a gasp of shock falling from your lips. 

“Oh god, I am so sorry. I just turned around and you were right there, let me grab some cloths, please.” 

You knew instantly it was your own fault, you hadn’t been paying attention, more focused on the elderly couple, prompting the person in front of you to spill their... was that Red Bull? On your shirt? 

“Is this Red Bull?”  

The man in front of you grimaced as he handed you the dry cloths, a small smile falling across his lips while his eyes crinkled with the movement of his face. A bit of a cute look, you thought to yourself while beginning to dab at your shirt as the smell of the energy drink wafted up your nose. 

“Yes, I’m so sorry. I don’t drink coffee often, but my sister wanted to stop here because she had heard good things, I was just waiting for her drink while she took a quick call outside. I really only drink Red Bull in public when I have to, or when I’m getting paid to. I thought it was her behind me when I whipped around like that, I’m so sorry. Please, can I buy you a coffee as an apology? Or a tea?” 

You weren’t entirely sure if the rambling was out of nerves that you were going to overreact over the spilt drink, or if he just simply felt like he owed it to you to explain the entire incident and how it came about in full description. 

The frustration that was brewing was not at all a fault of the cute man in front of you, but an accumulation of days of sadness, an irregular appetite, and just a combination of heartbreak. 

Trying to keep the tears of frustration at bay, you instantly shook your head towards the cute man in front of you. “Thank you, but no. Obviously this is a sign I need to go home, sorry for spilling your drink.” 

Before he could get the chance to say anything back, you were forcing yourself to rush out of the coffee shop before an outburst could erupt from inside of you. You hadn’t even noticed the look of intrigue that the Dutchman gave you. 

Bad was the blood of the song in the cab  On your first trip to LA  You ate at my favorite spot for dinner 

The memory of the handsome Dutchman in the small coffee shop left your mind not long before the happy memories of your ex-boyfriend finally forced themselves out of your head. Things had finally begun looking up, the more time you spent with your friends, the more time you spent focusing on work and the hopeful promotion that would come with it. 

Although, your boss had insisted you take a few weeks off, citing the fact you were there more than anyone she knew, and that burnout was inevitable if you didn’t take the much deserved and obligated time off. The amount of overtime and banked hours allowing you to take the time off with full pay just made it easier to agree. 

Which was exactly how you found yourself just south of Zurich, the snow whipping past your face as the ski lift ascended higher and higher up the mountain. Your friends giggled beside you, smiles lighting up everyone’s faces. 

Winter break, although cold and snowy, was always a fan favourite amongst your friend group. It was exhilarating, you hadn’t had the chance to attend the annual ski trip while you were with your ex-boyfriend, he hated skiing and anything including winter sports.  

It’s what made the trip even better, getting the chance to catch up with your friends and their partners, the chance to laugh, and drink, and just smile again. It was all worth it.  

The group of guys in the ski lift behind obviously had the same idea, hooting and hollering at each other as the ski lift continued its ascent. You couldn’t decipher what they were saying, the words in a different language, but the name ‘Max’ seemed to be a commonality. Maybe someone was missing their dog while on vacation? Who knows.  

After hours of skiing, the alcohol in the ski lodge was flowing. The laughter and happiness from every group was prevalent, everyone there was so obviously happy to get away from the real world. It’s what places like that were for. 

“That guy over there can’t stop looking at you,” jostled out of your thoughts by one of your friends, you followed her head inclination to one of the tables a few rows down, a familiar face looking back at you inquisitorially.  

It took you a second to place his face, the day in the coffee shop floating back to your mind prompting a small laugh to fall from your lips.  

“That’s the guy who spilt the Red Bull all over me when I ran into him in the coffee shop in Monaco, remember?” 

It had been a running joke, a typical meet-cute in a coffee shop, but instead of spilt coffee... a spilt Red Bull.  

“That’s the guy who spilt the Red Bull on you?” 

One of your friend’s boyfriends gaped at you, as he continuously maneuvered his look between you and the man in question. Nodding your head, he continued to gape at you. 

“Don’t you know who that is?” Giving him a look, you shook your head. 

“That’s the Max Verstappen. Three-time Formula 1 World Champion? Dutch God? Second-coming of the Formula 1 Jesus?” 

You recognized the name, having heard it at the few races you had attended, but you never would’ve been able to place the name to the face otherwise. 

A laugh erupted from one of the other members of the group, a shove directed at the other man. “I think you've got Verstappen mixed up with Lewis Hamilton.”  

“He’s kinda cute, huh?” One of the girls pointed out to you, a small giggle falling from her lips as she looked over towards the man in question, his eyes meeting yours as you looked in his direction again. 

His hair was flopped over, obviously a combination of a long day wearing a ski helmet and a hat, mixed with the combination of the sweat and heat that engulfed the inside of the lodge made him look even more attractive. Windswept, tipsy, and overall, just happy. 

“So much better than that last loser.” A mutual agreement of ‘yes’, ��obviously’, and ‘fucking no wonder’, floated throughout your group at your friend’s words. 

Shrugging them off, you just laughed and pushed the conversation in another direction and away from the man sitting across the room, who seemed as if he couldn’t take his eyes off you at all. 

As the night started to dwindle down, you bid goodnight to the remaining group of friends and started your route back to your room. 

“At least I have nothing to spill on you tonight.” 

Directing your gaze to the voice at hand, your eyes made direct contact with the blue irises of Max Verstappen.  

Quirking an eyebrow at him as a small laugh left your lips, “I’m sure the bars fully stocked with drinks you could spill on me. You’re just not trying hard enough.” 

A loud guffaw fell from the man’s mouth, his hands instinctively covering his mouth as he laughed. You couldn’t help the heat that grew on your cheeks at his reaction, his smile directed towards you when he finally moved his hands from his face. 

“I’m so very sorry. Next time I run into you, I’ll try to make sure I have a full drink in hand to spill on you.” 

“Oh, you plan on running into me again?” 

Shrugging his shoulders with a small grin, the Dutchman just laughed. “Well, I ran into the person I spilt a Red Bull in a coffee shop on in one of my favourite places in Switzerland, I’m sure I’m bound to run into you again. Things happen in three’s, don’t they?” 

Max ran a hand through his hair as he smiled at you, before either of you could get the chance to say anything else, one of his friends was clapping a hand against his shoulder with a boisterous laugh. 

“Time to get out of here, mate. Say goodnight to the pretty girl,” he said. 

You felt your cheeks heating again, as Max smiled at you in farewell, a small wave from both of you any indication of goodbye as you both walked away. 

Time, mystical time  Cuttin' me open, then healin' me fine  Were there clues I didn't see? 

F1 race weekends were as fun as they were busy. Any race you had attended since you were an intern was always focused primarily on working. Getting the opportunity to attend a race with your friends, in Melbourne, without having to worry about work or advertising, or anything else, was obviously the best way to spend it. 

Lou, one of your friends linked her arm with yours as she basically skipped through the hospitality area, pointing out the different garages as she got a glimpse of them. Her boyfriend, Nick, had gotten both of you passes through his own work, a long-term employee of McLaren meant that the both of you had been spoiled for the weekend. 

"Maybe you’ll end up running into Max again, imagine? A third little meet-cute,” she said, with a giggle.  

Rolling your eyes at her, you just laughed as she grinned back. “Don’t roll your eyes at me! It’s totally possible, I’m sure Nick could totally convince Lando to convince Max to pass by the garage or the hospitality. We could totally orchestrate it.” 

“Babe, it’s pure coincidence I’ve run into the guy more than once. I’m not like... going out of my way to run into Max Verstappen.” 

Huffing back at you, Lou sent a mock pout in your direction as she continued to drag you through the hospitality center. Passing a stand full of travel cups of coffee, you were eager to grab one as you walked by. 

Before you could even press the lid of the cup to your lips, you were interrupted by the sound of a familiar voice, yet again.  

“Is it your turn to spill something on me, then? I’m having a pretty bad day, and I don’t know if I can handle that.” 

Both you and Lou whipped around to the sound of the man’s voice, the man who just a short time ago had been forced to retire his race due to a faulty and on fire brake. You could practically feel Lou humming with excitement as she looked between you and Max. 

Shoving her hand out in his direction, Lou introduced herself to Max who did the same back. 

“With that, I’m going to see how everything’s going in the garage. Call me if you get lost, yeah?” Without giving you the chance to argue, she bolted away.  

Silently groaning, you looked back towards Max. For someone who just retired from a race he was probably going to win, he seemed relatively calm and relaxed. 

“So, are you?” 

“Am I what?” You questioned back, confused. 

“Are you going to spill your coffee on me, in retaliation for the Red Bull?” Instantly shaking your head, obviously the retirement from the race couldn’t have affected him too negatively, if he was already cracking jokes in your direction. 

“You don’t even know my name, and you’re accusing me of wanting to go out of my way to kick a man when he’s already down?” 

Watching his face fall, you could tell he was about to defend his words. A smile began to cross your face, his eyes jokingly narrowing in your direction. 

Sticking your hand out towards him, you finally introduced yourself, your name falling from his lips as if it was a beautiful word from a testament as he took your hand. It would be embarrassing to say a small spark shot up your arm, but the racing driver had inevitably shocked you, an apology dropping from his lips almost immediately. 

“Terrible race to stalk me at, though. You couldn’t have at least made it a race that I actually stood a chance at winning? Pretty embarrassing to have to retire for such a stupid reason, in front of such a pretty girl.”  

If there was one thing other than racing that Max was good at, it was making your cheeks warm and the butterflies in your stomach spike.  

“Well... I am here as a guest of McLaren... maybe I was just really hoping for a Piastri win. Gotta root for the hometown boy, right?” 

Shaking his head, Max mockingly pressed his hand to his chest and looked at you like he was internally wounded. 

“You’d support McLaren over me? The man who runs into you in the weirdest of places? Who gave you a free Red Bull without a can?” he said. 

You could barely help the small snort that fell from your lips at his words, your hand instantly slapping against your lips in horror. Max openly laughed at your reaction, arm gently hitting your shoulder with a grin. 

“Just for that, I’ll support Ferrari before I support you and your Red Bull’s. I don’t think Charles Leclerc would spill a Red Bull on me.” 

In response, Max grinned and pointed in the direction of the Ferrari garage, the red and yellow prominent amongst the stone. “Shall I go introduce you to Charles, then? He’d probably spill an actual hot coffee on you, at least I didn’t leave any lasting damage.” 

“The trauma of smelling like an original Red Bull for more than 2 hours isn’t enough damage?” you questioned, your eyebrows quirking up at him. 

Max looked at you in horror, “You can’t possibly be saying you don’t think the smell of an original, cold, fresh out of a fridge, Red Bull isn’t just simply lovely. This is potentially the biggest red flag about you.” 

You were quick on your feet, the words dropping from your lips before you could contain them. 

“I guess we’re all on fire today, then. Red flags left and right.” you said with a smirk. 

All Max did was laugh at your words, his head rolling back while his hands placed themselves on his hips.  

Just as he had been the last two times, Max was interrupted before he could continue the conversation, a lady in a Red Bull sweater tapping him on the shoulder to let him know he needed to make his way back to the garage for some interviews that had been requested of him.  

“Nice seeing you again, I’m sure next time I see you, you’ll probably heal more of my Red Bull soaked shirt trauma.”  

The only response he gave was a loud laugh and a wave, as he walked away. 

Time, wondrous time  Gave me the blues and then purple pink skies 

The FIA year-end Gala was exquisite. Everyone was dressed to the nines, the lights were twinking, the service was lovely, and the atmopshere was electric. 

Even though, for almost all of the people there, it was a requirement of their jobs, everyone seemed as if they were having a wonderful time. Mingling with those around them, actively engaging in conversation with co-workers, friends, long-time acquaintances.  

Your boss had elected that you and a fellow co-worker attend in her place, admitting that although she loved the excitement of the night, she needed a break from the glitz and the glam of Formula 1 for a tiny bit. She knew you were more than willing to take her place and do an incredible job.  

Which is exactly how you found yourself at a table with Jack, one of your co-workers, a wide grin on his face as he observed everything going on around him. He was new to the company, just having recently completed his internship and been offered a full-time position with the organization. It was his first time at a Formula 1 event of any kind. 

“Isn’t this brilliant? I’m a huge motorsports fan, I wanted to get into karting when I was a kid but it was just too expensive, my parents couldn’t afford that. I’ve never even had the opportunity to go to a race, and now I’m in the same building, the same room as literal race drivers. Have you been to a race before?” 

You forgot how much he could yap, an almost over-eager human equivalent of an excited golden retriever. He looked at you expectantly, waiting for your answer to his question. 

“I’ve been to a few races for work, and a few privately with some friends. They’re always a great time, you’ll have lots of fun when you start going for work.” you said. 

Grinning at your words, you began to tune him out as he launched into another rant. You were pulled out of your thoughts at the sound of someone saying your name, your head swiveling in the direction of the voice. 

You were almost positive Jack was squealing out loud, as Max Verstappen once again entered your view. Smiling up at him, you stood up to greet the Dutchman, which resulted in him pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek, his hand gently patting you on the back as he did so. 

“I just wanted to come by and say hello. You look very beautiful.”  

Unable to contain the anxious laugh that fell from your lips, you immediately smiled at him. Accepting compliments was obviously not your forte, especially when they were coming from Max, who looked more handsome than ever in his suit, and the wide smile on his cheeks pulling everything together. 

“Never thought I’d see you in anything other than jeans and a Red Bull shirt, Max. You look lovely, as well.” 

“Making fun of me, and a compliment all in one? I will say, I probably would’ve worn jeans if I could, but my public relations manager likely would’ve murdered me and I quite enjoy being alive,” he said. 

Shaking your head in silent laughter, you barely even noticed as Jack thrust his hand out to introduce himself to Max.  

“Your girlfriend is lovely, mate. This is what, the fourth time I’ve run into you?” Max said in greeting, a somewhat tight smile on his face. 

Jack instantly shook his head, “Oh god no, we’re co-workers. I don’t mean she’s not lovely, she is. I’m not her type, or actually she’s not my type. I’m yapping, this is embarrassing. Mr. Verstappen, it was really nice to meet you. I need a drink. I’m sorry.” 

He practically sprinted away, both you and Max looked on with amused grins present on your faces. 

“So, if he’s not your boyfriend, does that mean one of the guys you were with in Switzerland are?” 

Shaking your head, “God, no. Those are friends I’ve known for years. I’m very much single, right now.” 

Max looked like he was in complete contemplation as he debated what to say next. You were secretly hoping he would take the bait, maybe ask if you were free after the gala, or ask how long you were going to be in town for. 

Running into him again once was by chance, twice was a coincidence, and thrice was obviously a sign. The universe was obviously trying to tell you something, there was a reason this man, who had first shown up in your life just after one of the worst heartbreaks you had ever experienced, continued to show up. It was hard to not get your hopes up, to not get ahead of yourself. 

It was hard to keep the butterflies at bay, truthfully.  

“Hypothetically, does that mean you’re free after the gala?” 

“Hypothetically... I man be free after the gala,” you responded. 

Nodding his head, Max smiled in your direction. “I think it would be a crime to let this beautiful dress, and my efforts to wear a suit for something go to waste. I’d love to take you out after.” 

And isn't it just so pretty to think  All along there was some  Invisible string  Tying you to me? 

Max had been transparent from the beginning; he wasn’t overly affection nor was he a fan of excessive cuddling. He got warm often, and the moment he got too warm when he was in bed, he got miserable. But when he wanted to cuddle? You had to take what he would give you.  

Which was exactly how you found yourselves right now, Max playfully attempting to whack your phone out of your hand, his other arm wrapped around your waist as he burrowed his head into your neck. 

“Schatje, I just wanna cuddle for a bit. Give me a little attention.” 

Slapping gently at his arm, you looked at him in mock exasperation. All you ever did was give him attention, he almost took the words out of your mouth when he muttered, “I know you give me plenty of attention, don’t yell at me.” 

You just shook your head silently as you used your free hand to gently twirl small tuffs of his hair, a small hum of content falling from his lips at your movements. 

“What are you looking at?”  

Attempting to look over at your phone, you moved the screen so he could see it better. It was a video from your first ever Formula 1 race, back when you were still a little intern and your boss had wanted you to gain some exposure to the sport. 

“I’m just looking back at some videos. Found this one from my first ever race. I didn’t even know I still had this.” 

Max instantly perked up and looked at your phone, his eyes squinting as he tried to decipher something in the video. 

“Do you remember which race it was? Looks like it’s a few years old, yeah?”  

Nodding your head, you tried to do the math in your head, thinking back to what year you first started your internship. “I think it was 2016? It was definitely in Spain, but I’m pretty positive it was 2016.” 

“Do you know what that means?” Max questioned, a soft smile on his lips as he pressed a small kiss to the junction between your chin and throat before looking back up at you. 

Shaking your head in confusion, you tried to determine what he could be talking about, giving him the chance to continue.  

“My first ever win in Formula 1, for Red Bull, was the 2016 Spanish Grand Prix. Isn’t that so ironic? Guess things were always meant to be.” 

Maybe he was right. 

Maybe there was always a string, a small, invisible string, tying everything together, tying you to him.  

genuinely i got this into my mind and felt like i was legally obligated to write it asap. i hope you LOVE it and i would so appreciate it if you told me if you do. thank you, love you all 🫶🏻

[dreaming-medium]

Watch Your Six

Stray Kids Kinktober Masterlist

Sensory Deprivation - Han Jisung

Pairing: Han Jisung x Reader

Word Count: 14.8k

Summary: After training for years, you finally become a full fledged agent for KDOI, the Korean Division of Intelligence. Over time, each and every agent becomes something like a family member, including the high-tech nerd who has managed to put a smile on your face since day one. What happens when he's sent with you on his first field mission?

Warnings: Violence, smut (18+) MDNI

A/N: Kinktober is a state of mind. I know its January idc lol I will finish the list of prompts even if it kills me

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

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. 

The sound your sneakers make on the treadmill reverberates through the gym. The expensive, high tech plastic mask strapped to your face fogs up with each exhale and clears with each inhale. 

To your right, a man holds a clipboard, glasses covered eyes watching your vitals displayed on the monitor hooked up to the mask and other various wires clipped to your body. 

You’ve been running for about an hour straight, but your breathing is still even; and just by glancing down at the screen, your heart rate looks the same. 

For months, you’ve been training with the federal agency to be one of their field agents. Countless nights were spent pushing yourself to the limit, physically and mentally. 

Today was your final evaluation before becoming a full-fledged agent. You were selected out of the hundreds of trainees to test to move on. 

It was a great honor, all your hard work was finally paying off. 

Maybe you’ll get your first mission after this! 

If you pass. 

A small bead of sweat drops down the side of your face. 

Bored, your eyes wander over to the man studying your every heartbeat. 

The thick rimmed glasses that sat on his face have slid down his nose a bit. His lips seem to sit in a constant pout thanks to those pudgy cheeks of his. 

Choppy, fluffy brown hair sits on his head like a mop. You can tell he’s run his fingers through it more than a handful of times to get it out of his eyes. 

A crisp white lab coat rests over a hoodie and khaki pants. A few different pens and instruments sit in the pocket under an embroidered ‘J’ .

You’ve seen him around the trainees once or twice in the years you’ve been here. From what you’ve gathered, he was one of the technical experts, providing countless gadgets and gizmos for the field agents to use. 

The guy that would give the secret agent a lipstick taser before embarking on their world class espionage mission. 

He’s pretty and smart— what a lethal combination. 

When the man looks back up at the treadmill, your eyes flick back to dead ahead of you. 

Reaching forward, he hits the stop button on the treadmill and jots down a few notes on his clipboard, a tiny smile pulls at his handsome face. 

The treadmill comes to a gradual stop and so do your legs. One hour exactly sits on the clock. 

Nervously, you look down at the screens, to his monitor, looking at anything you can. 

“You did extremely well, 586.” There’s a happy tilt to his tone while he scribbles down some more notes, flipping the page, then writing some more. “You can take the mask off now.”

Nodding, you gently take the mask off your face and drape it over the top of the treadmill. 

“I have one more examination for you.” He clicks a few buttons on the computer to the side.

Patiently, you stand there waiting for instruction. 

He looks up at you with amusement glinting in his big, brown eyes. “You don’t need to be so stiff with me, 586, that’s not part of the tests.”

Your shoulders relax and sag forward a bit. “Sorry, I’m just a bit nervous.”

“Understandable.” He grabs a hold of the cart with the machines on it and rolls it to the side. “Most, if not all, trainees are during their examination. I can’t remember a trainee that wasn’t nervous— well, maybe M, but he’s a special case.”

“Are you J?” you ask, looking down at his lab coat. 

“I am,” he answers and steps closer to the treadmill.

He reaches forward and unsnaps the wires hooked onto the leads on your chest. The sticker part stays on, but the wires are removed. Which means you’ll probably be hooked up to another machine soon. 

“I’ve seen you around before,” you say to him, studying his face up close. 

“I’m always around everywhere,” he jokes, unhooking more wires. “I don’t think there’s a square inch of this agency I haven’t seen.”

“Are you a field agent?”

He scoffs. “No, not me. I could never handle that.”

“But you’re an agent.”

He moves his head side to side. “Of sorts, yeah. B needed a tech guy, so technically I’m an agent. But if you were to send me on a mission, I might cry. I leave those sorts of things up to C or S, or any one of the other agents. Just not me.”

You nod with a small smile of your own. 

“Follow me.”

Following his orders, you step off the treadmill and follow after him out of the gym. 

“Is there only one of each letter?” you ask.

J laughs. “Actually, yeah.” He leads you towards a side room, it looks like an interrogation room with a large contraption on the center of the table. “It’s easier that way.”

He motions for you to take a seat across the table. 

“And unless you fail this psych evaluation, I believe we’re going to be back to 26 again.” J starts fiddling with the machine, pulling wires and leads off the top. 

A happy pang goes through your heart. Thank god he hasn’t hooked up the heart monitor yet, he would’ve seen it skyrocket. 

“You think?” Nervously, you shift around in the chair. 

J chuckles. “I do. I haven’t seen a perfect exam like this in a while. Plus, we saw all the extra training you were putting in.”

Your mouth opens a bit in shock. J looks over at you, holding the wires ready to snap to the leads on your chest. 

“We have eyes everywhere, 586. Did you really think we didn’t see that?”

An embarrassed flush crawls on your neck and turns your ears red. “Of course, I know that.” 

Again, he chuckles and snaps all the wires to the leads. His fingers are warm in contrast with the cold air of the exam room. Each time his knuckles brush against your skin the feeling lingers. 

He places a strap around your head that has two metal leads pressing into your forehead. Even more wires from that strap lead down to the detector. 

J looks down at the wires and then turns on the machine. It whirrs to life and a needle starts scribbling out your heart rate on the top. 

It’s a lie detector. Of sorts. It looks like more than that. 

You’re not going to pretend to understand anything, though. That’s his job. 

His eyes watch the needle, he then reaches forward and clips a small cuff on your finger— a steady beeping follows it. 

“There we go,” he mutters to himself and takes a seat across from you. 

J shuffles papers around on the clipboard to rearrange them. 

A large mirror sat on the wall behind him. There’s no way that’s not one way glass. Is there anyone on the other side watching your evaluation? Or is it just the two of you? Is there another higherup keeping track of your answers? Maybe it’s B? Or maybe other agents are spectating to see how you are. 

You would be working closely with them, after all. If the roles were reversed, you’re sure you would watch. 

“Ready?” J’s voice interrupts your thoughts. 

Your eyes snap to him and you nod. 

“Is your name Y/N L/N?” he asks, looking down at the clipboard. 

It’s been so long since you’ve heard your real name. Two years? Yeah, two years. You’ve only been referred to as 586 since you joined. 

“Yes.” 

J looks at the contraption for a few seconds, taking note of the way it moves. He makes a small tick on the paper. 

“Can you verify your date of birth for me?”

You do as he says, saying it like second nature. Again, he repeats the same motion of watching your heart rate and making a small tick. 

The questions start out simple. Where were you born? What are your parent’s names? Do you have any siblings? All questions that you would make a security question for your bank. 

“Now, let’s get to the real questions. Just answer honestly and you have nothing to worry about, okay, 586?” J’s voice is calm and smooth. 

Something about this guy makes you want to tell him everything regardless of if you’re hooked up to several machines. 

“Have you ever been contacted by an external government agency prior to enlisting in KDOI?”

KDOI: The Korean Division of Intelligence. Your dream job since you were a young girl. 

“No.”

After your answer, J watches your heart rate for even longer than before. He makes a tick on the clipboard. 

“Have you ever been contacted by an external government agency after enlisting in KDOI?”

“No.”

Another tick. 

“Have you ever participated in an organized event that openly opposed KDOI?”

“No.”

Tick. 

“Have you ever had malicious thoughts about KDOI or the agents working within it?”

“No, quite the opposite. I admire KDOI.” You add the last part with a sheepish smile. 

J grins when he makes the next tick on the paper. 

“Next section…” he murmurs. “Have you recently had thoughts of suicide?”

“No.”

Tick. 

Question after question comes from his mouth. You answer honestly to each of them, not even hesitating to let the reply leave your lips. 

“Did you have thoughts of suicide prior to enlisting in KDOI?”

“No.”

Tick. 

“Do you ever have thoughts of harming others?”

“No.”

Tick. 

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“N- what?” Your eyes widen and you stare at him incredulously. There’s no way that’s on the evaluation. 

J feigns ignorance and points down to the clipboard. In exaggerated movements, he motions down to it and shrugs, puffing air in his cheeks and just making a meal out of this fake performance. 

“I can’t believe it either but there it is. ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’” 

You tongue your cheek and smirk a bit. “No, J, I do not.”

J nods and scribbles down more than just a tick while looking at the heart monitor. “Interesting…” 

He makes a few last notes before his eyes widen and he looks up at you, pointing his pen in your direction. “No girlfriend either, right?”

You roll your eyes, “No, no girlfriend either.”

Isn’t this an official evaluation? For a government official secret organization that grants people a license to kill? 

He asked you if you were single immediately after asking if you’ve had thoughts of suicide. Is this guy for real?

You slow blink at him while he finishes up the form on his end. 

“Well!” he exclaims happily, hitting the clipboard on the metal table. You don’t even flinch. “I believe we’re all finished here.”

Your heart squeezes with nerves. 

J stands up from the table and rounds the table towards you. 

So badly you want to ask for the results of your exam. Are you in? Did you pass? Are you an agent?

“B needs to sign off on all the paperwork,” J trails off, his hands reaching forward to unhook all the wires from the leads stuck to your skin. “But… I don’t think there’s any issue with me welcoming you to the agency. Officially.”

Since the heart monitor was still hooked up, you can hear the needle suddenly spike and scribble large peaks on the paper. 

J turns his head to look at it. An amused smirk crosses his face and a chuckle huffs through his chest. “Funny,” he says to himself and then turns back to you. 

Sheepishly, you look away from him. 

“That’s what gets your heart rate to spike?” J sits on the corner of the table and folds his arms across his chest. 

You bite your cheek and avoid his eyes. “Well, this has been my dream job since I was a young girl; so, yes, you alluding to me becoming an official agent would raise my heart rate.”

J scoffs. His warm fingers suddenly grab your face, thumb on one cheek and his middle and pointer finger on the other. He turns your head to face him.

When your gaze snaps to his face, you see that there’s a cocky smirk on his face but his eyes are focused down on the heart monitor. The needle stays steady much to his obvious distaste. 

He sucks teeth in disbelief. “Really?”

“Is this another test?” your voice comes out muffled due to him holding your cheeks. 

J rolls his eyes with a frown. “Yeah, let’s go with that.” He releases your face and slides the strap off your head.

The leads on your chest are soon to come off after that. J is careful not to rip the sticky pads off your skin too fast so that it doesn’t sting. He rubs the site with a bit of rubbing alcohol afterwards to get rid of the residue. 

“How long have you been at the agency?” you ask. You’re curious about him. 

He defeats all the ‘Secret Agent’ stereotypes. He’s personable and warm— and a bit flirtatious. He’s not at all the cold, all-business type you were used to. That’s how more than half the trainees were. 

It’s not that you were cold, no. You just kept to yourself and worked hard. 

And you made sure your personality didn’t fade during that time either. 

J’s nose crinkles up while he thinks. His hands slow down in the process. “Hmm,” he hums. “Maybe four years now? Yeah, sounds about right.”

Your eyes widen. “Four years? How old are you?”

He smirks. “Don’t you know never to ask a young man his age.”

“I guess if you’re not going to tell me…” you trail off. “I’ll just say twenty eight then.”

“Twenty ei—!” he stammers and takes the last lead off your chest. “I’m twenty two!”

“Wasn’t so hard was it?”

J grumbles and turns around to finish putting the machine away. But there’s an amused tilt to the corner of his puffy lips and a playful glint in his eye. 

“So you started when you were eighteen?”

“Yep.”

“Child prodigy?”

“Taken right from high school.”

“Impressive.”

J laughs under his breath. “Everyone seems to think so.”

“You don’t?”

“Eh.” He shrugs. “Everyone here is a prodigy of some sort. It’s easy to blend in and somehow appear mediocre when surrounded by Korea’s most elite minds and bodies.”

“I don’t think you’re mediocre.”

“You haven’t met everyone else yet.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to answer again. J grabs your clipboard and takes the papers off it, handing them to you. 

“Bring these to B, he has to sign off on the final enlistment.” You take the stack from him. “The guard outside the door will bring you up to his office.”

You look down at the papers, your heart rate picking up faster and faster the more you think about it.

J puts his hand on your lower back and ushers you towards the door. It tingles at the base of your spine. He reaches in front of you and opens the door, motioning for you to exit first. The hand on your lower back twitches and it feels like he almost scratches it twice before urging you forward and dropping it. 

It’s weirdly comforting. 

It doesn’t feel weird at all. 

You turn back to look at him, “Thank you, J.”

He smiles. Those round cheeks get even bigger when it happens. 

“Welcome to KDOI, X .”

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

Two years goes by in the blink of an eye when working with a government agency. Especially when a majority of your assignments can take anywhere from a week to two months at a time. 

The agents you work with are the only constant in your life. Other faces flitter in and out of your life like leaves falling off trees. You don’t grow attached to anyone outside of this organization, you can’t afford to. 

You’re not complaining, not at all. You love the life you have now. It’s everything you ever wanted. 

Everyone at KDOI is a family, you’re all each other has. It’s an unspoken, special bond. 

When you first started, you were welcomed in with open arms. Obviously, some agents were warmer than others at first— or maybe it’s just that some were better at first impressions than others. 

Maybe other people would have been upset with M’s standoffishness when you first introduced yourself. But, after a hot coffee appeared on your desk not even five minutes after complaining about being cold to him and only him, you knew he wasn’t detached and icy at all. 

Other agents, like F, have been nothing but a ball of sunshine. He was the one you ate lunch with every single day while you were at the agency. Whilst sitting by yourself in the cafeteria on day one, he took it upon himself to plop himself in the seat right across from you. 

H is your favorite agent to go on long assignments with. He never fails to be a constant source of entertainment and intelligent conversation— with the occasional stupid ass comment that makes you question where the man you were just talking to went. 

Slowly but surely, you’ve also started learning their real names. Learning someone’s real name was apparently the equivalent of leaving you in their will around here. 

There was a time and place to refer to them as their real name. It was a line you tiptoed constantly. 

Surprisingly, it was M who told you his name first: Minho. It was completely unprompted too. It was in the jet returning from a three week mission where you had saved him from at least five different gunshot wounds by tackling him to the ground. 

The others trickled in afterwards. 

Y, or Jeongin, was shocked when you didn’t know his name. And immediately told you afterwards with a cute, wide smile on his face. 

Even though every single agent has become a part of you, one particular agent seems to have captured a larger part of your soul than the others. 

“J,” you say casually, slipping behind him to stand on the other side of his cluttered workbench. 

Jisung. He had told you his name when you had lingered in his workshop late one night, not wanting to go back to your dorm quite yet. 

“Hello, X,” he grins without looking up at you. The glasses on his nose have fallen forward.

His laptop is his primary focus, several wires are running from the computer to a tiny little gadget that looks no bigger than a cell phone. It has a small LED screen with different colored pixels bouncing around it. 

Jisung’s workshop was one of your favorite places in the agency. There was always music playing, a computer always had some sort of TV on silent with the subtitles on, and there were always snacks everywhere. 

You consider it a second dorm, really. As soon as you’re done training for the day, you usually find yourself here.

“When did you get back?” he asks, clicking a few keys and looking over at the gadget, then back to his computer. 

“Maybe two hours ago?”

“And it took you this long to come say hi?”

“I had to shower.”

“ And you didn’t invite me?” his cheeky smile gets bigger. 

You smack the back of his head, the glasses fall even more. You’re surprised they don’t tumble off his face.

If one thing has remained constant since your exam day, it’s the relentless flirting. The guy can’t go more than five minutes without saying some sort of teasing comment. 

It should bother you. 

But it doesn’t. 

At this point, you’ve gotten quite used to it. If he ever stopped, then you might be a bit concerned. You might even miss it. 

But you would never tell him that. 

Jisung makes a tiny ‘gah’ noise and rubs the back of his head in fake pain. He pushes his glasses up his nose and looks over at you. 

“I missed you so much and the first thing you do is hurt me,” he whines. 

“I wasn’t gone that long.”

“Two long months without my girlfriend.”

“ Not your girlfriend.”

He clutched his chest through his baggy black hoodie. “Another wound.”

You cross your arms and giggle a bit. “Well get used to me not being here. B is sending me on another assignment tomorrow.”

Jisung frowns. “I know, he asked me to be at your debrief tomorrow morning.” He lets out a whine. “You just got back! Usually you’re around for at least two weeks in between missions.”

Shrugging, you look around the room. The digital clock on the wall read 10:29 PM. He’s usually the only one in here past 5:30, he tends to lose track of time easily when working on projects. 

“It’s part of the job,” you say casually. 

Jisung grumbles again, looking down at his laptop once more. “Yeah, well it sucks. Everyone’s always coming and going. Meanwhile I’m stuck here all day every day.”

“I thought you didn’t do field work.”

“I don’t . I just also hate that I’m trapped here while everyone gets to travel with one another.”

You narrow your eyes. “You do know we’re not sightseeing, right?”

Jisung balks. “Of course I know that.” He pauses. “But I did see that picture that you and Changbin took at Buckingham Palace.”

You bite your lip to stop the smile. “Not my fault it just so happened to be by our hotel.”

“Bang said if we had a Christmas card he would use that picture.”

The smile you’re fighting gets even bigger. You hesitate before speaking up again. “It’s a good picture.”

Jisung’s head drops and he places both of his hands on the table. “See what I mean?” he groans. 

“Just tell Bang that you want field work.”

Jisung’s head shoots up and he stares at you with wide eyes. “I would die in the field!”

“You would not. One of us would be there to save your hide. You really think Minho would let you die?”

“I think he would load the gun himself.”

A laugh bubbles up in your chest. Uncrossing your arms, you turn around and lean against the table. 

“Ji, we would make sure you were safe if you were to come out in the field with us. It’s our job.”

“Your job is to carry out the mission.”

“I wouldn’t give a damn about the mission if your life was on the line.”

Jisung’s mouth snaps shut. His eyebrows fly up his forehead. 

The two of you stare at each other for a long moment. Out of the corner of your eye, you see his knuckles turn white from gripping the counter so hard. 

His Adam’s Apple bobs with a gulp. 

You shouldn’t have said something like that, shouldn’t you? Your job is to carry out government missions. Personal feelings should never be put first, you know that. 

So why did you say that?

Fuck, you shouldn’t have said that. 

The shock on Jisung’s face quickly morphs into a cocky smirk. It’s a mask. You can see in his eyes he’s still a bit shocked. 

“I knew you were in love with me.”

Groaning, you roll your eyes and push off the table. “I’m going back to my dorm to sleep. Goodnight, J.”

Your hand slides to his lower back and you scratch twice over his lab coat and hoodie. 

Ever since your exam day, the two of you do this small gesture to each other all the time. It could be when he passes behind you in the cafe line or comes up behind you in the training room. It’s such a tiny, personal gesture. 

Sometimes on the coldest nights in the field, you’ll find yourself aching for that small touch.

“You’re so head over heels in love with me, X!” he calls after you, again, clutching at his heart and overacting like he’s swooning. 

“I’m leaving!”

“You just got here!” he whines. 

“Bye.”

“I hate to see you go, but I love to watch you walk away, X!”

“Night!” you repeat, letting the door shut after you. 

You walk down the hallway of the agency with a goofy smile on your face. 

“Idiot,” you mumble to yourself. 

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

B’s office was at the very top of the large building, the windows overlooked the entirety of Seoul. Everything inside the office exuded money and power. The wood of the bookshelves was black and sleek and always dust free. 

Inside the office was so large there was an entire sitting area with two sofas and two loveseats around a coffee table. 

There was always a bergamot candle burning on a side table there. 

It was just about 10 AM when you stepped inside. 

“Ah, X, thank you so much for coming in.” B stands up from his large desk chair to welcome you in. 

Bang Chan, the leader of KDOI, and the most unassuming man you’ve ever met. When you brought him your final exam paperwork that fateful day you thought you were in the wrong office. 

This whole time you were expecting a wrinkly old man, not a twenty-something with dimples. 

But, at this point, you’ve learned to not be surprised by anything anymore. 

Maybe you were surprised at the fact that the other man in the room made no move to even look at you. 

Jisung sat in the other chair in front of the desk, his face sheet white. Both of his hands are gripped in tight fists on top of his pants. 

Your warm smile fades from your face as you take in his ghastly expression. 

“What’s going on?” you ask. 

Chan’s lips form a tight line as he motions to the chair for you to sit in. “I was going over your next assignment with J before you got here.”

“Apologies, am I late?”

“No, not at all. I had J come in a little early to talk to him one on one.”

You glance over at Jisung who looks like he hasn’t even blinked. Alarm bells are going off inside your head. Not even a nod in your direction?

“What’s this assignment about, B?” You look back to your boss. 

He slides a manilla envelope across the desk to you, you take it without a second thought. Chan picks up a tiny remote off his desk and presses a button. Shades slowly come down over the window, bathing the room in darkness. Another beep on the remote and a holographic screen projects from the floor next to the desk. 

Both you and Chan turn your chairs to go over the debrief, Jisung stays still. Part of you wants to snap your fingers in front of his face to see if he’s still alive or not. 

Instead, you focus on your job. 

“I know you’re used to more recoup time, but I’m afraid this assignment is pretty urgent.” Chan clicks the remote. A grainy CCTV picture is displayed on the screen. “The international gang you’ve been dealing with lately, the Ice Crows, have shown their face again.”

Chan zooms in on the image. Several higher ups of the gang are getting out of a black SUV. They’re all dressed in fancy suits smoking cigars. 

The last time you dealt with them was about five months ago when their trail had gone cold over in Canada. 

“When and where was this taken?” you ask. 

“Yesterday. Paris. Where you and J will be headed after this.”

Your head snaps over to look at Chan. 

With Jisung? No wonder the guy looked like he was eight inches from death!

Your eyes slide to the engineer, he’s still staring forward. A cold sweat on his brow. 

“J is coming with me?”

Chan points your attention back to the debrief. “Allow me to continue.”

You spare one last look Jisung. The poor guy is shaking in his boots. Your hands itch to reach out and comfort him, but you have to remain professional. 

That’s for after the debrief. 

“There’s an auction being held at the Palais des Congrès. Several large and important pieces are being shown there. Including…” Bang switches the slides and displays an expensive painting. “The Refuge, which was stolen no more than two months ago by the Ice Crows. They’re putting it up for auction when it belongs back in Korea.”

Your eyes narrow. “This seems like a pretty rookie cut and dry assignment, B. You need me to get the painting back. I don’t understand why J has to come with me, he doesn’t do field work.”

The conversation the two of you had the previous night echoes in your mind. 

B nods. “I know. Let me get there, X.” He switches the slide to display the floor plan of the museum. “This convention center is rather high tech, as you can see. It’s equipped with blockers that don’t allow any outside waves to make it past their walls. Any and all technical communication has to come within the building.”

“So, you’re sending J with me because he’s the only one that can operate field equipment? S can operate simple transmitters and trackers.”

“It’s more than that, X. The painting will be behind several different firewalls and security systems that not even S can hack through. J needs to be with you and he needs to be in that building.”

You take a deep breath and look over at Jisung. His hundred yard stare has moved from the window and is now focused down on his lap. 

“He’ll be in your hotel room the entire time. You’ll be doing the recon and walking through the convention center to get where you need to be.”

Jisung pulls his lips between his teeth. His body finally came back to life. “I won’t need to leave the room?” His voice is hoarse. 

“No,” Chan answers quickly. “Not until you’re leaving to come back home.”

Jisung shifts on his chair, unfurling his fists and swallowing thickly. 

“I understand your apprehension, J, I do. But I need you on this.”

Jisung watches him closely and then offers a weak nod. He glanced over at you. 

“I wouldn’t put you with X unless I was sure that she would watch your six.”

You nod and steel your expression. “I won’t let anything happen to you, J.”

Color returns to J’s cheeks at your words. He gulps and takes a deep breath, his shoulders rolling back and remaining stiff.

“Okay,” he says softly. “Okay, I’ll do it.” He’s more confident the second time. 

“Good.” Chan clasps his hands together. “Stay safe, agents. Amusez vouis bien!”

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

You and Jisung were the only ones inside the cabin of the agency’s private jet. It took off the runway only about four minutes ago. 

The brunette sat across from you, his eyes focused out the window at the clouds below. His posture is anything but relaxed. He’s sitting ramrod straight in the large cushioned chair. 

You don’t think his muscles have released since you both were in Chan’s office. Even through the thick layers of his comfortable traveling clothes you can clearly read his uneasy body language. 

“You okay?” you ask gently.

“No,” he mutters back. Duh.

You bite the inside of your cheek, completely unsure of what to do or say. This was never a part of your training. Maybe you should’ve picked up a copy of ‘ Comforting Friends for Dummies ’ when you had the chance. 

Killing targets? Easy! 

Provide detailed surveillance on a suspicious person? Done! 

Soothe an anxious friend? Not so simple. 

Jisung’s cheeks seem even puffier than usual, lips pursed in a pout. There’s no sparkle to his eyes like you’re used to. 

Taking a deep breath, you lean back in your seat and look around the plane. You crack your knuckles, displaying your own nerves. 

“Do you know the best part of staying at hotels during missions?” you ask him to break the silence.

Jisung hums in acknowledgement, he continues to watch the clouds below. 

“You get to order all the room service you want— it comes out of the agency’s card.” You smirk. 

He shifts around in his seat. His hands that were tightly gripping the armrests relax a bit. 

“Last assignment I was on with Hyunjin, we were in a seaport town, the hotel made these bacon wrapped scallops… man… I ate so many I thought I was going to explode.” You pat your stomach. 

Jisung finally looks at you. “Bacon wrapped scallops?”

You nod and smile at him. “You’ll be in the room the entire time. Think of all the room service you’ll get to order.”

“I’ve never had bacon wrapped scallops.”

“It’s Paris, who knows what they’ll offer there. And it all goes on Bang’s card.”

Jisung finally smiles. It wavers for a second, like he’s sheepish to do it. It’s paired with a breathy chuckle. He looks down at his lap and lets his body fall forward a bit, elbows resting on his knees. 

His knee bounces anxiously and the exhales he lets out are shaky. 

“God, Y/N,” he sighs, rubbing his face. “I can’t help but freak out.”

“Understandable.”

“It’s my first time out in the field.” 

“I know.”

“What if something happens?”

You roll your eyes. “I would be more surprised if something didn’t happen, Jisung.”

His head shoots up. The color drains from his face. His pouty lips part a few times like he’s trying to find the right words to say. 

“But I’m prepared for it, Jisung.” You lean forward, mirroring his posture and take his hands between yours. “I’m prepared to take care of whatever pops up to keep you safe, okay?”

His jaw clenches and he stares deeply into his eyes. The hands in yours are so warm in stark contrast to your always-cold ones. 

“And if anything terrible happens then I’ll do whatever it takes to get you out of it. Trust in me, okay? I have to take care of KDOI’s resident nerd, after all.”

“Resident nerd…” he scoffs.

You bite the inside of your cheek. “Did I ever tell you what happened on my first mission with Minho?”

Jisung shakes his head. 

“It was supposed to be easy! The intel that KDOI had gotten was that there was going to be a large drug exchange somewhere in the States, Minho was sent with me. And my lord, our intel was off.”

Thinking about the memory makes you giggle to this day. 

“It was an international, high profile cartel that Bang has been trying to nail down for years. Well, during a small scout, I got my ass captured. I wasn’t watching my six like I should’ve.”

Jisung’s eyes widen. Obviously, he wasn’t told about this. It’s not like you enjoy flaunting the story around. 

“I had a gun to the back of my head, the leader of the cartel was screaming for Minho to come out from where he was hiding or he’d kill me. God, I’ve never been so afraid in my life. My first assignment and I already had a gun to my skull.

“Minho, being the amazing agent he is, found the right vantage point and took the guy out. I was able to evade the crossfire after that, but honestly those bullets weren’t what scared me, it was the idea that Minho was disappointed in me.”

He was the agent you looked up to the most after all. He was the one that all these great stories and tales were all about. Minho was the harrowing hero of KDOI who was able to ace every mission handed to him. 

“But he didn’t even say anything about it. Even when I apologized over and over again, he just shrugged and said it was part of the job. And I get it now. It is just part of the job. So don’t worry, okay?”

Jisung swallows once, chin dipping down with a stiff nod. He turns his hands around in yours to grasp your fingers. 

A playful smirk creeps up on his face. “I can’t believe it…”

Your head cocks to the side and you watch him closely. He’s studying your manicured nails, his thumbs swipe over the digits softly. It’s a tender movement. 

“What?” you ask. 

“I can’t believe how in love with me you are.”

You rip your hands out of his and swat forward just as fast. 

With a barking laugh, he moves out of the way of your slap. You swing again and again, each time his laughter gets louder and louder. 

“First last night, now this? Are you going to propose to me next?”

You know this is just his way of evading thinking about how scared he is, but if that’s what it takes to make him feel better, you’ll allow it. If a distraction is what he needs, then you’ll give it to him. 

“Love hurts!” he cries out when you land a solid smack on his arm. “They were right!”

“It’s going to kill you, that’s what it’s going to do.”

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

By the time you and Jisung get to the convention center and check into the hotel it’s nearing seven at night. The gala isn’t being held until tomorrow, so you both have some time to relax and settle in. 

It leaves Jisung plenty of time to set up everything he needs inside your hotel room.

You both checked in without a hitch, getting your keys and practically falling into the room. Jet Lag is pulling your eyelids shut and weighing down on your chest like an elephant.

Flicking the lights on, you blink your bleary eyes a few times, staring down at the large bed sitting in the middle of your hotel room. 

One king sized bed.

You’d love to say this hasn’t happened before but you never know what to expect on missions. There have been places where there’s been one bed, two beds, bunk beds , and even separate bedrooms once or twice. 

On one occasion Hyunjin slept on the floor since you were only given one twin sized bed and you were not about to share that tiny space with the man who likes to spread out all of his limbs and hog the blanket at the same time.

So, at this point, you don’t even care if there’s only one bed.

You shrug it off and plop your bag next to the dresser and let your body fall back onto the plush mattress with an ‘oof!’

Jisung, on the other hand, hovers around the doorway, both hands still gripping the two rolling suitcases full of his equipment. “I can sleep on the pull out couch,” he says thickly.

“Ji, it’s fine, we can share a bed, we’re both adults here,” you tease him. “As long as you don’t put your cold feet on me, I don’t care.”

“I don’t have cold feet,” he grumbles and wheels his suitcases towards the small table on the other side of the room. 

You let your eyes slide shut on the bed. The gentle hum of the air conditioner already lulling your brain to sleep. With how exhausted you are, it wouldn’t take much for you to give into the pull anyway. 

Jisung opens up the suitcases and starts unloading every piece of technology that he has brought with him. Various wires and computer parts thud against the wood of the table. 

He stops for a second.

“And how would you know if I did have cold feet?”

A laugh is punched from your chest at the abrupt question. It’s a deep belly laugh. “Let’s just say there is a loose lipped agent among us.”

Jisung pauses. “Minho said he wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“He wasn’t going to until I started teasing him about his purchase of fuzzy socks.”

“You were with him when he bought those?”

“I helped him choose between two different pairs.” You crack one eye open to look at him. “The purple pair was my idea.”

Jisung groans and slides his laptop open, the typing on his keys is a lot more aggressive. You giggle again at his outward display of frustration.  

You let your eyes close again, listening to him shuffle his things around the wooden table muttering in between movements about how his feet aren’t that cold, they’re just colder than the rest of his body. 

An easy smile finds its way on your face and you listen to his quiet ramblings until sleep finally washes over your tired mind. 

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

“You were right,” Jisungs voice says in your earpiece. “Room service is fucking awesome.”

A waiter with a tray full of champagne flutes passes by, you grab one as he strides by your side. 

“I told you,” you say quietly while bringing the glass up to your lips to take a sip. “What did you order?”

“I think the better question is what didn’t I order.” His mouth sounds full when he answers you. 

He’s up on the 14th floor of the convention hall while you’re downstairs at the gala in a sleek, red silk dress. Your hair and makeup done exquisitely well, beautiful silver heels match the diamond jewelry adorning your skin. 

You blend right in to everyone around you. 

“I heard that their oysters are fantastic.”

“I think that’s part of what I ordered.” You can hear several dishes being pushed around. “Yep, right here. Although, they don’t look as appetizing as I thought.”

“They’re not really a lounge snack.”

“For rich people they are.”

The mission started about an hour ago when you made your way into the main event hall. The auction for the painting is going to begin in about another hour. 

Your first task of the night is to locate the painting before the auction and place a minuscule tracking device on it to locate later once it’s sold. 

There was only one way you knew to get close enough to The Refuge. 

“Oh. Three tables back to your 8 is your first target of the night, X.”

Paternino ‘Pink Panther’ Cardi. One of the Ice Crows inner circle members. He can’t resist swiping whatever paintings he can get his grimy fingers on; but, he also can’t resist bragging to an attractive woman. 

You turn nonchalantly to find him already eyeing you up with dark eyes. 

He’s your typical mafia member. In fact, if you had to draw a cartoon of a mobster, it would look like Paternino. 

You hold his searing eye contact while taking another sip from your champagne. The mobster lowers his chin and lets his tongue dart out to lick his lips. 

At first, seduction wasn’t a part of the job you particularly excelled at. But after doing it for so long, it comes naturally. 

Batting your lashes, you smirk at him and then turn to walk towards his table, your hips swaying in the process. Maybe you exaggerate your movements a bit, but it has the exact effect you need on Paternino. 

He’s sitting at a large round booth all by himself, legs spread wide in a show-of-power manner. A large swig of whiskey is taken out of his glass before you get to him. 

“Don’t you know that a beautiful woman such as yourself deserves a better drink than the venue provided champagne?” He motions to the booth seat next to him. 

You place your glass on the table and slide gracefully next to him. The effort you put into this is going to need to be quick, you don’t have long to locate the painting. 

“And I suppose a handsome man like yourself knows just what to order a woman like me?” Your voice is coy and seductively low. 

In your ear, you hear Jisung take a tiny, shaky breath. Does he know the intercom is still activated on his end?

Paternino slides towards you a bit more so now you can smell the expensive cologne wafting off him. It’s almost too overpowering. 

“A woman like you, hm?” He rests his arm on the booth behind your shoulders, lifting one hand to signal a waiter to come by. “Look into my eyes, let me see if I can guess your drink of choice.”

You rest your chin on top of your folded hands, your elbows resting on the table. His eye contact is intense and vivid, it makes your skin crawl. 

Paternino hums again. “A sapphire martini.”

“Nope,” Jisung says with a chuckle. 

You give a tiny, fake gasp. “How did you know?”

“I know a woman with taste when I see her.” He takes another swig of his whiskey while staring at you. “A sapphire martini for the lady.”

There must have been a waiter next to the table. You fight the urge to turn and look, instead opting to look at Paternino through your lashes. 

“Your turn, Beautiful. Why don’t you make an assumption about me?”

“I assume you’re an asshole with a tiny dick.”

Humming, you scoot even closer to Paternino, your fingers come up and walk up his chest to come around his tie. 

“I think,” you whisper lowly, coming closer to his own face, forcing your eyes to look down at his lips for a split second then back up at his eyes. “That you’re a powerful man around here, and that you don’t take no for an answer.”

His lips curl up in a cocky smirk. The arm that was previously on the booth, comes around your shoulders. His fingers feel clammy on your exposed skin. 

“Very observant, my lady. Anything else?”

The sound of a glass being delicately placed reaches your ears. You reach out and grab the martini glass without looking, bringing it closer to you.

“No, no, it’s your turn.”

He smiles. You’re so close to his face you can hear his exhales, smell the whiskey on his breath. 

You sip your own martini. God, it’s awful. You hate martinis. 

Paternino slides a finger underneath the spaghetti strap of your dress. “I think you would look gorgeous without this in the way.” He tugs on the strap. 

“Zero out of ten. Horrible pick up line. Try again.”

Jisung’s snarky words in your ear are oddly calming to your racing heart. He keeps bringing you down to Earth.

“Funny, I was thinking the same thing about your clothes.” You tug his tie. “The auction doesn’t start for some time. How about you show me somewhere private we can go and we can see if both of us are right.”

“Uuuuggghhhhhhh…”  

“I like that idea, I know just the place, Beautiful.” Paternino slides out of the booth and holds out his hand, which you grab a hold of gingerly to stand up and be led away from the main gala floor. 

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

It takes five minutes for Paternino to lead you to the room where The Refuge is being stored. It only takes you ten seconds to knock him out cold with one solid hit to the back of the head. 

His body hits the ground like a sack of potatoes in the dark storage room. 

“Fucking finally,” Jisung groans in your ear. 

“Sorry, it was the only way I knew to get back here.”

“That was torture, X. I’m never doing this again.”

You roll your eyes and pick up Paternino’s ragdolling body under the arms, dragging him across the room and stuffing him inside a storage closet with his arms and legs tied together and duct tape over his mouth. 

“Now, which one is The Refuge?” you mutter looking around at all the art around the room. There’s sculptures, painting, glass blown pieces, everything you would see in a museum. 

“I wonder if The Refuge is the only stolen thing in here?” 

Sighing, you walk around the room, trying to recognize anything. “Probably not. But it’s the only one we know about.”

You find the painting eventually sitting at the very back of the room covered by a large sheet. When you walk up to it, you take your earring out of your ear and slide the back off— which is where you were keeping the tracker. 

You tuck the tracker in the back of the painting between the canvas in the wood. It wouldn’t slip out nor would anyone notice. 

“Perfect.”

“I can see it on the map still, you’re all good. Now get out of there.”

“Anyone coming on the cams?”

“No, you’re clear.”

You take your other earring out and throw it in the garbage can by the door. They were fake anyway and you don’t feel like looking like a freak with one in. 

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

When you returned to the event hall, people were taking their seats for the auction, so you followed suit. Grabbing another drink from the bar before you sat down. 

“Vodka tonic?”

“Always,” you say under your breath. 

You watch the bartender make your drink with close eyes. 

Now you just needed to wait until the auction was over to get the painting back. Your job was half over. 

Through the earpiece, you can hear knocks on Jisung’s hotel room door. 

“More room service?”

“I… I didn’t order anything.”

Alarm bells go off in your mind. “Don’t answer it.”

Jisung stays silent for a few moments. You’re no longer watching the bartender, you’re focusing intently on what you can hear in your ear. 

“J.” You state, trying to get an update from him. 

“I think they’re gone.”

Before you can even think about being relaxed there’s a loud bang on the other side of the intercom and Jisung shrieks from surprise. 

“X! X, they’re in the room! X!” His voice shouts into your ear. 

You’re already running out of the event hall, your dress hiked up in your hands.

“J, there’s a gun strapped to the bottom of the table, use it!”

You can hear gruff voices screaming at Jisung not to move, that they’d kill him if he even twitched a muscle. 

“X, there’s five of them.” He whispers quietly. 

“J, listen to me, stay calm, I’ll be there in five minutes.” You burst through the stairwell and start climbing two at a time, even in your heels. The elevator would’ve taken too long. “Do what you need to stay alive, fuck the assignment. Stay alive.”

“X.” It’s a whimper and it stabs you through the heart. The yelling gets louder and louder. 

Jisung begs for mercy. You can hear the desperation in his voice, it pushes your legs to move faster and faster up the stairs. 

“Si—“

The earpiece goes dead after a gunshot. 

Your knees wobble and you lose your momentum. 

Oh my god, no, fuck, please. 

Reaching out, you grab the railing to keep your balance on one of the landings. 

“J?” you scream. “J, can you hear me?”

Nothing. Not a single voice comes through. Not even static.

Maybe they just shot the equipment. That has to be it. They didn’t shoot him. They wouldn’t. Right?

You steel your nerves and launch yourself up the remaining steps. By the time you reach the 14th floor, you’re not even winded. 

The long hallway is colder than the stairwell. You take off sprinting towards your room, sharply rounding the few corners that you come across. Right before your own stretch of hallway, you slow down to a walk. It kills you but you have to do it. 

In the distance, right in front of your room, you see two large men in black suits standing guard. They take notice of you immediately. 

“What are you doing up here, ma’am?” One asks as you walk closer. 

“My room is up here, honey.” 

He looks to his partner and then back at you. “Turn around and walk the other way.”

“Why?” you ask, only about ten feet away. 

“Just do it, sweet cheeks.”

Your eyebrow cocks and before he can react, you walk up and throw a sharp right hook into his jaw. The bone in his face cracks and he stumbles down onto the ground. 

His partner yells in surprise and starts fumbling for his gun. When his hand raises to shoot you, you grab his arm and aim his weapon down so when he discharges it, it shoots right into his partner. 

Then, you pull his arm so he falls forward into you. You swing the heel of your palm upwards right into his nose. With your free hand, you reach down and grab the tiny pistol that was strapped to your thigh. 

Before the second goon could recover, you shoot him right in the head. 

The sound of gunshots obviously alerted the remaining three gang members in the room. Two of them come barreling out into the hallway with their weapons drawn. 

Immediately, you shoot the first one in the head, he hits the ground before he even knows what hit him. The other gang member yelps in shock before you shoot him too. 

Within two minutes there are four bodies in the hallway.

Carefully, you walk into your hotel room, keeping your back against the wall and your gun cocked.

“Shut the fuck up,” a gruff voice says roughly. 

Jisung said there were five of them. The fifth must be the one holding him hostage.

Quietly, you inch closer and closer to the corner of the wall. Once you turn around, he’ll be right in front of you. 

You gulp and take one deep breath before coming around the corner, gun pointed forward. 

“I wouldn’t if I were you.” That same deep voice calls out. 

Your heart drops. 

Another typical looking crook is pointing his gun at the closed wardrobe doors in the corner of the room. 

Where is Jisung? Where is he? Is he in the wardrobe? He has to be inside the wardrobe. 

“Why don’t you drop the gun, sweetie.” The mobster says darkly. 

You stay still with the gun pointed at him despite his words. The trigger seems to burn your finger. It's aching to be pulled. 

Is Jisung in the wardrobe? Is he in there and you can’t see him?

Or is this guy trying to pull a fast one on you to get you to drop your weapon? 

Fuck, is Jisung in the wardrobe?

“I said drop the fucking gun.” He moves to pull the hammer back of his own pistol and you don’t hesitate even for a second. 

You pull your own trigger. 

He drops to the ground with a bullet wound directly in his head. 

You sprint across the room and rip open the wardrobe doors. 

Empty. 

It’s empty. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you repeat under your breath frantically. You blink your eyes over and over again hoping that he would suddenly appear. 

You even go so far as to open and close the wardrobe door three more times, each time more frantic. 

“Fuck!”

Where the fuck is he if he’s not inside this room? 

The equipment on the table has a bullet hole through Jisung’s main laptop but no blood anywhere near it. But his glasses are. They’re lying on the floor with a crack through one of the lenses. 

Did they move him to another location? He doesn’t have a tracker on him like you do.

With a yell of anguish, you turn and kick the dead mobster at your feet. His limp body rolls over and his jacket pocket falls open. 

A hotel room key tucked inside the pocket catches your attention. You crouch down and pick it up.

‘1833’ is written on the back of the key.

It’s not a great lead, but your legs are running out of your hotel room before you even think twice. Obviously they moved him somewhere else to lead you into their trap and it didn’t work. Not with how well you were trained. 

You burst through the door leading to the 18th floor, heeled shoes sprinting down the hallway towards where room 1833 would be.

As soon as you’re in front of the door, you click the hammer back of your gun and hold it out in front of you, swiping the key in the handle with your free hand.

The lock clicks open and you push the handle down slowly, trying to cause the least amount of noise as possible. All of the lights are off inside of the hotel room, save for one lamp. The yellow glow radiates on the wall.

There’s no noise.

Everything is completely silent save for the quiet hum of the air conditioning pumping through the room.

Until you hear a sniffle, a huff, and then another sniffle. 

Inching across the floor, you slide your back against the wall like you did previously, listening for any more key sounds that would alert you that there are more people inside the room.

Taking one last deep breath, you round the corner and point your gun forward.

Even in the dark you know exactly what you’re seeing. 

In the middle of the room stood Han Jisung; his hands tied together with a rope coming from the ceiling, a blindfold around his eyes and earplugs shoved into his ears. From here you can see the wetness from his tears being absorbed by the blindfold. There’s a gag tied around his mouth muffling tiny sobs.

You don’t allow yourself to fall victim to false security, you look around the room closely, making sure no one else is lying in wait for you to fall into yet another trap. 

No other soul is inside this hotel room with you.

Dropping the gun onto the bed, you cross the room towards Jisung as quickly as possible.

He must sense another presence in front of him, his entire body stiffens and another louder sob is swallowed by the gag. He backs up away from you as much as his restraints allowed– which was next to nothing.

“Jisung,” you say in relief. “Oh god.”

Without thinking twice about it, you reach around and brush your hand on his lower back, scratching twice. 

Jisung’s chest heaves with another sob, even through the gag in his mouth, you can hear him whimper your name. His entire body relaxes and he falls towards you, the ties on his hands tugging even more. 

You reach up and yank the gag out of his mouth. 

“X,” he rasps with a dry tongue. “Oh my god please say it’s you. I-I can’t hear anything— fuck, Jesus. Thank god you’re alive, oh god.”

You scratch his lower back again, looking at the restraints. How the fuck were you going to untie that knot? 

Jisung’s tongue darts out to lick at his dry lips. His weight leans into you as much as he can. It must’ve been horrifying to be tied up like this, he couldn't hear or see or scream for help. 

Gingerly, you reach up and cup both of his cheeks so as not to startle him. Even with how gentle you were, he still jumps in shock. 

“Everything happened so fast,” he rambled. “They shot out the laptop so the communicator was fried. Next thing I knew I had a bag over my head and I was being tied up.”

Using your fingers, you push the blindfold up his face to rest around his forehead. 

Jisung’s big, brown eyes blink and squint a bit before focusing on you. He searches all over your face, taking in every detail as if you’re a glass of water and he’s been crawling through the desert. 

His eyebrows pinch together and he gulps. 

“God, I’m always glad to see you, but now I’m really glad.”

You laugh under your breath, the stress from just the last thirty minutes alone lifting off your shoulders. 

He’s okay. 

Jisung is okay. 

Using your hands, you wipe the tear tracks off his puffy cheeks. God, he must’ve been horrified. 

He’s probably never going to go out into the field again. You look up at the restraints, analyzing the knot closely. You’re going to have to cut him down, there’s no way you’re untying that. He’s secured to a pipe that runs across the entirety of the ceiling. 

“You know,” Jisung starts. His voice already has that teasing tilt to it. “If you wanted me tied up this badly, all you had to do was ask, baby.”

Your eyebrows twitches. Mr. Humor-Is-My-Coping-Mechanism decides to show his face now of all times, huh? 

Slowly, you look down from his restrained wrists to his dark eyes. A smirk is already plastered on his face, his lips still wet from licking them.

“You must want me so bad, hm?”

With your own crooked smile, you tongue your cheek and make a ‘huh’ noise, it puffs through your chest. That’s how he wants to be, huh?

He can stay tied up for a little longer then. It’s not like anyone’s coming into this room nor do you have anything to do until after the auction. 

Really, you have nothing but time to kill!

You take a step backwards away from him and cross your arms over your chest.

His eyes widen when you distance yourself from him. “Wh…” His cheeks puff a bit as his lips purse in confusion. Jisung tugs on the rope still around his wrists. 

You cock your head to the side and stare at him with one lifted brow. 

The bed behind you dips down under your weight as you sit down on the edge. It gives you a perfect vantage point to watch Jisung grow more and more confused as to why you’re not cutting him down yet. 

Slowly, his ears start turning red, the flush crawls across his face and down his neck, disappearing into his black hoodie. 

“X,” he says hoarsely. “Aren’t you going to cut me down?”

You shrug, knowing no matter what you say, he’s not going to hear you. If he wants to tease you, you can tease right back. 

The gun on the bed beside you is picked up in your hand. You nonchalantly click the safety on and toss it to the side again.

He tugs even harder, the ropes chafing his wrists a bit. You watch as JIsung’s Adam’s Apple bobs with a gulp. The blindfold is pushing his bangs up in wild directions.

The helpless look on his face shouldn’t be making your blood pump this way. Excitement shouldn’t be tingling at the base of your spine from the power trip you’re getting from this. This is only teasing between two best friends, nothing more. 

It’s just teasing, right?

Right?

You cross one leg over the other, leaning back on your hands. The plush blanket underneath your fingertips feels cool and soft. It’s a complete contrast to the way your skin is heating up under Jisung’s desperate gaze.

“Aren’t you going to…” he trails off. Several times his eyes flick from yours down to your exposed leg. When you had crossed them, due to the slit up your dress, the entirety of your leg was exposed to the cool hotel room air.

“Going to what?” you ask him, exaggerating the movements of your mouth for him to understand. 

Jisung gulps again while watching your lips. He squints his eyes closed and tries to take a steadying breath in through his nose, his chin tilts back a bit.

You allow your gaze to wander down his body a bit. He’s always in relaxed clothing, including now. An oversized black hoodie draped over his shoulders with gray sweatpants on his bottom half.

Gray sweatpants that you now notice seem a little… tight .

Oh.

It seems as though you’re not the only one whose thoughts seem to be a bit… derailed. 

When you look back up at Jisung, he’s staring at you with slightly glassy eyes and a heaving chest. Nervously, his tongue comes out to lick his drying lips again. 

A tight band of tension stretches between the two of you; you can practically feel it connecting your bodies together. The hair on the back of your neck stands up.

Is he thinking the same thing you are? Is he allowing his mind to wander the way that yours is?

Slowly, you uncross your legs and stand up from the edge of the bed. 

Big brown eyes flick down to watch the movement absentmindedly, his lips part and a shaky exhale leaves them. 

Your hips sway from side to side with each slow step you take towards Jisung. 

The eye contact he makes with you is sharp; his thoughts being conveyed through them. He wants you, and he wants you bad. It’s like he’s practically begging for it with those brown puppy dog eyes. 

And you’ll be damned because you want it just as bad. 

There’s only so much of his teasing that you can take. Only so much desire the dam within your heart can take before it bursts. And right now, with how high your adrenaline has spiked, nothing is stopping you.

The last two years of nonstop flirting is taking its toll on your self control.

Licking your own lips, you look up at Jisung, a shaky breath coming out afterwards.

Your fingers come up and grab the blindfold that’s still around his forehead and tug it back down over his eyes.

“ Fuck, ” Jisung murmurs. Your face is so close to his you can physically feel the words splay out onto your own lips. 

With the gentleness of a butterfly landing on a flower, you brush your lips against his. Jisung immediately brings his face closer to yours, smashing your mouths together even more. 

A sensation you can’t quite describe washes over you. It has the same level of completeness that you had felt when you became a full-fledged agent; like you just did something that the universe has been waiting for you to do.

His pouty lips start moving against yours faster and faster with more urgency, like he can’t get enough of you, like he’s experiencing the same emotions that you are. Were you the piece he always needed too?

Both of your hands begin to explore. You cup his cheek with one while the other grabs at the front of his hoodie. He’s leaning into you so much that the ropes holding his wrists squeak as they tighten and rub.

With a teasing smirk against his mouth, you take a tiny step back. This way he wasn’t able to reach your lips but could still feel the heat from your body in front of him. 

A tiny whine leaves his throat as soon as you pull away. You watch as his lips chase after you just to be stopped by the ropes.

“Y/N,” he whispers, pleading. You lightly tap his cheek twice.

Pulling the collar of his hoodie to the side, you let your mouth hover over his neck. 

Since he doesn’t have sight or hearing, all of his other senses are on high alert. Jisung feels your warm exhales so close to his skin and squirms around, little noises leaving the back of his throat. 

You tease him more and more by letting your deep breaths fan over his flushed skin but never actually letting your lips actually meet with his neck.

Jisung pulls and pulls on the restraints, each exhale driving him insane. 

When your lips finally meet his neck, a long mewl exits his own wet mouth. His head tilts to the side to give you more access. Greedily, you let your mouth explore his soft skin. 

His hips buck forward into yours, his hard length grinding into your hip to bring himself some relief. Jisung whines again at the sensation.

At the same time, you open your mouth and suck down where his shoulder meets his neck. His body tenses up and his head tilts back in pleasure.

“Jesus, fuck,” he curses, grinding into your hip once again. “Oh, god. Shit– please, fuck, Y/N.” His incoherent babbling only increases in pitch and frequency the more you run your tongue up and down his neck, never going lower than the collar of his hoodie would pull or higher than his jawline. 

You let your free hand travel up to thread in his soft, chocolate brown locks of hair. You scratch at his scalp a few times, letting your nails drag along his head. A low moan emanates deep within Jisung’s chest, it almost sounds like a purr. His head leans back into your touch. 

“Oh my god,” he murmurs. Every noise that comes out of his mouth is louder than you expect thanks to the earplugs. “Y/N, please– oh fuck , kiss me again, please, oh my god, please, Y/N.”

Pulling away from his neck, you capture his lips in the middle of his babbling. The rest of his words are swallowed by your own mouth. His tongue darts out from his mouth to lick at your lips and coax yours forward.

Your own moans slip between kisses, Jisung can feel the vibrations against his mouth and they drive him absolutely wild. His hands ball up into fists; he wants to touch you so bad. 

“Y/N,” he says your name in between kisses. “Please, c-cut me down.” Your kisses travel down to his jawline. “I want to– Fu-huh-huck! ” You bite down on his neck harshly, sucking a bright purple hickey underneath it. 

Jisung rolls his hips into yours. You can feel how absolutely rock hard his cock is through his sweats. 

“N-Need to touch you. Hah! I’m going insane, Y/N.”

Begs sound so good coming from his lips. 

You run your hands down his chest to tease at the hem of his hoodie before sliding them underneath the fabric and up his bare chest. The muscle that greets you underneath it is a pleasant surprise.

The hard lines of his abs and chest run along the pads of your fingertips. He flexes and tenses under your touch.

Jisung throws his head back with a groan, his weight shifts around on his feet. It feels so fucking good . Every single touch to his body is heaven sent. 

At the top of his chest, you curl your fingers and rake your nails down his skin.

The wail that tears from his throat makes your heart rate pick up ten fold. It sends a lightning bolt of pleasure through your body. 

“Oh my god, please do that again! ” Jisung begs, his mouth hanging open as he pants over and over again. It seems like he can’t catch his breath. 

Who were you to deny him?

With a featherlight touch, you let your fingers trail up, up, up his body. The closer you got to the top, the faster Jisung’s breathing picks up. 

Right before you curled your fingers again, you smash your lips together in another searing kiss. When you claw down his quickly reddening skin, his cry is swallowed up by your own mouth.

You don’t stop your fingers on their downward descent, you tease the waistband of his sweats, letting your fingers curl around the top of the band and touching the taut skin underneath.

“Ah, hah.” Jisung pants into your mouth. He leans forward and sucks on your bottom lip, pulling it back for it to snap against your teeth. “I want to touch you so bad, Y/N, please .”

“Be patient,” you say against his lips. He doesn’t hear it, but he feels it. A pathetic whine responds to your words. 

You kiss his lips a few more times before dropping down to your knees in front of him. 

“Holy shit,” he breathes out. “Oh god, oh my god.”

You grab his legs with both of your hands starting at the knees and run them up his thighs, taking your time on your ascent. 

“Fuck, fuck , this is really happening.” Jisung gulps. He pulls harder and harder on the ropes. 

When your hands reach the top of his thighs, you run one closer and palm his erection over the top of his sweats. A deep, guttural moan is Jisung’s only response. Even through his sweats you can feel how his cock twitches in your grasp.

His hips buck into your hand when you squeeze him. “F-Fuck, I– Oh god– This is really happening and I can’t even fucking see it .”

You smirk. Maybe you should show him a small bit of mercy. Just a small amount. 

Leaning forward, you kiss his cock over his sweatpants. Jisung gasps and twitches again.

You stand up quickly, coming nose to nose with him. Your hands come up to cup his cheeks, they’re so warm from his flushed face.

“Y-Y/N,” he gasps. You peck his lips, letting them linger on his while your hands come up to his ears to take the plugs out. “Y/N,” he repeats on your lips.

“Hi, Jisung,” you breathe against his mouth before kissing him again, letting the earplugs drop to the ground.

You don’t linger for too long, you kiss down his face, down his neck, and then you fall to your knees once more.

“Jesus, Y/N.” 

You don’t tease him too much this time, you grab the waistband of his pants and tug them down, his rock hard cock finally coming out. His tip is red and angry. God, how can a dick look so pretty? 

Just as quickly as you got his cock out of his pants, you wrap your hand around him, pumping your hand up and down slowly. 

“Ohhhh my goood,” Jisung mewls. His thighs tense up and flex each time you stroke up and down. “Fuck yeah, Y/N. God, your hands are so fucking soft.”

You tighten your grip and Jisung whines. 

“Yeah? Does that feel good, baby?”

His cock twitches in your hand at the nickname at the same time a tiny whine escapes his throat.

“Does it?”

“Y-Yes,” he answers shyly.

“Louder, Jisung.”

“Yes, it feels good!”

“Good boy.” Without warning, you lean forward and take the entirety of him inside your mouth.

You can feel his knees buckle and if it wasn’t for the restraints keeping him suspended from the ceiling, he probably would’ve fallen to the ground. 

“Oh, oh m-my, f-fuck, Y/N!”

You’re relentless. You bob your head back and forth on his dick, letting your tongue swirl around the tip when you come up just to go back down and swallow him completely. Jisung’s hands are balled into such tight fists that his knuckles are turning white.

So many different pitches of whines, moans, and groans fall so easily from his lips. Compliments come out in between each one. 

“So good,” he cries. “I can’t fucking– holy shit.”

In some part of your mind, you always knew he would be vocal during sex– but never this vocal. He hasn’t shut up once. Not that you’re complaining, quite the opposite really. You fucking love every single noise that he makes. Each one sends a shock down between your legs. 

Too often you’ve been with partners that conceal how you’re making them feel, but not anymore. Jisung is making sure you know exactly how well you’re doing. 

“Such a perfect mouth, oh god. So fucking warm.”

You let your hand travel up his hoodie again, his abs are clenching and releasing over and over again with how hard he’s panting, you can feel each one under your hands. 

“Yes, yes, yes,” he pants as your hand goes up. “Fucking hurt me, yeah, please, scratch me, Y/N.”

God, the way he’s talking to you is fucking sinful. It’s perfect .

You scratch down his chest just as harshly as you did twice previously. 

Again, Jisung lets out a wail, his hips bucking and fucking his cock down your throat. You gag around him but keep him down your throat regardless.

“I-I-I’m gunna, holy shit, Y/N, I’m g’na– g’na—”

Now, you can’t have that yet, can you?

Quickly, you pull off his cock, letting yourself take a gulp of air. 

Jisung cries out from his ruined orgasm. “No! Shit! Fuck! Why?”

You look around the room while he throws his mini temper tantrum. There’s a small kitchen off to the side of the suite. 

As if you have nothing better to do, you meander over to it, looking around. 

“Y/N?” Jisung asks, hearing you walk away.

“Hm?” you respond.

“W-Where did you go?”

“Still here, baby, why?”

He shifts around, pulling on the ropes. The red color on his ears is getting deeper and deeper. “Just um– Why did you leave?”

You giggle. “Looking for something.”

You open one of the drawers, close it, then open another until you find what you’re looking for. It glints and catches your eye in the third drawer you check. You pick up the knife that was inside the drawer.

You’re walking back in his direction with the knife in your hand.

“D-Did you find what you needed?”

“Yep.”

With frightening grace, you reach up and slice the ropes holding his wrists in the air.

He almost drops to the ground, but you grab a hold of him before he has a chance to fall into the carpet. 

Jisung wastes no time, he grabs at your waist with both of his hands. Through the silk fabric of your dress, you feel the heat of his touch. It scorches into your skin and you wish he would brand his very handprints there.

His lips are already on yours again, feverishly kissing you as if you would disappear if he stopped even for a moment. He takes one second to rip the blindfold off his eyes and then he’s back on your mouth.

The hands on your waist don’t stay there long. They run all along your figure, up in your hair, over your neck, grabbing your ass, gripping your hips, he’s everywhere. 

You back up a bit, pulling Jisung with you until the back of your legs are about to hit the bed. Quickly, you spin the two of you around, pushing his chest so that he falls back onto the bed. 

When Jisung finally blinks the confusion from his eyes, his breath catches in his throat at the sight of you at the foot of the bed. 

You’re looking at him like you’re about to devour his very soul. Your hair is frizzy and tousled, the straps of your dress falling off your shoulders, your lipstick smudged over your puffy, kiss swollen lips.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he murmurs. His fingers curl into the blanket.

You straddle his legs and crawl onto the bed, hiking the skirt of your dress up enough for Jisung to see the strong muscle of your thighs. 

“There’s no way I’m awake right now,” he whispers, hands grabbing at your bare legs and running them up to push your dress further up your body. “I must have been shot. I’m in Heaven right now.”

With a sultry chuckle, you cup his cheek and let your thumb swipe over his lips. “I’m real, baby.”

“Oh my god.”

You reach down and take a hold of his cock, pumping him up and down a few more times. Jisung moans and fights for his eyes to stay open, he can’t get enough of the sight of your hand wrapped around him.

With your other hand, you reach down and pull your panties to the side, revealing your dripping cunt. 

“Holy fuck, you’re so wet,” Jisung whines. His fingers run up your folds, collecting your wetness on his digits and bringing them up to his mouth. He moans around his own fingers at your taste, his eyes rolling back in his skull. “Please, I need to–”

You cut him off by squeezing his cock. “Next time. I need you now .”

“Yes, ma’am,” he squeaks out. 

As if he would ever complain.

You line his cock up with your entrance, Jisung grabs your hips with both of his hands, his thumbs pressing against the bone so hard. His breathing is getting faster and faster with each passing second.

Slowly, you sink down on his cock.

Both of you moan out in unison. The stretch feels fucking marvelous inside of you. Jisung’s eyes roll back in his head once more. 

His moans dissolve into silence as his mouth stretches open in an ‘O’. He throbs inside you right before you lift your hips just to drop them again. 

“Oh god,” you moan. “Jisung, you feel so fucking good.”

“Move, please ,” he begs and you bounce up and down again and again. Each time you drop down, it shoots pleasure down through your thighs and into your toes.

You grab his face and smash his lips with yours once more. His tongue immediately finds yours. 

Jisung’s hands wander from your hips all the way around your body to grip your ass while you ride him, his fingers dig into the flesh, kneading it with each bounce. 

“Fuck, fuck,” he murmurs into your mouth. “Pussy so fucking tight.”

“Just for you.”

“O-Oh, fuck yeah . Just like that, baby.”

Jisung pulls away from your lips to kiss down your neck the way you did to him earlier. He takes his hands off your ass to pull the straps of your dress down your arms for your breasts to fall out of the top.

“Shit, baby,” he whines before taking a nipple in his mouth.

Moaning, you pull his hair tighter, keeping his face buried in your chest– not that he seems to mind. His eyebrows pinch together, moans vibrating against your chest as he licks and sucks at your nipple.

His other hand comes up to pinch and pull at the other. Each tweak and flick of his tongue makes your walls clamp down on his cock.

“Your cock feels so good, Jisung,” you moan, clenching on him again. “Stretching me so good, so fucking big.”

He moans, sucking a hickey on the underside of one of your tits. 

The pitch of both of your moans begin to get higher and higher the closer you get to your peaks. Jisung’s heels dig into the carpet and he starts fucking up into you.

“Fuck!” you cry out, holding him tighter. His thrusts are so much wilder than your bounces were. Each one fucks right into your g-spot. “Ji– Jisung, oh god!”

“Yeah?” He pulls away from your chest and looks up at you with half lidded eyes. “Does that feel good? Am I making you feel good?”

“Yes, yes! Keep going, Ji!”

Every single thrust is driving you wild. Everything about him makes you feel crazy, everything down to the sweat beading on his forehead.

He reaches down and presses his thumb against your clit, making you cry out. He rubs circles in the same tempo as his thrusts. 

Closer and closer you approach your own climax, his touch feels too good.

Jisung looks down, watching where his cock disappears inside you over and over again. The very sight of it makes his mouth go dry. 

He groans and falls into your chest. 

“Say it for me, Y/N, say it,” he pants into your neck. “Say you’re close. I-I’m going to fucking bust, say you’re close, I need you to cum on my cock. Need it s-so bad.”

“I am, I am,” you repeat like a mantra. Your own pleasure is making you feel inside, his cock is abusing your walls just right, his thumb on your clit adding an extra level of insanity. 

You pull more at his hair.

Close, close, close. It’s all you can think of. Jisung is enveloping all of your senses. He’s everything in your mind and body and even your soul.

“Gunna cum!” you cry out. “Cumming, cu– cumming!”

With just three more thrusts, your walls clamp down on Jisung’s cock, triggering his own release.

“Jisung, fuck!”

He bites down on your neck, crying out and grabbing you tightly with his free hand. He clings onto you like he would die if he let go.

Hot, sticky cum drips over your walls, leaking out around his cock.

Both of you are panting heavily, unable to move and detangle yourselves from one another. 

Slowly, you release your death grip on his hair, letting your nails drag along his scalp like you did earlier. He hums against your neck, his hands finding your hips again, thumbs massaging you over your dress.

The gentleness of his touch makes you clench around him, your cunt still going through the aftershock of your orgasm.

“Jeeesus…” Jisung moans out, a bit overstimulated. You giggle and pull back to look down at your best friend. He looks up at you with a delighted smile across his face.

You giggle and continue to comb through his hair. 

His eyes fall closed happily and he leans into your touch.

This should feel awkward. You should be having some sort of ‘post-nut clarity’ where you freak out for sleeping with your best friend, but you’re not. 

Right here, right now, you feel safe and content. And your relationship with Jisung feels the same– if not better.

“I knew it,” he hums.

You cock your head to the side. “Knew what?”

“You’re obsessed with me.”

Laughing, you lean forward and press a long kiss to his lips. “Yeah.” You kiss him again. “Maybe I am.”

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

“So J was captured and tied up in another room in the convention center?” Chan asks.

You and Jisung had safely returned to Korea with The Refuge about two hours ago. And, per protocol, you both immediately went to Chan’s office for a debrief.

“Affirmative,” you answer. 

“And you got him back, obviously. No problems after that?”

“No, sir.”

Jisung shifts on his chair next to you.

“Uneventful beyond that one hiccup?”

You tongue your cheek. “Yes, sir.”

Chan eyes the two of you curiously from the other side of his desk. But, the mission was complete and everything was done. There was nothing he needed to be wary of. For now.

“Understood. I’ll read about the mission more in your reports. You’re both dismissed.”

The two of you are leaving Chan’s office with thinly veiled smirks on your faces. Just as you’re about to close the door behind you, he calls out.

“Might want to cover the hickeys next time!”

[charlietheepicwriter7]

R̸̜̈́u̵̟͘t̶̺̓ḧ̵͇l̷̟̋ē̶̘s̵̨̎s̵̩͒ṋ̵̋e̵͙̐s̵̡̈́ś̸͙

Get in the Water prompt Storm alternate version Animatic Fanart

There was a spell, Constantine had explained after his own trip to the afterlife. Something to contain Danyal's soul long enough to resolve his unfinished business, to keep him still and away from the influences of his fellow dead. And if that didn't work, Constantine continued, then there were ways to force a spirit to rest. It was better for a ghost to move on by themselves, but if there was no other choice...

Damian hoped Danyal would choose to rest on his own. That he'd let him explain, finally.

Danyal had been weak. Strong in a fight, but too weak to kill, and that infuriated Damian. But he was scared more than he was angry. Because that weakness would get Danyal killed, could get Damian killed, could get the League killed. Even the newest recruits had a stronger desire to kill than Danyal.

He was the weakest link in the chain. And while their mother had taught them to be ruthless, Danyal had remained limp with mercy.

They needed Danyal's body. It would be Danyal's tie to the earth, Constantine explained as he joined them on the Batplane. The souls of the dead don't often linger on the mortal plain. The magician had speculated that the only reason Danyal had managed to manifest in the waters below Gotham was because of Damian's presence, but his remains would keep him stable this side of life for however long it took to heal his soul.

But was that even possible?

"I don't know, kid," Constantine admitted during the plane ride. "Wish I had a better answer for you, but... Your brother is a siren now. And from the sound of it? He really wants you dead."

"Then why didn't he kill me?" Damian argued. "He had hours to do it... or minutes..." The time he spent in that green world felt longer than the ten minutes Father couldn't find him, but... "He had me in his grasp and let me go. Doesn't that mean he didn't want to-"

"Have you ever heard the phrase 'Playing with your food?'" Constantine asked instead. "Sirens aren't known for letting their prey go. If we're out here, its because he wants us here."

They--Damian, Father, Constantine, Grayson, and Todd--landed in Nanda Parbat after a few hours. There was a crypt inside for members of the Al Ghul family who didn't use the Lazarus Pits. It was there Danyal's body was entombed. They would have to steal it.

And it was unfortunate that Constantine got them caught within five minutes of entry.

Damian glared daggers at the man as they were led towards the Lazarus Pit. Constantine shrugged. "What? I don't want assassins chasing after me because of some light grave robbing! Besides, we need to explain the situation anyway-"

"And what, precisely, needs to be explained?" asked a woman from inside the chamber. The heroes were pushed inside, only to see Talia Al Ghul standing where her father should have been. The Lazarus Pit hissed and boiled behind her, casing the cave in a ghoulish light.

Damian could hear laughing.

Father stepped forward. "Talia. Where's Ra's?" Grandfather was the biggest threat to their plan succeeding.

Mother... looked away, unable to meet his gaze. "I do not know. At the present moment... the Demon Head is missing."

You could hear a pin drop. "What do you mean?" Father demanded.

"It's as I said; he is missing. Yesterday, he was alone in the Pit, and hours later, no one could find him." She glanced behind her, at the waters, before looking back at them. "I had assumed he'd left to care for the League's interests. Now-" She tilted her chin up, looking down at them. "What exactly do you need to explain? What is so important that you break into my home to tell me?"

Stepping forward, Constantine explained. Mother looked grim as he spoke of Danyal, but did not interrupt. "We want to put his soul to rest. But for that, we need access to his body-"

"You dare ask for such a thing?" Mother snarled. "As if I even believe you. My son would never-"

"Your son?" Grayson snapped. "From the looks of it, you didn't care for either of your children!"

As the group descended into an argument, Damian heard laughter again, Danyal's high pitched giggle harmonizing with something deep and bone shaking. The Lazarus Pits loomed over him, beckoning him, whispering. Damian took a step towards it as his mother said, "I don't even have his body!"

"What?" Damian snapped at his mother, focusing back on the conversation. "But the crypts-"

"After your brother's murder, the Demon Head ordered for the culprit to be found. But they were never discovered." Because the culprit was Damian, he knew, and no one else ever learned about it. "I wanted to place him in the Pits immediately, but I was ordered to stay my hand until the murderer was caught. But..."

"He never was," Damian finished for her. "And then you put Danyal into the waters?"

"Yes." She closed her eyes. "And he never came back out. Even if it was too late, he'd still come back as the undead, but he never rose from the waters."

"Then this is entirely my fault."

"Finally," Danyal whispered in his ear, breath chilling his skin.

Damian did his best to ignore it. Danyal was haunting him. Danyal needed to be put to rest. If they couldn't do it Constantine's way, then they had to put him to rest another way.

Grayson looked troubled. "Robin, it's not your fault-"

"I'm the one who killed him," Damian confessed. Everyone stared at him. Grayson, horrified; Mother, blank; Father, betrayed. Damian continued, "I overheard you and Grandfather arranging a fight to the death, and I knew who would win. I couldn't... I couldn't allow Danyal to die without the Al Ghul name, in disgrace as the one who wasn't good enough. So I killed him, assassinated him, and now he's haunting me for revenge." Damian looked at the Pit. "So go ahead, Danyal."

"Damian, what are you saying?"

"Danyal wants revenge on the person who killed him; I'm giving it to him." Todd was staring at him. Damian might not be able to see past his helmet, but he could feel the respect coming off the man. "Danyal, I know you're here. Please come out." If he focused long enough, he could just making out wheezing breaths. "I can hear you, please-"

Father grabbed Damian by the shoulders. "Damian, listen to what you're saying! You're offering your life up for nothing!"

"B's right." Grayson placed a hand on his shoulder. "There's got to be another way. You don't have to do this!"

"Yes I do!" Damian ripped himself out of Nightwing's grip. "I'm the one who killed him! I'm the one at fault! My brother is suffering because of me, I have to save him-"

Stepping between them all, Mother slapped him across the face.

And the Pit's whispers fell silent.

Damian stared up at his mother, cheek throbbing with pain. She glared back. "Cease this behavior at once," she snapped. "There's no need to get so worked up over a ghost, of all thing-"

"T̴̯̃al̵̬͂ị̴̿a̵̮̕ ̵̼͐A̴̗̕l̷͈̆ ̴͚̓G̵͎̀h̷̻͒u̶̜͋l̴͍̀."

This time, everyone could hear Danyal's voice, filled with static and corrupted. Damian swallowed as his dead brother continued,

"D̸͕͠o̶̪̅ ̸͍̆ỹ̵̗ö̸̲ũ̸̧ ̶͖̚k̶̻͊ņ̸͐o̸̹̚ẘ̸̙w̷̛̹ḧ̸͚́o̷͉̅ ̵͈̑I̶̪̽ á̵̞m̶͙̂?̸̻͂"

The cavern shook as the Lazarus Pit bucked, a wave forming in the absolute center of the water. The wave rose, pillaring up above their head and brushing the ceiling. A cold wind rushed through the room and blew out the torches on the walls, leaving only embers and the occasional florescent behind. Damian braced himself for the waters to rush out and flood.

Instead, the water fell back into the pit, like it had never risen in the first place, leaving behind a lone figure in its wake.

"Danyal," Mother whispered.

And the dead boy glared back at her with pure contempt.

[604to647]

Little Showgirl

12.8K / Modern AU Marcus Acacius x fem!reader

Summary: You do your roommate a favour that lands you in hot water with the head of security at Caesar’s Palace.

Warnings: 18+ Content (MDNI pls). The opposite of a meet cute (meet hate?). A little insecurity on Reader's part; no body shape or size is described even though Reader wears a showgirl costume (we assume it's an inclusive event). There is probably an age gap somewhere given that Acacius is canonically 50 (?), but I didn't intend to write one so feel free to imagine everyone at whatever age you want. Unwanted touching (not by Marcus), accidentally flashing, thigh riding, eventual nicknames.

A/N 1: Written for @toomanystoriessolittletime’s 47 Minutes in Heaven writing challenge, the prompt I got was 'Enemies to Lovers' - thank you for the fun event, Steph!

A/N 2: I don't know what happened with the w/c 😭😭 I need you to know I really tried to cut it down - sorreeeeee. We were supposed to go to a friend's vow renewal in Vegas this month, but cancelled our trip due to current travel advisories 😫, so maybe this was my way of visiting Vegas in lieu of actually going?

Apologies to Janet Jackson for dragging you into this 🙏🏻 / Dividers by @saradika-graphics 🫶🏻

You walk hurriedly down a lavish corridor on the concourse level of Caesar’s Palace, trying to maintain some semblance of grace and propriety while desperately holding your showgirl costume against your chest to prevent it from falling.  Your other hand clutches the costume’s feather fan prop and a sewing kit that one of the housekeepers mercifully offered you when you ran by.  Nodding politely to guests as you pass, you hope against hope that the heavy sequin and beaded outfit, whose back clasp is currently broken, doesn’t slip and give any of these nice tourists a real show.  All you have to do is make it to the employee change room to hopefully mend the garment, and afterwards go back to work with no one the wiser to your wardrobe malfunction.

Anxiety alleviating slightly as you round the corner towards the service elevator, your relief is short-lived when you see the elevator already waiting with its doors open and in it stands a tall, broad-shouldered man dressed in celebratory Roman battle skirts of bright white and gold.

Dammit, not this fucking prick.  Just what you need right now.

The salt and pepper curly haired Adonis spots you just as you do him, and you swear you see his jaw tighten and tick beneath his matching grey flecked scruff; eyes narrowing, he reaches forward and you can see him aggressively pressing the Close Door button.

“Oh no, you don’t,” you mutter, doubling your steps; the beads and pearls of your loosened outfit sway violently, making tiny music as you rush to slip between the doors of the elevator before they close.

The man glares at you and you glare right back, reaching past him to swipe your (well, your roommate’s) access badge before realizing the button for the basement floor you need has already been pressed.  Great.  You’re both going to the same place.

“General,” you greet him, sarcastic.

The General nods in acknowledgment, squaring back the shoulders of his impressive frame, somehow making him even larger and more intimidating than he already is, before wholly ignoring you, choosing to stare at the cold steel in front of him.

2 Days Ago

“Pleeeeeeasssseeeeeeee!” Your roommate is on her knees next to you on the couch, hands clasped in aggressive prayer, pouting and eyes pleading.

You sigh, “Arishat, what exactly are you even asking me?”  You had heard and understood her perfectly the first time; you just want her to repeat it, hoping that upon hearing her own words out loud again, she’ll comprehend the absurdity of the favour she’s asking.

“You only need to give up your staycation for one day – and I’ll owe you forever,” her big brown eyes somehow growing twice in size.

Tilting your head, you give her an incredulous look but remain silent.

“Seriously, it’s no big deal!  You know how the Strip is putting on Golden Days of Vegas events for the next two weeks to attract tourists?  All the resorts are bringing back the glitz and glamour of classic Las Vegas – like a Rat Pack era vibe.  Won’t that be fun?”

“MMmhmmmm,” you hum noncommittally.  As locals, you and Arishat hardly even went to the Strip, but it did sound like a lot of fun for visitors to the city.

Not letting your lack of outward enthusiasm deter her, your roommate chippers on excitedly, “Anywaaays… Caesar’s Palace is going all out – hiring extra staff to be old school gladiator greeters, Cleopatra waitresses, and classic showgirls to wander the property!  Think of all those glamourous Bob Mackie inspired costumes!” 

“I bet the costumes will be gorgeous,” you indulge her a little, “but what does that have to do with me, babe?”

“Ummm… well, you know I booked the showgirl gig at Caesar’s…”

You did know.

“… but, Janet Jackson is considering extending her residency at Resorts World and is auditioning for background performers.  And auditions just happen to be the first day of Golden Days!!  I can’t do both!  If I miss the first day at Caesar’s then I lose an entire two-weeks of work!  But… babe!! It’s Janet!!  How can I give up a chance to try and perform with her??!”

She can’t.  You sigh again.

“So, you want me to be you for a day?”

Shuffling closer on her knees, Arishat, your bestest friend in the world who you know would move heaven and earth for you if needed, and who works harder than anyone to pursue her passions, takes your hands in hers, “I already have my ID card for Caesar’s – there’s no picture because we’re just temporary hires so it won’t matter what you look like.  I also have the costume – it’s beautiful, you’ll love it.  Please just fill in for me on the first day – it should be slow, mainly orientation, but I’m sure it’s just walking around the resort in groups and taking pictures with tourists… no performing or anything.  And the next day I’ll take over - no one will know I wasn’t there the day before and I won’t get fired!”

Your head swims with uncertainty – unlike Arishat, you’re not used to being in the spotlight or working in the entertainment sector, much more comfortable in the anonymity of your office job; but you can’t say no to her.  Closing your eyes and exhaling slowly, you let silence hang in the air for a second or two more, “Ok, show me the costume and tell me exactly what I have to do tomorrow.”

Her squeal nearly pierces your eardrum.

Yesterday

It’s not even 8 a.m. and you already regret agreeing to Arishat’s outlandish request.  First, navigating the Strip’s backstreets to the Caesar’s Palace parkade had proven to be a near Herculean feat in patience and focus, taking twice as long as you had planned for.  Now you’re stuck circling the parkade, crawling along at a snail’s pace in this concrete labyrinth trying to find the entrance to the employee’s parking lot.

Did they have to make it so hard to find?  And why is this place so huge?  There must be a million cars here.

Hands clutched tightly at ten and two, you’re hunched forward and squinting like an old lady, trying to read any and all signs in hopes that one of them will point you in the right direction.  You’re pretty sure you’re lost.  You know you’ve gone in this same circle at least twice.

Just when you think things couldn’t get worse, you spy a fast-approaching car in your rear-view mirror.  Instead of passing, the other car practically kisses your bumper and proceeds to ride your ass as you meander the parkade looking for the employee entrance.  And if you weren’t already unnerved, you see the driver of the car start to gesticulate wildly – throwing their hands up in the air, frustrated at your slow pace.

“Geez Louise,” you mutter, “just go around?”

But they don’t.  They just keep right on your tail as you descend deeper and deeper into the lot.  Mercifully, the parking gods take pity on you and you finally spot a small, discreet Employees ➡️ sign.  After heading in the direction indicated, you’re rewarded with another identical sign; about to celebrate finally being on the right track, you hear it:

Honk.

What the fuck?  Then again.  Honk.  Are you being honked at?

The car behind is still so obnoxiously close you can make out that the driver is a man whose eyes are making aggressive eye contact via your rearview mirror, and yes, he is in fact leaning on his horn.

Chill, dude.  You narrow your eyes, certain the driver can see your annoyed expression, and continue at the same speed, unwilling to miss what you’re looking for just to appease some impatient stranger.

When you finally come upon a gated entryway with a hanging “Employees Only” sign above it, you can’t help but do a mini celebration dance in your seat; pulling forward, you roll down your window and swipe the ID card Arishat gave you last night over the access pad.

Nothing.  The gate doesn’t lift and the card reader’s indication light blinks infuriatingly red.

Maybe you’re too far away.  You unbuckle your seatbelt so you can lean out the window, stretching your arm out to wave the card over the reader again.  Nothing.  You try again.  And again.  Angling the card differently each time, but no matter what, the control pad won’t recognize your card.

The driver side door of the car behind yours opens and out steps the largest man you’ve ever seen.  Impossibly broad, a wall of solid muscle whose physical prowess is evident in every stalking stride he takes towards your car, the imposing figure reaches your open window in just a few steps.  Your eyes can’t help but stare at the monstrous hand that comes to a rest on top of the access box, nearly dwarfing the machinery with its size.  Mouth agape and eyes wide, you follow the long line of the man’s equally massive arm to his face which has suddenly come into view. 

The face is older, knowing, lined with resolve.  Serious looking and anchored by a strong aquiline nose sitting perfectly between two piercing, espresso-rich eyes, the striking profile is bordered by scruffy but evenly trimmed facial hair that blends perfectly up into head of the same speckled chestnut and grey curls.  It’s a face you might admire as handsome if it wasn’t scowling at you.

The intensity radiating off the man is making you nervous, “Oh!  Hey, sorry… I don’t know what I’m doing wrong… it won’t register my card no matter how I try to sw-”

“Are you even supposed to be here?” a low, gravely baritone cuts you off.

Um, okay, rude.  Unease evaporating, you hold up your temporary employee ID indignantly, “Yes, I’m here to work Golden Days.”

The man inspects your card with suspicion and sighs in exasperation before snatching your pass out of your hand.  Okay, double rude.

He expertly presses the card right up against the reader and you see the light flash green before hearing the gears above the metal gate whirl to life.  Wordlessly, the man hands you back your card and starts walking back to his car.

“Thank you!” you call out to his retreating back, but when he doesn’t even acknowledge you, you roll your eyes and your window, ready to drive forward as soon as the gate’s lifted high enough.

Upon entering the employee parking lot, you find a free space almost immediately - and close to the elevators to boot!  Grinning that your luck has surely turned, you do a sharp left and back into the prime parking space – hooray!  You’re just cutting your engine when you see your shadow pull to a stop right in front of your car with the driver, still glaring at you, making a double-handed open palmed gesture and yelling what you think is, Are you kidding me?

With a quizzical look tinged in agitation, you shake your head at him, What?  As you step out of your vehicle, the man takes off at an aggressive speed, tires squealing as he races past the row of parked cars - but not before you see his upper lip curl up in a snarl.

What a jerk!

Just in case, however, you survey the space you’ve parked in while retrieving your things from the trunk – upon finding no reason not to park here, you quickly head over to the elevator bank, pressing your key card against the reader like you saw the man do at the lot gate to gain access.  You’ve just stepped into the elevator when you hear the thundering footsteps of someone running towards the alcove before beeping in.  Naturally, you hold the doors, but almost regret doing so when you see the glowering face of your new best friend.  He’s staring at you with a look of pure, unadulterated loathing, the intensity of which is so shocking, you find yourself shaking a little as you swipe you card against the elevator reader, momentarily forgetting which floor Arishat told you to go to.

“You’re going to B4,” your elevator mate gruffs, roughly brushing his arm past yours to press the button.

“Thank you,” you murmur quietly.  Just because someone’s an impolite ass doesn’t mean you have to be as well.

The ride is eerily silent and oddly strained.  Small talk is out of the question, obviously - but the tension is killing you.  Just as you consider thanking the curmudgeon again for his help so far today, he opens his mouth.

“You took my parking spot.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re. Parked. In. My. Spot,” the man grits, barely moving his lips.

You’re confused, “There wasn’t a sign saying it was reserved?”

“Doesn’t matter.  I always park there.”

And to think you were about to try and make nice?  The man is being completely unreasonable; you look at him in disbelief, snapping, “Well, how the hell was I supposed to know that?”

“Well, what do you know?  You don’t know where you’re going, you don’t know how anything here works, and you certainly don’t know your place.”

The look on your face must register your utter shock at being yelled at by a total stranger, because for a second, the man’s stormy mocha eyes soften and flicker with something like regret.  He opens his mouth, though nothing comes out.

“Well, I know that you’re the rudest, most entitled asshole I’ve ever met.”

The behemoth closes his mouth and glares at you.  You glare right back.  Neither of you breaks eye contact until the elevator reaches its destination with a ding.

As the doors open to the welcomed sound of people chattering, rushing around and going about their morning, the man gestures with dramatic flair, waving for you to go ahead, “Ladies first.  Wouldn’t want to be rude.”

You walk out without a backwards glance, grateful that there’s clear signage indicating where the change room is so you can storm off without being seen asking for directions.  That better be the last time you see that dillweed.

---

Turns out you would see him less than an hour later.

The change room had been bustling and chaotic but positively charged with excitement and supportive female energy.  Happily, you know a few of the girls through Arishat and they really rally around you – helping tuck and adjust your showgirl costume, fixing your hair and touching up your makeup.  Still feeling completely out of your element, you appreciate their efforts to soothe your anxiety, assuring you the embroidered fabric of your costume only appears sheer, but actually provides sufficient coverage and that you look the part of confident, show stopping entertainer.

Currently, your giggling group joins other showgirls, Egyptian queens and men dressed as gladiators in a small meeting hall, ready to get your assignments for the start of Caesar’s Golden Days.

A hush falls over the room as several people enter and get up on the raised platform at the front.  Every one of the newcomers is dressed as a Roman gladiator, though their dress seems somewhat grander than those worn by the entertainment talent you’re sitting with.  Your eyes are immediately drawn to the largest, most broad-shouldered figure; the breadth of the man fills out his battle armour of dark leather and metal without an inch to spare, a golden medusa on his chest plate gleams impressive, ready to leap out at real or imagined enemies.  Dark leather skirts do nothing to hide the man’s wide, powerful thighs and you have no doubt that his arms are similarly burly, though they’re currently covered by a luxurious red cape with gold trim that fastens with authority at his thick neck.

Oh fuck. 

It’s him.  The muscular, drool-worthy snack you’re currently ogling is the same despicable cretin that made your morning a living hell.  Then, as if he can feel your eyes on him, the man turns his head towards you, eyebrows cocking in recognition.  His face morphs into what can only be described as a look of revulsion, eyes shooting daggers at you while his mouth pulls down in a frown of disgust.  You flinch as if burned and look away quickly, remembering the sting of his earlier words.

Feelings of inadequacy rapidly resurfacing, you force yourself to blink back tears, grateful for when the orientation begins.  The first presenter goes over the general purpose and expectation of your roles: walk predesignated routes around the property, meet and greet guests and tourists, pose for pictures, don’t break character, stay with your assigned group, use staff designated elevators and pathways to get back to staff only areas to keep up the “illusion” of your personas; it’s nothing Arishat hasn’t prepared you for. 

What is unexpected is the aplomb with which the next speaker is introduced, “Even when he isn’t dressed like a Roman goliath, this is the man who keeps us all in line and all of Caesar’s Palace safe and for that we’ve always called him our General.  Please welcome our fearless leader, Head of Security, General Marcus Acacius!!”

You roll your eyes upon seeing your parkade nemesis take the mic, annoyance grating in your chest until your heart drops into your stomach at a terrible realization.  Marcus is the HEAD OF SECURITY.  The very person whose radar you should definitely avoid lest he discover your falsified identity, is the very person you’ve managed to piss off and directly insult.  Shit, shit, shit.  If Marcus wanted, he could definitely get you, or rather Arishat, fired.

Panicking, you only half listen to Marcus’ remarks, barely registering the velvet honey of his baritone - commanding but so much more soothing than the indignant growl with which he addressed you earlier, “Members of my security team have been assigned to your groups to ensure that you all remain safe, that no guests or guest interactions cross any boundaries.  We will be dressed as you see here, similar to those of you playing gladiators so that we blend in; one or more of us will always be with your group, don’t hesitate to come to us with any concerns.  I myself will be walking all the routes and periodically checking in with each group.  Please don’t be shy about bringing anything to my attention either.  Thank you.”

After some applause, everyone gets up and starts filing towards the stage to get their group assignments.  As you patiently wait your turn, trying to exude some of that extra confidence that your admittedly beautiful, embellished showgirl costume deserves, you resign yourself to a mature, unpleasant decision. 

You’re going to apologize. 

As much as it pains you to gratify yourself to this egotistical douche nozzle, you can’t risk messing up your best friend’s gig.  Tracking Marcus with your eyes to gauge an appropriate time to approach, you’ve just step onto the raised platform when he happens to turn and look directly at you; seizing the opportunity, you step out of line and head towards him.  To your complete mortification, the General immediately turns around and starts walking away.  Dammit!

Quickening your steps, you attempt to catch up to his long strides that, if you were type to get paranoid about this sort of thing, you’d swear are speeding up at your approach.  Practically breaking out in a jog, you call out as discreetly as you can, “Mr. Acacius!  Wait, Mr. Acacius, I just want to – OOF!”

The titan halts and turns at the sound of your voice, but his unanticipated actions make him an immovable object to your unstoppable force as you crash with a thud into his towering mass.  To make matters even worse, in an attempt to not topple over completely, you do a little side shuffle and inadvertently bring down the heel of your bedazzled shoe right onto Marcus’ sandalled foot.

“FUCK!  OW – what the hell are you doing?!” the General roars and the entire room turns to stare at the commotion.

“Omigod, omigod, I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t mean to!  Are you hurt? Omigod, I’m so sorry!” you’re babbling, contrite and embarrassed; if you thought you were going to cry before, that was nothing compared to how you feel right now.

Marcus’ face is menacing, grimaced with pain, “OF COURSE it hurts!  You stomped on my foot for god’s sake.  How are never where you’re supposed to be?  Get back in line and get your assignment like everyone else!” 

Thoroughly humiliated and afraid of doing any more damage, you back away without another word, scurrying to the assignment line while trying to make yourself as small as you feel.  Afraid to look back, you miss the hard lines of the General’s face softening, looking like he might want to call after you before thinking the better of it and hobbling away.

---

Thankfully, the rest of your day passes uneventfully.  The work is relatively straightforward, though tiring.  As promised, the artisanal craftsmanship of your costume is a marvel, gorgeous but laden down with beads, gems, and pearls - it’s heavy.  The matching heels, also stunning, start to pinch, dig, rub in all the usual places after hours upon hours of non-stop standing and walking.  Unable to feel completely confident walking around in public in such state of dress, or undress rather, you happily let the other girls in your group shine, preferring to hang back and draw less attention to yourself.  Unused to feeling so exposed or needing to be “on” for such a long stretch of time, your social battery and energy levels drop gradually over the course of the day.

To your relief, you hardly see Marcus, though as promised, he does check in with your group periodically.  While you do try to stay out of his way, you can’t help but notice two things.  The first is that he’s highly respected and obviously very good at his job; more than once you witness his team and other resort staff acknowledging and deferring to his authority and the quiet command of his expertise.  He never barks orders or yell at anyone (just you, it seems), relying instead on confidence and a calm gravitas to charge his directives and fully control any situation.  If you’re being honest, not only is it impressive, it makes you feel safe being under Marcus’ care.

The second thing you notice is that he’s limping. 

You don’t dare attempt a second apology, though you doubt you’d be successful even if you were to try - the General appears to be taking great lengths to ignore you.  He asks after every person in your contingent and acknowledges everyone personally except for you, going so far as to avoid all eye contact and even averting his gaze when he addresses the group as a whole.  You suppose you can hardly blame him, but as the day goes on, it becomes harder and harder for your feelings not to be hurt by someone deliberately acting like you don’t exist; after an entire day of this exclusionary treatment, your irritation for the man reignites. 

By the time you get back to your car, thankful for the end of your shift and the comfy sweats you’ve changed into, your feelings for Marcus Acacius have reverted to what they were when you were standing in this exact spot earlier this morning.  You grab a pen and a pad of post-its from your purse; scribbling “RESERVED for THE GENERAL” in big letters, you slap the bright pink paper on the wall behind your car, glad that you’ll never have to see that egotistical perfect head of hair again.

Earlier Today

Damn you, Janet Jackson.  You silently curse the five-time Grammy winner as you drive towards the Caesar’s Palace employee parking lot, finding it with more ease than you did yesterday.

Last night, bone-tired and mentally exhausted, you had come home to a giddy and nervous Arishat grinning like a cat who just ate the canary, chirping, “How did it go?!!!”

You had told a white lie and said it was fine.  For all intents and purposes, it had gone fine.  You chose to omit the details of how you managed to make a mortal enemy of Caesar’s Palace’s Bonehead of Security, figuring it wasn’t worth worrying her.  Besides, what would it matter?  Your roommate would take her rightful place in the Golden Days line up the next day and Marcus, esteemed General, would be none the wiser – likely even smug in the certainty that he had run you off, when in fact, you would be curled up on your couch with a book freshly plucked from your TBR. Win-win-win, right?

Wrong.

“Oh goodie!! Because… I need you to pretend to me again tomorrow?” Arishat worked her pleading eyes while telling you the exceedingly good news that she had secured a callback audition… for the next day.  It was just one more day, you could do Golden Days for her for just one more day, right? 

Of course, you had agreed – if the Rhythm Nation was calling, who were you to stand in your best friend’s way?  Showering you with gratitude and massaging your tired feet while ordering your favourite Thai takeout, Arishat regaled you with the high points of her day: how iconic Miss Jackson herself was, which classic Janet jams were on the set list, the grandiosity of the show and of course… the cute boy she met who worked on production sets at Resort World.  You rolled your eyes teasingly, happy for her.

That happiness has brought you here now, slowly rolling past your parking spot from yesterday, already occupied by what you recognize is Marcus’ car; you spot your bright pink post-it displayed prominently on his dash– guess he saw it.

Knowing that Marcus is already here rattles you more than you’d like, but your friends from yesterday soon help you shake off any nerves with their hype and excitement for the day.  You head toward today’s briefing room with your group in good spirits, ready to jump start your energy levels with donuts and coffee from the complimentary snack table supplied by the hotel.

Though the donut selection looks to be fairly picked over by the time you get to the table, you do spot a lone crueller sitting on a tray in the middle of the spread.  Hand outstretched, you’re just about to select your favourite donut when a beefy, gold bangle decorated arm darts in front of yours and snatches it.  Taken aback, you chuckle, ready to jokingly (but not really?) fight this donut stealer, when your mood sours upon seeing who it is.

“You.” 

Of course it’s Marcus.  This man must have a sixth sense for ways to ruin your mornings.

When he turns to face you fully, you realize why you didn’t recognize him earlier - he’s not wearing the same dark leather gladiator armour from the previous day, but a crisp, white ceremonial ensemble that could be considered the day to yesterday’s night.  Whereas the imposing burnt umber battlements he wore yesterday conjured images of battle charges and military campaigns, Marcus’ soft white costume today is more suited for ceremony and celebration.  It’s gorgeously tailored, trimmed with gold tassels and embroidered laurels; adorning the chest plate are twin facing golden griffins signaling majesty and the splendor of victory – a sharp contrast to the attacking Medusa decorating the same torso yesterday.  Draping the General’s shoulders is a heavy cape of the same material and embellishment, broadening his already hulking frame even more.

He looks stunning.  And he’s still holding the last sugary glazed crueller between his thick fingers.  You’re not sure which makes you lick your lips.

“Is there something you need?” the question is asked in confusion, as if the man simply cannot fathom why you’ve invaded his space yet again, snapping you back to the moment.

“That was my donut,” you deadpan, pride having given up wasting manners on a man who apparently deigns it unnecessary to show you any of his.

“There wasn’t a sign saying it’s reserved,” Marcus mockingly parrots back your words from yesterday about his parking space.  Perhaps if you weren’t already seething from his previous treatment, you might spot the mischievous dance of his eyes and the slightly playful curve of his smirk, but all you see is a man who has antagonized you at every given opportunity choosing to be antagonistic yet again.  Ass! 

“Have it, General,” you snip back, abandoning your empty plate and stomping off towards the coffee.  Finding the pots empty, you grab a package of fresh grounds and are just looking for a new filter when you see the swish of someone’s grand skirts in your peripheral before a mitt of a hand opens the top of the machine right in front of you.

“Here, let me g-”

Exasperated that you somehow cannot escape this man, you snap, harsher and louder than you mean to, “I might not know much, but I know how to make a new pot of coffee.  So kindly, back off.”

A few heads turn towards your confrontation, further heightening your agitation; to his credit, Marcus takes the hint – holding his hands up in surrender, he tilts his head and purses his lips in bemusement before shrugging and backing away.

Finally, you huff.  Still breathing heavily and heart pounding, you make coffee, trying to take your mind off of your latest altercation with the most infuriating man you’ve ever met.

Little did you know that your morning was about to get worse.

Your feet, still sore from yesterday, protest right off the bat at being stuffed back into their bedazzled prison for another day.  Almost immediately, you begin wincing with every step – how does Arishat wear these types of shoes all the time?!  Hope she doesn’t mind you returning these filled with blood – yeesh. 

For some reason, the route your group takes today crosses the path of every lecherous creep that’s visiting Vegas this week.  Old men and frat boys alike interpret the “op” in photo-op as an opportunity for their unwanted hands to wander; you and your fellow showgirls peel sweaty palm after sweaty palm that linger too long off your bodies, swatting away too bold hands that treat the beaded embroidery of your costumes like some type of sensory play.  Your security team, and even the entertainers posing as gladiators, have to step in repeatedly to reprimand guests for their inappropriate behaviour.  On two occasions, you would not have been surprised if fisticuffs had broken out.

Halfway through the morning, you were ready to quit both for yourself and Arishat.  The only thing stopping you is the seriousness with which your security team is taking these transgressions; they consult you and the other girls on adjustments they’ll need to make in their approach to your safety and share the suggestions they’ll be bringing to General Acacius.  Despite your dislike for the man, you trust that he will take swift action.

The real icing on this cake of a day, however, comes just before lunch.  

Leaving the Venus Pool & Lounge, your group is on its way back through the Palace Tower when you hear a sharp snap right before a pop of air rushes down your backside.  To your horror, the front of your costume, heavy with its intricately woven gemstones and garlands of threaded pearls, starts to slip downwards; a quick check by your friends confirms your fear that the clasp on the back of the garment has broken, and the only thing holding the bedazzled fabric to your body is your hands.  With rising panic, you scrunch the fabric to your chest and hastily part from your team, desperately hoping you can make it back to the change room before inadvertently living out the cliché nightmare of being naked at work.

Present – Elevator ride

Still anxiously clutching your costume to your chest, you look anywhere but at Marcus - silently willing the elevator cab to speed up its infuriating slow descent; you’re convinced that every second that ticks by brings you closer to a humiliating loss in your battle against gravity.  

If only there was muzak or something to distract you other than the grinding clicks of the elevator’s gear mechanisms percussing the steady breathing of a man that refuses to look at you.  Oddly, you’re glad for his avoidance – you’re sure Marcus hasn’t noticed that you’re one hand slip from being half naked in front of him and the last thing you need is another scolding or scathing remark about how incompetent he finds you.  Eyes darting over, you use the opportunity to study him without scrutiny.

It must be nice to have such a tailored to fit costume, you think, admiring.  The white and gold costume looks made for the General, breastplate moulded to his thick trunk like plaster - how the hell is he so broad?  Those shoulder tasseled sleeves and cape must have been custom measured – there’s no way that this man’s expansive wingspan is regular.  The glorious drape of Marcus’ cape draws your eyes past the pleats of his victory skirt to his thick, muscular calves, practically exploding from his lace-up sandals.  Sweet Moses.

It seems that no one told your libido that the rest of you abhors this man, because the weight of his practically oppressive stature in this confined space has you chewing your lower lip, struggling not to squirm in place.  At least you’re not thinking about your broken costume anymore.  There’s a good chance that you might have been caught mid-drool by the man himself if it wasn’t for a sudden loud screech of metal grinding against metal reverberating through the elevator.  In shock at the piecing sound, you’re wholly unprepared when the lights start flashing and the carriage jerks violently to a stop.

Without warning, you’re thrown across the small metal box - Marcus, whose colossal mass has provided him more anchorage, reaches out to catch you before you crash unceremoniously into the mirrored wall.  Your hands fly out to steady yourself on his firm shoulders, face pressed against the stability of his hard chest while your body instinctively folds into the safety of the General’s hold.

When the lights stop flickering and the elevator’s bounce has stilled, you search for Marcus’ eyes, finding them to be wide and full of concern.

“Are you okay?” the usually gruff baritone is warm but urgent.

Voice shaky and still in some shock, you blink and nod, “Yes.  Thank you, Marc-”

You stop short when you hear the General’s sharp intake of air and see him quickly avert his eyes to look at the ceiling, “Um, your… uh, you seem to have… oh gosh… um…”

Confused by his sudden stuttering, you look down and with a gasp realize that when you reached out to grab onto Marcus for stability, you had let go of your costume – the embellished fabric has fallen and bunched up at your waist, leaving your top half completely exposed. 

With a cry of mortification, you push off of Marcus, scrambling to pull up your costume and cover your naked chest.  Marcus turns away to give you some privacy, then awkwardly spins when he realizes every inch of the elevator except for the doors is covered in mirrors; he finally settles busying himself with pressing various buttons on the panel.  All the controls appear to be dead, including the call for help button.

Still not looking at you, the General mumbles somewhat helplessly, “Uh… the line is dead.”

This is too much. 

You can’t help it - sinking down to the floor and crumpling as the stress of the day finally hits you, you start to softly cry.  Your feet hurt.  A bunch of neanderthals touched you today without consent.  You’re not even supposed to be here, but you feel the stakes of doing a good job as much as if you were.  You feel exposed and underdressed, and exhausted from being paraded into public as if you weren’t.  You’re stuck in an elevator with a man who absolutely hates your guts.  And you just flashed him. 

It’s all just too much.

“Hey, hey now.  Please don’t cry.  Are you hurt?”

You shake your head violently, still unable to find your voice.  Just my pride, you think.

“Is it because… I… hey, listen… I didn’t see anything, okay?  You don’t have to cry about showing me… I didn’t see your… anything.”

Marcus crouches down and places his flexed, corded forearms on his knees, respectfully keeping his hands to himself but with his palms up in invitation.  You look at him, eyes sad and expression dubious.

He sighs in admission, “Okay.  I did see.  But please don’t be embarrassed.  I won’t commit anything I saw to memory, okay?  Consider me having seen nothing.”

Marcus looks so timid, voice eager to reassure that you can’t help but crack a smile, “Are my tits really so forgettable?”

So relieved at this glimpse of your good humour, Marcus lets out booming laugh that shakes the entirety of his massive form before plopping himself down next to you on the elevator floor.

As the General settles in, you find yourself admiring his deep-set brown eyes - you’ve never seen them flecked with gold and crinkled in mirth like this, the sight causes a surge of affection in your heart and your shoulders untense at the feeling.

While he doesn’t answer your question, Marcus tries to offer some reassurance, “Even if we can’t call out, I assure you my team in the control room knows where we are and are already working on the issue.  I’m sure the elevator will be fixed or help will be on the way shortly – you don’t have anything to worry about.”

You believe him.  Even if the two of you have a primarily contentious relationship, you can’t deny that Marcus is immensely competent – he keeps eyes on and hands in everything at Caesar’s, you’ve seen him take prodigious care of even the smallest details when it came to the security and operations of the resort.  If he tells you there isn’t anything to worry about, you trust that to be the case.

Nodding, you try to convey that you’re taking solace in his words, but you’re still holding yourself very small, clutching your costume as tightly to chest as you can.  Marcus remains concerned, “Are you claustrophobic?” 

You shake your head.

“Are you uncomfortable?  Or… am I making you uncomfortable?”

Marcus looks so thoroughly ashamed, you attempt to lighten the mood with a little lighthearted self-deprecation, “Well aside from the anxiety of breaking the back clasp on my costume, I’m as comfortable as I could be having gotten half naked in front of a man who hates me.”

“I don’t hate you,” the General sounds surprised, but his statement is said with certainty.

“But,” you struggle to articulate that despite the way you may have spoken to him in the past, the comment wasn’t meant as an admonishment but known fact, “I took your parking spot.  And I broke your foot.”

“Those were accidents.”

“You… yelled at me.  Said I didn’t know anything.  Made sure I knew you didn’t want me around you.  You said I didn’t know my place,” despite the recollection of those incidents no longer bringing you the same amount of anguish as they did yesterday, you still hang your head sadly.

You hear a slight shuffling as the General scoots a little closer to you.  Through the lashes of your downcast gaze, you see Marcus lift a hand, retract it hesitatingly before ultimately making up his mind to reach for you.  A rough thumb and finger gently pinch your chin and direct your face upwards.

In a tone softer than you would have thought possible, Marcus atones, “The way I treated you yesterday, the things that I said… they were unkind, unwarranted, and completely unforgivable.  I truly apologize.”

You cannot help but be touched by the sincerity you see etched all over his handsome face, the General’s soulful eyes pool with regret, shame, self admonishment.  Having already been disarmed by the gentleness of his tenor and the tenderness with which he’s hovering over you, you melt further at Marcus’ obvious guilt and the earnestness of his confession; besides, you’ve never been one to kick a gorgeous man when he’s down, “I suppose neither of us have been at our best.”

“Perhaps not, but I was arguably worse, and while you didn’t say or do anything to me that I didn’t deserve, I can’t say the same for my treatment of you,” Marcus hangs his head, recalling again his harsh words and ungentlemanly behaviour, “Let me make it up to you, Little Showgirl.”

The seemingly out of nowhere pet name catches you completely off guard and your eyes shoot up to meet the General’s, for the second time in a minute you find yourself surprised by their expression – the large, imposing figure who you felt had personally terrorized you for the past two days looks almost… shy.  Any remaining animosity you might have harboured, already fleeting from your rapidly warming feelings, evaporates at the look he’s giving you, “What did you have in mind, General?”

At your words, a heart stopping smile breaks out across Marcus’ face, stealing your breath – the weary lines of his face lift, crinkling near his eyes and around his mouth (is that a dimple you see?), softening and relaxing into that of a man ten years younger at least.  Holding out his hand, Marcus offers, “I could mend your costume for you?”

Whatever you imagined he might say, it certainly wasn’t this; the idea is so sweet and considerate, helpful and… adorable.  Now the one feeling shy, you sit silently on your knees and hand over the complimentary hotel sewing kit.

Marcus coughs as he starts to unravel the thread options, “Um, why don’t you turn around so I’m facing what needs to be sewn, and… I guess… adjust so that everything is where… I mean, the costume is how you want it to be?  And then I’ll sew the back together so it stays that way?”

You nod in agreement, grateful for the General’s comprehensive assessment and swift decision-making skills in even the most obscure of circumstances.  Shuffling to get into the suggested position, you can’t help but squeeze your thighs together at how good it feels to let Marcus take charge of you.

After adjusting your costume to where you want it, you sit patiently and watch in the mirror as Marcus threads the needle, squinting and focusing so hard his tongue pokes out the side his mouth. 

He catches you watching in the mirror and gives you an apologetic look, “Don’t have my reading glasses on me.”  Goddamit, the man is even more precious than he was previously infuriating.

“Do you want me to tie the knot?”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Marcus sheepishly relents, “here, let me put it directly in your hand so you don’t drop your costume… again.”

You might have retorted something cheeky if it wasn’t for the warmth of the General’s chest enveloping your back and his muscular arms encircling your body to hand you the needle; he’s so close that his breath dances lightly at the nape of your neck, causing the hair there to stand up - your body gives a little shiver.  If Marcus notices, he doesn’t let on, instead holding his posture steady and protective while you expertly tie the double knot needed at the end of the thread.  When it’s ready, you hold it out for the General to pluck from your waiting hand; afterwards, you look down to adjust yourself again, unaware of Marcus’ covetous gaze as he watches you in the mirror.

Once you’re satisfied, he pulls the fabric taut across your back and gets to work.

For a few minutes, Marcus works in silence; unwilling to disturb his focus, you stay as still as possible and amuse yourself watching this big, strong hulk of a man and his dainty sewing, his eyes soulful and lower lip being bitten in deep concentration for this nimble task.

Once satisfied with the foundation stitches he’s sewn, Marcus’ grip on your costume slackens, as does his tongue - somberly, Marcus speaks, “I’m very sorry again, Little Showgirl.  I know it’s no excuse for my behaviour, but I was having a bad morning when we met – through no fault of yours.  My building was having maintenance issues, so my alarm clock got reset and I woke up late.  Then there was no hot water and, if you can believe it or not, this is not the first elevator I’ve been stuck in in the last 48 hours.”  He heaves a deep sigh and your eyes soften with sympathy, “That’s all to say I was already running ridiculously late when I drove up behind you and I forgot my manners in my frustration and anxiety.  The truth is, I’ve spent the better part of the past few months dreading Golden Days.”

You tilt your head in understanding, “I’m sure it’s a lot of extra work for you and your team.  I can only imagine all the extra pressure you’re under.”

Marcus’ eyes find yours in the mirror and relaxes at their sincerity, “It is a lot.  There are a ton of additional logistical factors to consider, and every variable brings with it security risks that I’m responsible for assessing and planning for.”  He drops his eyes back down to his task, hiding in anticipation of his next confession, “But all of that comes with the job, nothing my team and I haven’t handled before.  What I really wasn’t looking forward to is… wearing this stupid costume.”

Your eyes widen at this unexpected revelation: Big Bad General, venerated and trusted by the entire resort to keep the ship right, flustered at having to wear a costume?  One that makes him look like an ancient god? 

“I know it’s the antithesis of where I work, but I’ve never felt comfortable with all the glitz and pomp of the Strip.  I love my job precisely because it’s behind the scenes, things run smoothest when me and my team escape detection.  Now, for two weeks, we’re being paraded around in the most ostentatious costumes I’ve ever laid eyes on – I can’t tell you how off-putting it feels to be nervous about coming into work, to do a job I’ve had for years, that I excel at.  All because I know I’m going to look dumb as hell doing it.  Just one more thing I unfairly took out on you, Little Showgirl.  I’m sorry.”

If only Marcus knew just how much you relate to feeling out of place in these costumes, “Oh Marcus, that’s all completely understandable.  I’m sure I did absolutely nothing to abate your anxiety or frustrations with my own behaviour.” Marcus opens his mouth to interrupt but you shake your head slightly and continue, “I know you’re going to say it wasn’t my fault, and while that might be technically true, I can’t help but feel terrible for making your day worse than it already was.  I’m sorry as well.  I hope you can forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive, Little Showgirl.”

The two of you lock eyes and fix a look of mutual fondness upon one another in the mirror before you each look away, bashful.  Now that you’re no longer worried that Marcus harbours ill will towards you, you can’t help but be a little playful with the decidedly serious General – certain that beneath his gruff exterior is a kind natured and good-humoured man, “So you don’t hate me, but you were going to close the elevators door on me?”

“I was pressing the Open Door button!”

You giggle at the indignation in the General’s response and press on, “What about avoiding me all day yesterday?  Even when you’d check in on our group, you never spoke to me or asked how I was doing, even though you would ask everyone else?  And when you did acknowledge me, even in the assignment room, you looked at me like I infuriated you.  Or disgusted you?  Or both?  I know I’m not the most glamourous girl working Golden Days, but did you just find me… unacceptable?”  You try to keep your tone playful, but now that you’ve given voice to the words, you realize there’s still a small part of you that’s stung by the memory of Marcus’ treatment.

He must sense your trepidation, because you see his broad shoulders slacken in the mirror, regret once again lining his face, “Oh shit.  I didn’t realize that you’d- Fuck.  I’m so sorry I hurt your feelings, Little Showgirl.  The truth is, I couldn’t look at you without feeling utterly ashamed at how I had spoken to and treated you earlier.  If you read my expression as being Infuriated and disgusted – you were right, but not at you, with myself.  I hope the way I’ve purported myself in the last twenty minutes or so has shown you that I’m not some pompous asshole who enjoys tearing people down; my behaviour towards you yesterday is the opposite to how I strive to conduct myself.  Seeing you reminded me of how abhorrent I was.  I never considered that my own self contempt could be taken in the way you described but that’s one more thing I must atone for.  I’m sorry again.”

Marcus’ apology is more heartfelt and self effacing that you would have thought possible from a man you were convinced was a self-important righteous jerkoff less than an hour ago.  Thoroughly disarmed by the way he appears contrite and genuinely remorseful, your heart reaches for the man, wishing to soothe his apparent distress.

Before you can think of something comforting to say, Marcus continues, “I apologize again if my behaviour ever made you feel otherwise, because you should know that you look beautiful.  I’ve thought so from the moment I first laid eyes on you - you’re the prettiest little showgirl I’ve ever seen.”

Still unable to put together the words, your cheeks warm and you blink appreciatively at the compliment.  Marcus receives your reaction with a boyish eagerness, hoping it conveys your forgiveness; giving you another small smile in the mirror, he returns to his sewing.

For a few minutes, you let Marcus work in silence as you contemplate him.  By now, you’re prepared to admit that you had previously judged the stunning man behind you too harshly; despite his confident and commanding presence, you’ve seen now that he’s hard on himself and not immune to insecurity – perhaps you can help remedy that a tad with a confession of your own.

“Marcus?”

The General acknowledges you with a hum even as his eyes remained focused on the work.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think the Roman gladiator armour looks dumb.  I think you look really good in it.”

This catches Marcus’ attention and he looks up, “You really think so?”

“Um, yeah,” you say, suddenly shy, “It makes you look really… formidable and authoritative – not that you need any help in those areas, but the costume really amplifies your qualities.  The battle arena one you wore yesterday?  You looked like a brickhouse.  I think every gladiator who’s working Golden Days wished they looked half as good as you did.”  You’re trying to pick your words carefully so not to objectify the poor man, but you really want Marcus to understand that the idea he might not look good in this regalia is outrageous, “And this ceremonial one you have on today… it’s, excuse my language, fucking glorious. You look regal, impressive and… so big.  Honestly, you look hot in it, General.”

Vulnerable soft eyes meet yours in the mirror, holding your gaze as if to ascertain whether or not you’re being serious; you give Marcus your most sincere look and earnestly nod as if to say, Yes, you are hot, and he responds with a nearly inaudible whisper, “Thank you.”

Suddenly a sharp, searing pain pierces your back and you yelp in pain.  Marcus starts at your cry and upon seeing the agony on your face, looks down to find that he’s poked you with the sewing needle and withdraws it quickly, “Oh gosh, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.  Are you okay?”

Frantically dropping the needle, Marcus gently rubs his large, rough hand over the pinprick wound, “Does it still hurt?  I’m so sorry, Little Showgirl.”

The pain having now subsided and further soothed by Marcus’ warm touch, you nod reassuringly, “It doesn’t hurt – I’m okay.  Just surprised me is all.  But we’re even now for your foot, right?”

Marcus looks up to see your cheeky grin - entire countenance relaxing, he chuckles, “Yes, we’re even now.”  He goes back to sewing.

Pleased as punch with your own merrymaking, you go back to eyeing the man still working diligently to help you fix your wardrobe malfunction.  With growing affection and, if you’re honest with yourself, attraction, you wonder again at how you could have pegged him for a self-centred jackass.  Though the air of his importance and authority remains, you know now just how earned and well deserved it is.  Far from being arrogant and pompous, Marcus is self aware, sensitive and not at all conceited – qualities that have raised him high in your esteem over the last half hour or so.

It's evident what a hard worker he is – his drive and competency, fuel for the already sparking fire low in your belly.  Your heart swells thinking of the immense pressure he puts upon himself to uphold what he considers to be honour, decorum – you wish you could take some of it off those broad, generous shoulders of his.  How would his near mythical wingspan look looming over you on your knees, ready and willing to give him some well-deserved respite from the weight of his duty by taking his monster co-

“All done,” Marcus announces, biting the thread before standing up to offer you a hand.  As the General gently hauls you to your feet, your other hand flies up to your chest, expecting the fabric to fall away from your body – but to your delight, it doesn’t move.  Lowering your hands tentatively, you feel the fit of the garment around your bust, waist and then hips – it appears secure, you beam, “This is perfect – thank you so much, Marcus.”

“Well, I don’t know if you’ll think it’s perfect when you see the sewing job, but it should hold and get you through to the end of the shift.”  Chuckling to himself, he watches fondly as you do a little test shimmy, beads and pearls jingling and dancing over your curves.  Smoothing down the embellishments so that they still, you feel Marcus’ gaze and cross your arms over your body for a bit more coverage, embarrassed at the impropriety of your earlier thoughts.

Misreading your discomfort, Marcus offers gently, “I mean it, you know?  You look gorgeous.  Beautiful.”  He fiddles with decorative enamel broach that holds his white cape at his collar bone, unclasping and removing it in one gallant sweep. “However, if it makes you feel more comfortable,” he carefully drapes the luxurious fabric around your shoulders, wrapping you in it completely, “you can wear this.” 

“Thank you, Marcus,” fully cloaked and cozy, you soak in the sweet gesture and Marcus’ compliment, breathing in the linger of his heady cologne on the garment.

The two of you stand looking at one another in silence - the warmth of the moment, full of fondness and affection, filling the small elevator.  If someone had told you this morning that you would feel a deep appreciation and attraction to this man you had sworn to loathed, you would have said they were delusional.  But now, you can’t even remember what you felt before, never mind why.

You want to repent and laugh, apologize some more – though you know he would never allow it.  Shifting shyly foot-to-foot, thinking of what you want to say, you suddenly feel the pinch of your shoes again, “Do you mind if I sit?  These shoes look great but they’re killing my feet. I should probably stay off of them for as long as I can before I have to go out again.”

Marcus joins you once again on the floor of the elevator, amused at the exaggerated sigh of relief you exhale as you start arching your feet and wiggling you toes after you remove the glamourous but offensive footwear.

“May I?” he gestures at your pointing feet.  At your little nod of permission, the General lays your aching feet in his lap and uses his big strong hands to massage and grip your arches.  His strength targets all the right pressure points so that relief is immediate.  You bite your bottom lip and close your eyes when he spreads his fingers around your heels and rubs tight little circles that nearly have you moaning, this is heaven.

“So,” Marcus gulps when he sees the pleasure overtaking your face, feeling himself harden beneath his battle skirts, “Aside from hurting feet, your costume breaking, and a horrid man terrorizing you, has the rest of your day gone alright?

Your eyes open to his affectionate grin, “Oh!  It’s been okay.” 

He wouldn’t be good at his job if he couldn’t read people and Marcus tilts his head curiously at your answer.  Though you could downplay today’s events, the General makes you feel safe enough to not want to, “Well, we had some… trouble.”

“Tell me.”

Even if you didn’t understand that he genuinely wants to know, the authoritative tone of his voice compels you to obey.  You think you would do anything that velvet baritone asked of you, and that thought alone sends a shooting pang straight to your clenching core.  So, you tell Marcus everything about the harassment and unwanted physical contact that you and your group encountered today; as you see the General’s eyes darken at the details, you hurry your storytelling to make sure he doesn’t blame his men, “Your team did a great job taking care of us and have already been strategizing on how to prevent these situations going forward.  They were great, really.  You run a good group.”

Marcus smiles at your sweetness, “Thank you.  I trust they did their best, and I’m certain they won’t be happy until we come up with new protocols to make things safer - everything will be discussed with the needed changes in place by tomorrow.  I promise you won’t have to worry about the same type of things happening when you come in tomorrow, Little Showgirl.”

Warming again under Marcus’ term of endearment, you decide that you owe him the same level of honesty and sincerity that he’s shown you, “That’s reassuring, Marcus - thank you, but I’m not coming in tomorrow.”

“What?  Why not?  Did you quit because of me?”   

You nearly laugh out loud at the panic in the General’s voice, though his crestfallen look and obvious disappointment make your stomach do an inadvertent flip, “No, no, Marcus, of course not.”  The tank of a man before you practically deflates with relief – it’s endearing.  Time to come clean.  “Since you already hate me,” you tease, pausing only at Marcus’ grumbled interjection of I don’t hate you, “I suppose I might as well tell you the truth.”

Marcus cocks his eyebrow quizzically as you confess your true identity and the reason you’ve been pretending to be in the resort’s employ these past two days.  Even as you finish with how your roommate will be done her callback by the end of day and that tomorrow, she would be here to take her rightful place for Golden Days, Marcus still hasn’t said a word.

Pulling your feet from Marcus’ soothing grip, you reposition yourself on your knees and shuffle over to the General, thigh to thigh, face to face, worried, “Have you changed your mind about hating me?”

Seeing that true concern laces your pretty face, Marcus gently takes one of your dainty hands in his and raises it to his lips; placing one soft kiss to your knuckles, he proclaims, “Never.”

You’re melting.

Confidence now partially restored by the tenderness of his gesture, you use the hold Marcus has on your hand to pull yourself closer, teasing glint in your eye, “So, now that I’ve confessed the truth to you, are Arishat and I in trouble?” 

“Well, technically, you committed identity fraud,” Marcus starts, pretending to look serious for only a second before letting his expression transform into one of mischief, “But seeing how you didn’t have any nefarious intentions… I guess I can look the other way.  Plus, you flashed me, so consider your penance paid.”

Your melodic laugh echoes off the walls of the elevator and Marcus’ heart swells at the loveliness of the sound.  “Thank you.  I appreciate your confidence that I’m not planning some kind of casino heist,” hand still holding his, you let your smile curve flirtatiously, “You really are very sweet, General.”

The mountainous man scoffs good-naturedly, “Don’t tell anyone, you’ll ruin my tough guy reputation.”

“It’ll be our little secret - just between us,” grinning, you peer at him coquettishly through your lashes, “Like what I look like underneath this costume.”

“Just between us,” Marcus swallows hard.

“Are you thinking about me half naked right now, General?”

“Yeah, I am,” he breathes, right before crashing his mouth to yours. 

Oh.  Marcus kisses like his professional moniker suggests: precise, unrepentant, powerful.  You push back with the same assertiveness against his lips and tongue, tangling your breath with his, trading in his air.  Without breaking the kiss, Marcus hooks his sculpted arm around your waist, cupping the plush of your ass in just one of his bear paws, he hauls you into his lap; you land with a giggly bounce, straddling one of the General’s thick thighs.  Your hands reach up to cup Marcus’ face, scratching through his well-groomed scruff while you nip and nibble at his lower lip; your chest burst with a school girl giddiness when you feel him smile at your kitten attack.

Beneath the cover of his cape, Marcus’ rough hands roam your body, trailing his thick fingers up and down the curve of your spine, making you whimper at the reverence of his touch.  Wide palms find the fat of your thighs and grip you with such want that you yelp and test the General’s hold with a roll against his leg that has him moaning your name down your throat.  You think you could drown in the sounds of this man falling apart beneath you.  Leaving his lips involuntarily, your body bows at the grip Marcus bruises on your body, whining as he kisses along your jaw, groaning, almost to himself, “So fucking soft.”

Hard hands travel to your waist with the discipline of a trained soldier, heavy palms working your soft flesh through your costume while a hungry mouth licks and snipes a path of pleasure from your ear down your neck that has you gasping and squirming.

“Marcus, please!” you cry out, voice hushed and desperate as the General’s hot breath rolls across the expanse of your throat.  He smirks at your neediness, greedy hands massaging their way up to your tits. 

“Gonna mark you up, so everyone knows you’re mine.  If anyone tries to touch you again, they’ll have to answer to me,” Marcus growls against the sweet spot at the bottom of your neck, sending your head spinning with his possessive tone and the hard suck of his mouth.

With Marcus’ hands now cupping your breasts, your hips are free to rock and grind on the flex of his muscular thigh – through the layers of fabric, the texture from the beaded details of your costume heighten the sensation from your movements on your drooling cunt.  You can feel just how wet you are by the slick glide of your folds in your panties as your costume catches roughly over Marcus’ leg.

Marcus’ mouth finds yours again, you kiss him back furiously – your tongue slides against his, eager to show him just how much you want him, need him.  He licks into your mouth and you swallow his throaty groans, answering them with your own half formed moans that he steals right back.

“You make the prettiest noises, Little Showgirl,” he purrs, hands kneading and groping your heaving breasts over the front of your costume.  You’re practically bucking now, about to beg again, for what you don’t even know when Marcus’ talented fingers zero in on your already pert and aching nipples, finding them with ease and giving each peak a punishing pinch and tug.

You quake and howl, the crisp sting sending a thrumming wave of ecstacy to every nerve ending in your body.  Yanking harshly on Marcus’ soft waves, you wrap your arms around his neck to pull him closer still, melding your lips to his and sucking on his tongue while your hips gyrate and swivel, seeking more pressure and friction.  Reading your cues perfectly, Marcus bends his knee slightly to give you more purchase and you lay a hot trail of open mouth kisses from the corner of his mouth along his chiseled jawline in gratitude.

“You’re killing me, baby.”  Baby.  The new pet name is exalted with a strained groan – what you would have interpreted as exasperation less than 24 hours ago is now delicious music to your ears, proof that you’re affecting the beast of a man beneath you as much as he is you.  You chuckle breathy and satisfied into the shell of Marcus ear, “Payback.”

The General’s response to your smug retort is to bite down on your shoulder, just hard enough to jolt you hard against him, dragging your needy pussy down the length of his thigh.  He smirks as he laves his tongue over the imprint of his teeth on your skin, soothing it while you whinny above him like feisty filly yearning to run free.  Bear paw hands continue to grab and squeeze your tits, pushing and pulling all your supple curves so that they mould to his palms, fingers tuning your sensitive nipples to try to find his favourite song: the one you’re singing in gasps, the sole lyrics his name in repetition, Marcus, Marcus, Marcus.

“Wish I could just rip this costume off your pretty body and see those perfect tits of yours again.  Sew it back up after I take those cute little nipples in my mouth and suck on them until you scream.  Would you let me do all that, Little Showgirl?”  The General nips and snarls behind your earlobe, inhaling the sweetness of your perfume that’s wafting as your lap dance picks up speed, intensity.

“Yes, Marcus, yes!  I’d let you do anything to me.” 

Oh, he likes that.  Marcus drops a hand down to your ass and gives your bouncing cheek a sharp spank that sends you tumbling towards the edge of bliss, “Anything?”

You can barely string together a thought separate from the pleasure Marcus is giving you with his hands, his thigh, his mouth, but you manage to eek out a weak, “Anything.”

“You going to let me help you come?”

Nearly crumpling at Marcus’ dark tone, your head flops forward in a semblance of a nod.

Marcus’ hands grasp onto the meat of your hips and restrict your rhythmic movements against his leg – you whine in protest. 

“Need you to use your words, Little Showgirl.”  There it is again: the authority and command of his velvet voice; your cunt clenches, infuriatingly empty.  Panting and breath short, your eyes shine with desperation as your mouth slackens into a perfect prayerful O-shape that makes Marcus hiss, “Yes, please, Marcus!  Please help me come!”

Though he loves the sound of your sweet voice begging, Marcus is already far enough gone for you that he knows he would never deny you anything.  Fingertips digging into the globes of your ass, Marcus holds your hips firm and begins to saw you back and forth over his thigh, pressing you down while driving up his leg in order to ignite an electrifying connection with your cunt that you couldn’t have reached on your own.

Marcus handles you with the precision and skill with which he executes every assignment he undertakes; every pull and push builds you higher and higher, the breath stealing rhythm he keeps makes you gush - your pussy, slick with arousal sails smoothly over Marcus tensed muscles, throbbing as the familiar band in the pit of your stomach coils tighter.    

He’s all power and strategy, reading the ecstasy that paints your face like a map and orchestrating a building pace and intensity in his handle on your body so that your orgasm becomes an inevitability.  Euphoria blooming, you give yourself over to Marcus completely, trusting your pleasure in his capable hands.

“Oh, god, right there, General…”

“You can’t call me that, baby.  Or the next time one of my men calls me General, I’m going think of you.  Like this.  Bouncing and grinding in my lap, looking so fucking pretty.”

“Ngh, fuck! General…”

“Baby, what did I just say.”

You moan and goad him more, “… Acacius…”

Sucking the delicate skin at the base of your neck in between his teeth, Marcus hisses.

“Sir,” you draw out the last sound, rolling it from the back of your throat like a filthy hymn.

“Shit. My naughty little showgirl, you’re perfect.  Never going to let you go.”  The General crashes his lips to yours once more, desperate, messy.  Your hands reach for those broad shoulders again, holding on tight as you work in tandem with Marcu’s control of your body, finding that if you tilt your hips just so, the pressure of his thigh’s arch against the trimming of your costume catches your clit just right.  You break the kiss with a cry, the explosive pulsing from your overstimulated pearl rocketing you towards your summit.

“I’m so close, Marcus,” you rasp, back arching and bucking wild as you chase your release.  Awestruck by your desire wracked expression, Marcus pledges himself to your pleasure – rocking and guiding you to exactly where you need to be.  Everything tightens as you ride, clit brushing and flicking over that secret spot of your costume over and over and over.

“Take what you need, Little Showgirl,” grits Marcus against the column of your throat.  He nuzzles against every little hitch of your airway and sucks down the ambrosia taste of your skin, “Anything that’s mine to give is yours.  Let me give you everything, my lady.”

You explode with a sharp wail of the General’s name, coming so hard that you see stars.  Your orgasm rips through your body and it’s all you can do to hold onto Marcus, fingernails marking crescent moons into his shoulders through the luxurious fabric of his Roman costume.  Marcus gladly takes over, holding you through your high, safe and comforting as he continues to move you gently back and forth over the breadth of his thigh, thumbs drawing soothing circles over your hips as your shaking subsides.  You slump against his hard chest, completely fucked out.

Marcus’ hands caress your back, rubbing up and down your spine in a calming fashion to bring you back to yourself.  Hooded eyes lifting just enough to meet his gaze – your stomach flutters upon finding the General’s expression to one of awe and care; you’re so grateful and sated, about to say so when suddenly the elevator shudders harshly, lights flickering as the machinery above whirls back to life and you resume your descent.

Eyes widening at the unexpected movement, the two of you scramble off one another and onto your feet, though Marcus, ever the gentleman, remains on his knees for a little while longer to help you slip your feet back into your shoes. 

He comes to a stand by your side and pulls you close, tucking you under the safety of his wing.  That feeling of gratitude for his care surges through you again as you snuggle in tight.

“You okay, Little Showgirl?  Do you need a minute?”

You look up at Marcus to find his affection for you evident in the lines of his handsome face - it makes your heart skip a beat; you nod, eyes still glassy, the aftershocks of your orgasm still pulsing faintly in your core.  The strength of the General’s arm curves around your waist, tightening and helping you forward as the elevator doors finally open.

You’re immediately met by a member of Marcus’ security team - a strapping man in gladiator dress that you vaguely recognize from yesterday’s morning briefing. 

“General, glad you’re okay, sir.  I can give you a brief rundown on what’s happened.”

To your surprise, instead of letting you go so he can confer with his lieutenant, Marcus pulls you closer and tucks you under his chin, letting you rest against his chest.  You close your eyes, comforted by the soothing rumble of Marcus’ baritone as it vibrates though his chest.

“Tell me.”

“There was a complete outage of service elevators in all the towers: Forum, Palace, Julius, Octavius, and Augustus – all simultaneous.  Call lines dead, no camera footage.  A little over half of the elevators were occupied when the disruption took place.  They’ve all come back online since, successively – Palace is the last.  You were stuck for 47 minutes.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

“We’re still getting reports in but everyone accounted for is unharmed and doing alright.  I’ve taken the liberty of assuming you would want to give everyone impacted an early lunch and asked them to come see the resort doctor in the employee briefing room.”

“Good work, Darius.  Please ready a full debrief for me in the control room - I’ll be there momentarily.”

Even after Darius’ footsteps fade away, Marcus keeps you close and continues tending to you, dispensing soft kisses to your forehead, cheeks, lips.  The two of you stay in a tender embrace until your heartbeat slows to normal and your breathing evens.

Kiss. “Little Showgirl.” Kiss. “I know this is terribly backwards.” Kiss Kiss. “But if you’re free after your shift tonight.” Kiss.  “Could I take you out to dinner?” Kiss Kiss Kiss Kiss Kiss.

“I would love that, Marcus.” Kiss.

Beaming, you step back and unclasp the brooch of the victory cape that you’re still wearing; unfurling it from your body, you giggle as Marcus bends at the knee so you can swing it over his shoulders.  After refastening the pin, you pat and smooth down the luxurious fabric over the General’s broad frame, humming with satisfaction at how splendidly the breathtaking man wears it.

“Thank you, my lady,” Marcus proclaims, his good humour delighting you, “May I meet you here at six?”

Nodding, you place your palms gently on the golden griffins that span the front of Marcus’ Roman ceremonial dress, scratching your nails just deep enough so he can feel you on his chest, “Yes, please.  Are you going to be wearing this?”

“I don’t know, are you going to be wearing this?” Marcus reaches out to run a finger lightly over a row of pearls that decorate your collar bone.

Supressing a shiver, you shoot back, “I could be? I don’t know what you did back there – I might not be able to take it off.”

Leaning in, Marcus lets his breath ghost over your ear as his whispers low, “I could help you take it off.”

Catching the dark and mischievous glint in the light of his eyes, you pretend to be scandalized, “General!”  Smirking a little when you see Marcus inhale at your teasing use of his professional handle, you grab him by the fabric of his rich, sweeping cape and pull him back in, crushing your lips to his.  Marcus’ tongue darts out to match you move for move, stroke for stroke, licking deep and chasing you to the furthest corners of your mouth.  You let him catch you before withdrawing, leaving him chasing after your plush pout with a nibble and tug of his delectable lower lip.  Giggling, you wink at the General’s puppy dog expression before turning on your heels to head off to the change room, putting a little extra sway in your hips as you saunter away, pearls and beads clinking a seductive melody that calls to Marcus like a siren. 

Before he knows what’s come over him, his hand connects with the underside of your ass cheek, the consequence of his spank jiggling the plushness of your rear as you yelp in delight.

You keep on walking, throwing over your shoulder, “Hope you’re prepared to pay for that later, General.”

Chuckling, Marcus starts heading towards the security office, discreetly adjusting himself beneath the skirts of his Roman costume, knowing that you see him doing so by the crescendo of your sweet laughter, “I’m counting on it, Little Showgirl.”

NP Tagging a few people who encouraged me so kindly on my WIP Wednesdays for this fic - thank you bbs 😘: @aurorawritestoescape @baronessvonglitter @letsgobarbs @inept-the-magnificent @milla-frenchy

@sawymredfox @ace-turned-confused @evolnoomym @secretelephanttattoo @sunnytuliptime

@galway-girlatwork @itwasntimethatdidit40 @iamladyp @tuquoquebrute

[pellucid-constellations]

If It All Fell (5)

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: If it all fell apart—if you forgot who you were—would you love him again? Would the bond guide you back? Azriel doesn't know if that uncertainty is one he can bear.

Word count: 3k

Warnings: Angst, PINING, references to nonconsensual situations (very brief, nothing graphic, and not Az)

a/n: Hope this clears some stuff up ;) More to come and especially more Az to come. Thank you forever for reading and sharing your thoughts! This is getting me through the semester <3

Part 1 ♡ Part 2 ☆ Part 3 ✶ Part 4☼ Part 6 ♡

Series Masterlist

~~

Azriel walked you to your room. 

He knew exactly where to go, which corners to turn and which to pass, which was very convenient as you still found yourself struggling with the task. The House of Wind, as everyone so lovingly called it, was practically a maze for someone with no memory of its twists and turns. But Azriel had absolutely no trouble getting you to your room. 

Once you got to your room, however, he appeared to have many troubles. 

“You can come in,” you prompted, looking over your shoulder to find the shadowsinger with his shoes at the threshold. “I promise I just cleaned it. Or, at least I’m pretty sure I cleaned it. It’s hard to know where to put things when I only just started…” 

Your voice trailed off. Upon further inspection of the man standing just outside your door, you found that he didn’t simply look hesitant to enter. He had his hands pressed to the doorframe, his head slightly leaned into the room, and his eyes were slowly trailing along your belongings. The expression on his face read as forlorn, but his body read as tense. 

He had been here before, obviously. Of course this would be hard for him. You probably had everything in the wrong place and he had just told you about the difficult time he was having—how close the two of you had been before you lost everything. 

“Um,” you began, pressing your lips together tightly when his gaze flickered to you. “Maybe you could… or would you mind maybe telling me where my bags are? If you know. Mor gave me a surface-level tour, but she didn’t seem to know everything.” 

Azriel looked down to the ground beneath your feet. He blinked back up to meet your eyes. “Of course,” he replied, with so much practiced restraint in his tone you weren’t sure how he gritted out the words. 

When he stepped in the room, it felt as if something shifted. He walked between tables and furniture and he fit like a puzzle, his wings never brushing anything, his eyes never casting down to analyze his body in the space. He looked like he belonged—he looked like he completed the space. 

Something finally felt right. 

Nothing felt right… but this did. 

Azriel pushed open the closet doors, rifling through a cabinet you had only glanced at before. After a few silent moments, he walked out with bags in hand. His shadows hadn’t followed him. They drifted towards the bed instead, burrowing into the blankets and pillows until the plush surface became dark. 

Azriel zeroed in on them as he placed the bags by your feet, staring off at his shadows as you brought your attention back to him. This close, you were able to catch his scent—the cedar and night-kissed air you’d recognized many times in recent days. But it had been so faint before, like he had been gone for weeks and the scent still lingered, or he had been in the room but only for a brief time. Nothing like now, with his chest only inches from your face. 

“They seem to like my bed,” you laughed, just a small, breathy sound. An attempt to diffuse some of the untouched tension in the room. 

The side of Azriel’s mouth curled up. You watched it rise, silently relishing in the heat of his body as it radiated into the space between you. “I can see that.” 

He wasn’t a man of very many words—that’s something Mor had thankfully shared with you—but you wanted to fight against that. You wanted to hear the soft, low rumble of his voice. You wanted his laugh to spark in the air, to feel his words against your skin as you had just a few moments earlier. Azriel told you he didn’t hate you, that he was close to you, and suddenly the space between you felt impossible. 

You just wanted to hear his voice. 

“Have I changed things much?” you asked, heart thudding when he brought his gaze down to you. “I don’t know how much time you used to spend in here… or currently spend in here, I suppose—it’s only been a few days—but I’ve moved a few things. If you could tell.” 

Azriel took in a long breath. “Actually, you—” he shook his head with an expression you could only decipher as baffled “—you put everything back. Cassian and Feyre, they moved a few things around when you were being brought home. Things that might have… well, we just didn’t want you to be overwhelmed.” 

Overwhelmed. 

“We should have known that was a ridiculous idea. You’re too brilliant, even without the context.” 

Warmth flooded you; one compliment from Azriel and it was as if nothing mattered. You didn’t need your memories, you only needed this.

Azriel’s cheeks colored as if he felt the rush of emotions himself, his eyes bright. 

No, that wasn’t right—you needed your memories. You needed to remember each and every time he had looked like this. 

“Probably didn’t help that there were a bunch of empty spaces everywhere. If you leave nails on the wall it becomes quite obvious that something belongs there,” you quipped, a small smirk playing at your features. 

Azriel laughed. Not a full laugh, but one that you had no idea you were missing before. “I will be sure to pass on the message.” 

“Good. Cassian has many messages coming from me, it seems. Conflicting ones as well.” 

“Right, of course. I will convey to him that you missed his presence earlier, but also that he is awful at hiding things from an amnesiac.” 

“Perfect, thank you, Azriel.” 

He gazed upon you, eyes flickering to every corner of your face. 

They rested on your lips and then your eyes, trailing up until his hand followed to move the strand of hair that had wisped across your forehead. He brushed it away with delicate fingers, not a touch of hesitancy in them. Like it was natural for him, normal. 

And maybe it was. 

“I don’t know what to pack,” you whispered, trying to keep some of the lightness in the room. “Can you help? I haven’t a clue where most of my things are and you appear to be much more knowledgeable.” 

Azriel drew his hand back, his eyes closing for a few long moments. 

You wished you could delve into his mind the way Rhysand could—that you could understand some of the pain written in the tight clench of his eyelids. 

“Of course I’ll help you.” 

It began with him gathering things from the connected washroom. He entered the tiled room and opened drawers without fault or mistake, collecting perfumes you had been gravitating towards and zipping up products you hadn’t even found yet. He packed your brushes and jewelry as if he’d done this all before, as if your request for help wasn’t really a request, but an expectation. 

“Have we traveled together before?” you found yourself asking as you followed behind the shadowsinger, a bag hanging from his arm. 

Azriel smiled, turning to you with a glint in his eye. “A few times.” 

You were very close friends, then. 

Azriel led you back to the closet where he pulled a few articles of clothing from the hangers, holding each out for you to approve before he neatly folded them. You denied nothing, rather surprised by his taste and sense for whatever the weather was like in Day. 

He moved further into the closet, half of which was sparsely filled. Maybe you filtered out your clothes with the seasons. 

Or maybe something was missing. 

Azriel paused.

You watched his scarred fingers brush over the purple dress you had worn on the first day you spoke to him after waking up. He rubbed the material against the pad of his thumb once, and then twice, before closing the closet doors and taking an abrupt step back. You stepped with him. 

The shadowsinger said nothing.

“All done?” you asked. “Anything else I would need at Day?” 

His shoulders rose and fell. Some of his shadows returned to make revolutions around his body.

“Azriel?” 

“I—I’m sorry. Give me a moment.”

The shadowsinger stalked over to the bed, went to sit, but then seemed to think against it and began pacing instead. You tucked your fingers into your palm as you watched him, trying to hide the discomfort you felt as his clear unease. 

Had you done something wrong? 

Maybe you were being too familiar. This friendship between you was new and comfortable and exciting, but that was for you. 

For Azriel, there was a gap, an immense amount of pain and missing connection. 

He didn’t hate you, and that was… wonderful news, but this was also uncharted territory. 

Maybe you shouldn’t have asked for his help—shouldn’t have invited him in. 

“Azriel, I—” 

“I need to explain this to you,” Azriel began, running a hand through disheveled locks. “I need you to understand why this is so hard. I don’t want you to assume this is your fault or that this is anything other than what it is.”

You nodded, but he didn’t look up to see your confirmation. 

Azriel sighed and his wings flared slightly, returning back to his body in a quivering motion. 

“I am terrified, y/n.” 

This time, Azriel did look up to catch your gaze. 

“I am terrified because this has happened before. It’s like I’m reliving it. Like you’re reliving it but you just don’t remember.” 

Your fists unfurled as your brows met a point. “No one’s told me—“ 

“I know,” he breathed out, defeat the most prominent emotion on his beautiful face. “Last time this happened, the more we told you about the past—about certain aspects of your life—the more it hurt you, y/n. You’d… you’d scream until your lungs gave out every time we tried to share something new. It was like that for weeks.” 

The Illyrian forfeited his internal battle with the bed, dropping down into a seat on the foot of it. Unsure of your place within your own room, you simply followed him, standing in front of his bent knees, eyes prompting him to continue. 

He watched you as you moved. 

“Has anyone told you what you do for this court? Your job?” 

You shook your head. 

Azriel continued. “You work as an emissary between courts and continents, but that’s more of a cover—a more comprehensible title for those outside of our circle. It’s hard to explain, but that power Rhys mentioned? It’s—it’s as if you have this intuition. For everything. You look at things, at people, and you just… know them. You look past lies and you pick up on things that are seemingly impossible to catch.” 

Your head shook as Azriel fumbled over each of his words, confusion swirling in your gut. “That doesn't make any sense. Mor said that Rhys found me working at some boatyard by the Sidra. She said I used to help build vessels—there’s no way I have a power like that.” 

“You do,” Azriel affirmed. “Rhys only went to find you because he heard of a girl building boats from memory. You took one look at him and knew what he wanted. Rhys said he barely had to offer you the job.” 

It was a struggle not to grind your teeth together in frustration. 

You used to know everything. 

And now you knew nothing. 

Your head began to hurt, or maybe you were just noticing that it had never stopped hurting.

“You said—” you started, tone heavy with vexation. Your eyes couldn’t find a solid place to land “—you said this has happened before. What does that have to do with these powers?” 

Sensing the rise in your mood, Azriel seemed to even his own out. A balance between the two of you. You became agitated, he became calm. But you could tell he was struggling.

“Around 270 years ago, after you’d been working for the court for a few decades, Rhys sent you to Day. It was routine. You were going to gather information for a High Lord’s summit meant to take place there, but really, Rhys wanted you to scope out the area. To get insight on any plans, any secret dealings. You were meant to be gone for a few days at the most.” 

Azriel’s fists clenched atop his knees. His face remained impassive.

“You were gone for six months. Gone. No one could reach you, Helion had assumed you went home already. It was right after you and I… became friends, so I was worried for you. More than the others, but no one was without worry. We found you eventually, but you—”

Something choked. Azriel choked. His head hung down and you replayed the last few of his words in your mind—the way they tightened and then tapered off. 

This was too much. 

Conveying comfort in the only way you knew how—in the way this family tended to love—you stepped between Azriel’s legs and brought a hand to his cheek, raising his face until his glassy eyes came into view. 

“You don’t have to talk about this,” you whispered. “If it’s too hard, we can stop.” 

Azriel’s jaw quivered. His next words seemed to tumble from his mouth without warning. 

“Fuck, I miss you.” 

It was simple instinct that led to your reply. “I’m right here.” 

Something stirred within you, tugging lightly. Your heart, you deduced, beating so fast it was playing tricks on you. The shadowsinger in your hands twisted slightly, just barely so that the corner of his mouth touched your palm. Your heart tugged again.

“You didn’t remember anything, like now,” Azriel revealed, speaking just as you were about to pull away. You stopped yourself, feeling as if your touch was an encouragement to speak. “It was worse though, you were in so much pain. Any time you tried to remember anything, or even just tried to learn, it was like you were being pierced through the skull. You—you screamed so much.

“But it didn’t take us very long to figure it out. My spies in Day found the culprit and it was easy to capture him. He was weak. Strong powers, but weak in every other sense of the word. It was another Daemati—like Rhys. He became infatuated with you during your time in Day. He knocked you out, found a way to use your powers against you, to make them hurt.” 

Azriel shuddered. His mouth got closer to your hand like he was leaning into it. 

“It took a few weeks to get him to fix it. But those months, y/n—the time you were gone. You don’t remember them. I can only imagine what you went through. And when we brought you home you hurt so badly. So that's why… why us going back there is hard. Because this is all so similar and if it’s happening again I can’t…” 

“Azriel,” you softly called, sure that this was the most amount of speaking the shadowsinger had done in a while. Sure that he needed a break. A respite. “It’s not the same, is it? You know that. My head hurts, but not like that. I don’t struggle to be reminded of the past. I learn new things. There is no evil villain waiting to take me away.” 

“Y/n—” 

“It’s not the same. I might not have access to these all-encompassing powers you speak of, but I can tell you that much. I’m sorry for what you went through before—that you had to watch a member of your family go through that then and then now… but it’s different. It’s different and I’ll be okay.” 

His pond water eyes stared back at you as you attempted a reassuring smile. You felt his knees press against your thighs where you stood between them, and the pressure spurred you on. You ran your thumb along the high point of his cheek, relishing in the flutter of his lashes, gravitating towards him to relish in that closeness as well. This moment felt like yours, and something was telling you it was yours. That no one else could have this with him. 

But you didn’t have your powers, your fae abilities, so maybe that feeling was nothing but hope.

Your thudding heart lulled you into a long breath. 

“Maybe, if it would put you at ease, you could stay with me while we’re in Day? At my side, I mean. You could whisper everyone’s names into my ear so I don’t look like a fool and make sure I don’t get lost—” 

“Yes,” Azriel replied, sure and resolute with no traces of the impending tears that had made his hazel eyes a pretty pool just moments before. “I won’t leave your side once. I promise.” 

His devotion made you pause, surprise evident in the rapid blinking of your eyes. You wanted to protest, to tell him he didn’t need to promise something so taxing, but determination had set in his brow, and Azriel—your friend—wanted this. Needed this. 

“Thank you,” you whispered. “Thank you, Azriel. For telling me all of this even though it was hard. For being here for me even though I know that’s hard, too. You’re a wonderful friend. I can’t wait to continue to find that out. I promise to be just as wonderful.” 

“You are already the most wonderful thing in my life.” 

Part 6 ♡