#the actual phone number had a line through it

[metautske]

it wasn't equal. Danny offgassed more ectoplasm residue than most ghosts he knew (Was it because his human half ramped up production? was he just a freak? Unclear and he was too tired to investigate) and he still wasnt sure why, exactly, this sad man in a trench coat wanted the ghostly equivalent of some nasty sweaty gym socks. Metaphorically of course. Even 'used' ectoplasm smelled like battery acid and sharp winter rather than sweat or body odor.

But Danny wasn't going to look a gift house in the mouth, or question a strange occult guys reasons for spell components. His vibes were good at least and one thing being half ghost taught him was an excellent vibe check.

And while sad trench coat was very sad indeed, he didn't give off the vibes even Ember did. So it was fine. Probably. And he asked to be called by name with such a sigh that Danny concluded he must be tired of the trench coat, which, yeah. He remembered Invido-Bill, he got it.

In any case, Mr. Constantine (the grimace made Danny vibrate with glee) agreed to answer questions whenever Danny had any. Maybe it was implied to only be magic related, ghost related.

But, well.

It was kind of magic related?

"C'mon, c'mon sad mad, answer!"

There are sounds of muffled cussing and the thump of something heavy being slammed before the voicemail cuts out again.

"Okay, okay, panicking is bad. We know this, everybody knows this, no panicking," if he ignored the faint shouts and the jingling of bells and whatever the fuck sound very large deer made then it was fine!

Another rattling thump hits the window, covered by his mom's horrid floral tablecloth the never actually used, and that he was sure she forgot about.

"Oh no, oh we're not fine, fuck, fuck, fuck," Danny might have been panicking, and he might have been trying to call Mr. Constantine for the past hour with no luck.

"Have we escalated? Are we past the phone a friend stage?" he asked his empty walls, morosely, still clutching his phone to his chest. He wasn't sure where Sam and Tucker had gone, they had all panicked and split when the entirely too real deer looking things decked with bells had run down the center of town.

And he did mean center, running through the air and phasing through some things while destroying others. Sam had looked gleeful. Tucker immediately started bemoaning the broken cable lines. Danny, himself, was really trying not to think destructive christmas thoughts.

It partially worked.

He didn't think they were reindeer. Maybe. And they didn't quite look like ghosts? They didn't really feel like ghosts either, and honestly it wasn't until they started grabbing people, grabbing with their mouths even and he wasn't about to get into his that shouldn't work, that he realized he didn't actually know what to do. Ghosts he could punch. Vaguely magic deer that kidnapped people?

Hard pass.

Which is why he was dialing sad man's number again, because he wasn't sure he knew how to track him and he also wasn't sure if he had the wherewithal to find an emergency hero line right now. He was still stuck on the deer things lifting up Flash by the jacket with their teeth and flying away.

"What the absolute fuck do you want, little busy here," was barked out of his shitty phone speakers and honestly, he might of could have cried. He was a little too tired for that now.

"Sad Man! Look, look, there are magic deers kidnapping people," Danny would fight anyone that said his voice shook but finally getting an answer lifted some weight off.

"And they aren't ghosts. Just, just magic deer biting people and then flying off with them."

Aside from the muffled sounds of explosions, tinny metal on metal and maybe some booming villain dialogue, the line was silent. And then Mr. Constantine sighed like the world was killing him. Which, given what Danny knew might be a thing.

He didn't judge. Much.

"Fuck. Fuck, kid okay that's, well it isnt unrelated to my deal today, fine. Okay, yeah why not have the wild hunt wildlife out here too, whatever. Fuck."

The sound of bells jingled closer to the barred window and Danny edged away, white knuckling his phone.

"Okay, so, fae stuff, thats. Well. Uh, they're trying to come inside now. Can I hit them with something?"

At least they weren't regular animals, Sam couldn't get too mad at him for hurting fae animals, right?

Constantine and Danny have a very strange relationship. They’ve struck a deal, Constantine can harvest Danny’s ectoplasm for spells and Danny can call on Constantine for help and magical knowhow. Sometimes they call each other at inopportune times, for instance right now where John’s phone has been buzzing away in his pocket for the past three minutes midway through a Justice League Dark battle.

[witchywithwhiskey]

Alright, Molly, let’s try this again ❤️

What if I say Lloyd Hansen and 1-800-Cupid? 😌 Does that strike your fancy?

be my cupid

pairing: boyfriend!lloyd hansen x female reader

summary: when your boyfriend is away on a work trip for valentine's day, you have a plan to make it special. but then he surprises you with an even more exciting present that you weren't expecting.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), smut, piv sex, unprotected sex, creampie, dirty talk, light bdsm, light dom/sub, sir kink, praise kink, finger sucking, aftercare, pet names, established relationship, some insecurity from reader and reassurance from lloyd

word count: 3.1k

a/n: i'm so happy you sent in the "1-800-Cupid" prompt!! i was hoping someone would because it seemed so fun. i really like the idea i came up with for this one—and i think it works perfectly with lloyd! thank you for playing my sweethearts game, i hope you enjoy ♡♡

“Thank you for calling 1-800-Cupid,” you trilled into the phone, unable to bite back the smile that had spread across your face when you saw the name Lloyd Hansen appear on the screen. “I’m your personal cupid, here to connect you with your true love.”

“My ‘true love’?” The familiar voice on the other end of the line scoffed with an ungentlemanly snort. 

You could practically hear the whiskers of his mustache twitch as his mouth twisted into a playful sneer. Indignantly, you sat up in your bed. 

“Don’t you dare scoff at me, Lloyd Hansen,” you scolded, even going so far as to give your phone a little glare when you knew there was no way for the man on the other end to actually see your expression. After all, you were sitting in your bed, alone in your apartment, while he was half a world away on some business trip. 

“I’m sorry, cupcake, I’m sorry,” Lloyd said soothingly, managing to sound genuinely contrite and teasingly playful all at the same time. 

You rolled your eyes with affection—it was a feat only Lloyd could manage. But it did the trick and you settled back into the pillows on your bed, playing with the edge of your sweater while you huffed a sigh. 

It took you a moment to get back into character, glancing at the short script you’d prepared as part of the surprise you’d planned.

“Now, why are you calling today, sir?” you asked in your best professionally cheerful customer service voice.

“Well, I found a mysterious card in my jacket, with your number on it,” Lloyd said, mirth filling his tone even as he tried to play along. “You don’t think my girlfriend could’ve had something to do with it, do you? D’you think she’s trying to get rid of me?” 

It took all your effort to stifle a hopeless giggle. You could always count on Lloyd to make you laugh, even when you were sad about the fact that he wasn’t there with you.

It was your first Valentine’s Day together, but he’d had to go away on a work trip, and you’d come up with a little plan to make the holiday special when you weren’t able to be together. But he kept distracting you. 

You took a moment to collect yourself, Lloyd waiting patiently on the other end of the line, seemingly just happy to be on the phone with you, which made you all the more eager to get on with your plan. 

“I don’t know anything about that…” you said primly, trying to keep your mouth from curving into a smile and utterly failing. So you moved on, blurting out the next part of your script. “Would you like me to send a photo of the true love you’ve been matched with, sir?”

“You keep calling me sir, sunshine, and you’re going to be getting a photo of my hard dick,” Lloyd muttered, sounding like he was palming the bulge in his pants already. 

Your breath hitched in your throat, warmth cascading down through your body and settling heavily between your thighs, wetness beginning to gather in your panties. It was on the tip of your tongue to beg him to send the photo, so you’d have something to touch yourself to when he inevitably needed to go and attend to the work that had taken him out of the country.

But you shook yourself and persevered with your plan. “Lloyd,” you admonished, your voice a little breathy despite your best efforts. “Do you want the photo or not?” 

“Sure, princess, send me the photo,” he said. Affection was clear in his tone, which made you soften just a bit. 

Pulling the phone away from your ear, you tapped on the screen until you pulled up the photos you’d had taken in a boudoir photoshoot. They were Valentine’s Day themed, with your body swathed in red and white lingerie, surrounded by rose petals and soft silk sheets. In your hands, you held a pink, plastic bow and arrow, making you look like a particularly sexy cupid.

Biting back a grin and a sound of excitement, you sent your favorite of the photos to Lloyd, then quickly replaced your phone against your ear, holding your breath while you waited with eager anticipation for his reaction.

You were rewarded a few seconds later with a choked groan and a muttered curse from your boyfriend. If you didn’t know any better, you might’ve thought he was in pain, but then his lust-soaked voice filled your ears.

“Fuck, angel, look at you,” he cooed down the line, sending little shivers of delight racing beneath your skin. “You look so fucking gorgeous—so perfect and pretty and…” He trailed off, his words dissolving into another restrained groan, like he was biting his hand to muffle the sound. “Is this all for me? Is this my Valentine’s Day present, sweets?” 

“Yeah,” you said softly, almost shyly, unable to wipe the grin off your face. The rest of your words left you in a rush of excitement. “Do you like it? I wanted to give you something you’d like even though you’re on your work trip.”

“I love it, buttercup,” Lloyd purred. 

His deep voice made you shiver with a desire that you knew was going to go unslaked until your boyfriend got home. No matter how much phone sex the two of you had, it was never quite as satisfying as having Lloyd with you in person, bending you over and taking you hard and deep…

Lloyd kept talking then, distracting you from your dirty thoughts with a surprise of his own.

“I got you something, too, pumpkin. Open your door.”

Excitement shot through your body and you bounced eagerly off your bed. You didn’t think much of his words, it wasn’t uncommon for Lloyd to send you little presents while he was on his work trips—coffee and pastries delivered to your door in the mornings to help you start your day, some jewelry or a book in the evenings because he was thinking of you. 

“Oohh, did you get me flowers, Lloyd Hansen?” you chattered happily, padding through your apartment to the front door. “Some chocolates? One of those giant stuffed teddy bears?” You paused, glancing around your cramped and cozy space, wondering where you would even put a giant teddy bear. 

Your boyfriend just chuckled softly on the other end of the line, not giving anything away. Your excitement to know what he’d gotten you rushed back in, and you turned to the door again, eager to see what he’d sent you.

Flinging open the front door of your apartment, you were stunned to find not flowers or chocolates or a teddy bear, but Lloyd Hansem himself. He wore a familiar smirk on his handsome face, his blue eyes glittering with mischief in the fluorescent lights of the hallway, his phone still held up to his ear. 

“LLOYD!” you screamed, your phone slipping from your fingers and tumbling loudly to the floor as you launched yourself at your boyfriend. “You’re here.” The words came out much softer as you buried your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the familiar, spicy scent of his cologne. 

“Did you really think I’d let you spend our first Valentine’s Day alone?” he teased you playfully, one of his arms banding around your back while his other hand cupped the back of your head, holding you tightly against his chest. He walked you backward into your apartment, kicking the door shut behind him. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be than right here with you, muffin.”

His words filled your heart with joy, and you wrapped your arms tighter around his shoulders, clinging to his big, strong form while he slowly twirled the two of you around, like you were dancing to a silent slow song. You were so happy, it took you a moment for reality to crash back down around you. 

“But I wasn’t expecting you,” you whined into Lloyd’s neck, remembering that your face was entirely bare of makeup and you were wearing the same thing you’d had on all week—a pair of leggings and one of Lloyd’s shirts, even though his cologne had long since worn off. “I’m not pretty right now,” you mumbled, hiding your face against Lloyd’s throat.

Lloyd gently eased you away from his body, having to pry your clinging arms loose, so he could rake his eyes over your bare face. He smiled, his mustache twitching a little, and his blue eyes sparkled with nothing but genuine affection. 

“You’re gorgeous just like this, pretty girl,” he cooed, ducking forward and pressing a kiss to your lips. Then he brushed kisses to your cheeks and forehead, even dropping a kiss to the tip of your nose, making you giggle. “You make a very sexy cupid, but you’re always my gorgeous girl.”

“Thank you, Lloyd,” you said on a soft sigh of contentment, dragging him in for a proper kiss.

His mustache tickled your upper lip in the way that you’d grown to crave, and you moaned at the familiar, delicious taste of your boyfriend. Pulling him even closer with your fingers curled around the lapels of his jacket, you kissed him harder, pouring all the affection and happiness you felt about having him home into the way your mouth moved against his.

Kissing you back just as fervently, Lloyd walked you backward until you were pressed against the wall in your living room. He crowded in around you, pinning you to the wall with his big, hard body, his bulge jutting into your belly while he deepened the kiss, coaxing a burning inferno of need to life within you.

Before long, you were pushing impatiently at his jacket, wordlessly whining for him to take it off. Lloyd was only too happy to oblige, shedding the garment and tugging his shirt over his head, his mouth finding yours again for another hot, searing kiss.

His fingers hooked in the waistband of your leggings, shoving them down over your hips and thighs so you could kick them off. Then his hands came up to cup your face, cradling your head while he licked into your mouth, fucking you with his tongue until you were whimpering, desperately needing him to fill another of your holes. 

Quickly, Lloyd toed out of his shoes and stripped off his pants, leaving him in only a pair of boxer briefs, while you still wore a sweater and your panties. Glancing down at your shirt before he went back to kissing you, Lloyd’s hands pushed beneath your sweater, his fingers finding the soft flesh of your tits and kneading until you were breaking away to moan. 

“Is this my shirt?” Lloyd asked in a low, rumbling voice that was soaked with lust and a little hint of humor. He pressed hungry, nipping kisses along your jaw, pinching your nipples and making you squirm between his hard, unyielding body and the wall at your back. 

“Yeah,” you answered on a gasp. “I missed you,” you confessed, your hands curling around his bare shoulders, clinging to the muscles bunching beneath his warm skin while your head tipped back against the wall and you let out a low, keening whine. 

Lloyd made a gruff sound in the back of his throat, pulling away so he could look you in the eye. Your head was still tipped back, though, so he cupped your jaw in his hand and tilted it forward, his thumb running along your plump lower lip. 

You took the tip into your mouth and nipped playfully before sucking on Lloyd’s thumb, staring up at your boyfriend with half-lidded eyes. You watched while his gaze darkened, his pupils blowing wide with a lustful hunger that made your body clench tight with anticipation. 

“I missed you too, baby cakes,” he rumbled, ducking his head to brush a kiss to the corner of your mouth. His mustache tickled and you giggled, turning your head and letting his thumb fall from your lips so you could kiss your boyfriend.

The kiss quickly turned heated again and it felt like both of you suddenly remembered how long it had been since you’d been joined together in the most primal way possible. There was an urgency in your movements as you impatiently tugged your boyfriend’s boxer briefs down, palming his cock while he tugged your sweater off and shoved your panties down your legs.

“Lloyd, please, I need you,” you gasped, wrenching your lips from his to suck in some much-needed air. The fingers of your free hand curled in the hair at the back of his head, clinging to him while stroked his cock, your thigh lifting and trying to curl around his hip. “Need your cock inside me, need you to fill me up, sir, please.”

“Fuck, alright, alright, lollipop—you want my cock, you’ll get it,” Lloyd rumbled, his hand grabbing your raised thigh and lifting it higher. His fingers dug into your plush softness while he hooked it around his hip and you guided his cock to your entrance. “Take it, honey bee, take your man’s cock.”

You sank down on Lloyd’s cock while he pressed into you, filling you up in one smooth stroke that had your head falling back against the wall and a filthy moan spilling from your lips. You weren’t quite wet enough to take him easily, but you enjoyed the slight burn and the ache of being stretched around his hard length too much to complain. 

“You’re so fucking gorgeous, doll face, looking so fucking blissed out on my cock,” Lloyd said on a grunt, pulling out slightly and pushing in again, making you both moan. “I could get used to this—coming home to you and filling your cunt while your body clings to me, sucking me deeper.” 

“Yes, yes, please, sir, I want that,” you babbled, the words falling from your lips and finding you did want it. You wanted Lloyd coming home to you every day, fucking you over the nearest surface and reminding you who you belonged to every night. “I want you filling me every day, fucking me, taking what’s yours.”

Lloyd chuckled, the sound deliciously sinful while he rocked into your body, fucking you against the wall of your apartment ruthlessly. All you could do was cling to him, your fingers curling in his hair, nails digging into the back of his neck while you held on for the ride.

“You want me to take what’s mine, sweet pea? Are you mine, sweet girl?” he teased mercilessly, fucking you even harder. 

It was on the tip of your tongue to say yes, you were his, but then Lloyd changed the angle of his hips. The base of his cock rubbed meanly against your clit with every thrust and you cried out loudly, your back arching away from the wall and your hips bearing down on his cock as you barreled toward your release.

“Lloyd,” you gasped, barely able to get the words out, “I’m gonna cum.”

“Do it, cutie, cum for me,” Lloyd urged, fucking you in hard thrusts, pausing between each to grind against your clit  “Be a good girl and show me you’re mine, honey pie—cum all over my cock.” 

Between his commanding words and the relentless grinding of his hips, his cock buried to the hilt in your soaking wet pussy, it was too much. Your release crashed over you, making you scream in pleasure while you came on Lloyd’s cock, your inner walls clenching hard enough around him to make him grunt. 

With a few more short, hard thrusts, Lloyd followed you over the edge, burying his face in your neck and muffling a loud groan against your skin as he spilled inside you. Your pussy squeezed every last drop of cum from his length, the two of you collapsing against the wall at your back as you caught your breath and rode out the aftershocks of your releases.

Once you recovered enough to move, the two of you stumbled down the hall toward your bedroom, taking a quick detour to the bathroom to clean up before tumbling into bed together. Lloyd had snagged his shirt from where he’d dropped in your living room and he pulled it over your head, swaddling you in his scent before pulling you close to cuddle.

Your boyfriend lay on his back, your body splayed across his chest, your ear pressed to his sternum while you listened to the steady beat of his heart. After a short time of enjoying each other’s presence, you raised your head, your eyes greedily raking over Lloyd’s handsome face while your fingers played idly with his mustache. 

“Thank you for cutting your trip short,” you murmured softly, your eyes fixed on Lloyd’s mouth, watching the corners flicker with a smile. “I really didn’t expect you to that just for Valentine’s Day.” 

“I did it for you, sweetheart,” Lloyd purred, his fingers closing around your wrist and bringing your fingers to his lips, pressing kisses to the pads of each one until you looked up into his eyes. His gaze was filled with so much affection, it made your breath catch in your throat. He murmured, “I love you.”

It was the first time either of you had said those words and you were surprised by the rush of emotion that flooded your heart when you heard them. Tears pricked at your eyes and you quickly dashed them away. 

“I love you, too, Lloyd,” you murmured, pulling your hand away from his mouth so you could replace it with your lips. You kissed him hard, and he did the same, banding an arm around your lower back and cradling your head while he rolled on top of you. 

When he started kissing down your neck, you tipped your head to the side and let out a delighted giggle at the way his mustache tickled your skin. You felt like you were bubbling with happiness, and you couldn’t help the words that came out of your mouth. 

“So I guess I really did match you with your true love, didn’t I?” you teased playfully, enjoying the way Lloyd laughed against your skin, making your pulse pump harder through your body. “Another satisfied cupid customer,” you joked, your legs wrapping around Lloyd’s hips and squirming beneath his hardening cock.

“Oh I’m very satisfied,” Lloyd said, lifting up to capture your lips in another kiss. His hips rocked between your thighs, grinding his cock against your soft pussy, making both of you moan at the pleasurable slide of your bodies. “You can be my cupid anytime, sugar pie, as long as you’re the one I end up with.”

“Always,” you purred, clinging to Lloyd while he slid inside you again. Then he was stealing your breath with another kiss, fucking you in slow strokes, savoring your body and murmuring his love against your lips. 

All told, it was the first of many happy Valentine’s Days with your boyfriend—and future husband—Lloyd Hansen.

[fullfriendnerdclutch]

Since you love it when people expanded your storyline, please allow me to entertain you about Cas because this is right up my alley @onelinerbust

Something extraordinary happened to me earlier today. As I smugly grin with my roommate to our enhanced reflection in the mirror, my mind wandered to 10 hours ago when that hit me.

My fingers, stained with Cheeto dust and smelling faintly of lukewarm ramen, hammered away at the keyboard, lines of Python code blooming on the screen like digital weeds. The hum of the server rack in the corner was my white noise, the flickering monitor my campfire. This was my life, resident basement dweller in a leafy, aggressively liberal campus more interested in protesting free speech than actually engaging with it.

My world consisted of logic gates, late-night coding sessions, and the occasional awkward conversation with a teaching assistant about why my sorting algorithm was eating up more memory than a browser running Chrome. Social life? Non-existent. Romantic prospects? Laughable. I’d spend my weekends huddled in the dimly lit computer lab, bathed in the cool glow of screens, while the rest of the campus pulsed with parties and… well, whatever else regular college kids did. I wouldn't know. Regular wasn't in my programming.

*bzzzt bzzzt*

Little did I know back then, it was the catalyst. It was a rarity for someone to message me, most of the time people reached me through the more accessible socials, message to my phone number usually ended up as spam. But something – a flicker of boredom, maybe – made me pick it up and unlock it.

The message was long, rambling, and…...weird.

“Cas, wake the fuck up. This is a trick, you are NOT a spineless soyboy. You’re supposed to be a GOD, remember? 🤯 Alpha💪🏻. American 🇺🇸. White 🫵🏻. You have all it takes to become the God that you are destined to be! 🦅🦅🦅🇺🇸 This is not it! Look at you, pathetic. Remember gridiron glory? Friday night lights? The roar of the crowd as you, Chad ‘The Crusher’ Kensington, leading your team to victory? 🏈🏈🏆 Remember the cheerleaders, their pom-poms a blur, their eyes hungry for you? Remember the taste of victory, the scent of their slick pussy🍑😏, the adoration in their eyes when they kneel to your greatness🍆💦🧠? You deserve it all. It’s your birthright. This woke bullshit campus is trying to neuter you, but deep down, the alpha is still there. Let him out. Unleash the beast 😤👹👹 They want weakness? Show them power. They want equality? Show them hierarchy. They want gentleness? Show them dominance. Go take what's yours, Chad. Grab your crown and spoil, king 👑, you know I'm right and you approve this message! 😤😤

The message was punctuated with emojis – flexing biceps, crowns, American flags, and an unsettling number of suggestive faces. My brow furrowed. This had to be some kind of elaborate prank. Some right-wing troll farm had probably gotten hold of my number. I was about to delete it when a strange warmth spread in my chest. Like a shot of something potent and unfamiliar.

It started small. A tingling in my fingers, then a tightening in my gut, like I'd just downed a gallon of protein shake. My vision sharpened, my glasses become an obstacle so I took it down. The code on the screen, which had been a comforting blur of familiar symbols, now seemed almost… insulting. My shoulders straightened instinctively. I flexed my fingers, and there was…more there. Definitely more. Concerned, I decided to make a dash to the bathroom, trying to relive myself and not disturb the others with my painful groan

As I entered the empty, secluded bathroom, that was when it hit.

It wasn't a slow transition. It was a goddamn reality shift. One second, I was Cas, the hunched-over coder, the next…I trembled on the floor as my body screamed with a new kind of awareness. My skin flushed with heat as it gets tighter, stretched over something hard and defined. Muscles. Real muscles. Not the flabby kind that comes from hauling bags of chips from the store to the dorm. These were….sculpted....powerful, dare I say.

Despite my attempt to look at my surroundings and begging for help, I only let out a weak, pathetic whimper as my gaze dropped to my swelling arms. I ripped off my oversized, stained hoodie, the fabric tearing slightly at the seams. The skinny, pale limbs I’d known my entire life were gone. It was replaced by thick, corded arms with veins popping under my now tanned, still-white skin. I managed to get some control over my trembling, swelling form, as I pushed myself to stand up. Then, as if a truck just hit me, my reflection stared back from the dirty bathroom mirror

It wasn't me, I thought rightaway, but a painful glitch hit my brain and I relaxed afterward.

The round, soft face was gone. Sharp angles had emerged – a strong jawline, high cheekbones. My eyes, which had always been a bland, watery blue behind thick glasses, were now a piercing, intense steel-grey, framed by this intimidating, darker eyebrows. My boring, unimpressive thin brunette with signs of receding hairline, had thickened, styled into a coiffed, blonde cut that framed my face perfectly. And… holy shit, my chest. I was enamored by the sight of it…defined...yet pillowy too, definitely the kind of pecs that can hypnotize anyone that stared at it for too long

The rest of my torso were equally outstanding, rippling with muscle and power beyond even my wildest imagination. A six-pack, for Christ’s sake! I ran a hand over my stomach, feeling the hard ridges beneath my skin. It felt… alien. And utterly, undeniably amazing.

Below the Adonis belt… well, let’s just say things were… proportionately enhanced. The message hadn't lied. Eight inches? Minimum. This wasn't just a physical transformation. It was…fundamental. A complete rewrite of my being.

And the memories…they flooded in, vivid and visceral, like a lifetime I’d somehow forgotten. Friday night lights. The roar of the crowd. Me, Chad Kensington, throwing a perfect spiral, the ball whistling through the air, finding my receiver in the end zone for the winning touchdown. Cheerleaders chanting my name. The hot press of bodies in the locker room, the smell of sweat and victory. The adoring gazes of girls, lining up for a piece of me.

Chad Kensington. That's me now. That had always been me. And this Cas memory… this weak, nerdy shell, this “Cas,” was just some… aberration. A glitch in the matrix, finally corrected.

A surge of pure, unadulterated testosterone pulsed through my veins. I thought to myself, this is power. This is dominance. This is what I was meant to be.

I remembered that I reached down, gripped myself through my sweatpants – they were suddenly too tight, too strained at the seams – and started to stroke hard, the phantom memories of cheering crowds and eager pussy fueling my hand. Chad Kensington, college star. Chad Kensington, panty-dropper extraordinaire. Chad Kensington, alpha male supreme. The image solidified in my mind, burning hot and real. I came hard all over the bathroom, my streak of thick, white cum painted the tiles, the mirror and even coagulated at the sink, the force of it surprising even myself, the false memory of adoration and conquest washing over me like a tidal wave.

When I finally opened my eyes, still breathing heavily, I realized that this would the very last time I would be jacking off to my dick in such a pathetic state. My baby batter would not be wasted in an empty, secluded bathroom like that so I quickly put my clothes back on and dashed to the computer lab to made my exit from the confine of that oppressive cage.

As I entered the lab, I remembered it suddenly felt… suffocating. Small. Pathetic. It wasn't my place anymore. Chad Kensington didn’t belong in a basement coding Phyton and shit. He belonged out there, dominating, conquering, taking what was rightfully his.

"Chad, what took you so long?"

Yeah, that was fun. Ramsey......did that pathetic TA really tried to intimidate me with that furrowed brow of his and confined me with bureaucracy BS? Well, he better be fuckin' jacked first before starting to act tough to me. Then, my brain started working. Maybe Ramsey can be less of a whiny, judgy TA if he received the message, so I just forwarded the message to him and smirked as I told him that I sent my reason to his personal messenger and I need to get the fuck out of here ASAP. He turned around and started to read the chat, and from the small glimpse that I managed to peek, the message is different from what I received! That's when the realization hit me. I legit mouthed "Damn" to myself as I realized that it's adaptive......like, that shit can change based on who read it. That revelation made my head spin, that message was indeed some fucking precisive, hi-tech work there. But the effect seemed to be the same, it made the reader into its best version of themselves, because how do you explain that a fucking algorithmic TA all-in-a-sudden have the built of a jacked bull like that, huh?

As he allowed me to grab my bag and leave the lab with a knowing nod, my stomach growled – not from hunger, but from a different kind of hunger. A primal urge. And then it brought me back to this very room as I remembered Kate, Jason's girlfriend. I know Jason, my roommate, was still at his stupid philosophy club meeting as I cleaned out my table, probably droning on about existential dread and Kate.....Kate was always… around, waiting for him. She's pretty enough, in a bland, accessible way. And always subtly, almost unconsciously, throwing glances my way. I knew even from back then that it must be the fucked up, corrupt message that made me think that way because Kate would never glanced to pathetic, asocial Cas, but at the same time, I was hit by this duality as I remembered myself as NOT Cas. Of course she glanced at me, I'm Chad fucking Kensington and people will not only glance my way, they will snap their head to view my greatness.

I strode out of the computer lab, my newfound muscles rippling under my thin tanktop (which also felt alarmingly small and tight). The campus walkways felt different. People noticed me. Heads turned. Girls giggled. Guys gave me that wary, respectful nod that alphas exchanged. It was intoxicating.

When I finally arrived at my dorm room, it was unlocked, as usual. Jason was perpetually trusting, another symptom of his pathetic beta male existence, I thought. I pushed it open, and there she was, Kate, sprawled on Jason's bed, scrolling through her phone, oblivious.

“Hey,” I said, my voice deeper, rougher than I remembered. Chad’s voice.

She looked up, startled as I take my shirt off so casually to reveal the sheen of sweat that seemingly coated my body. Her eyes widened, lingering on my… physique. A flicker of something in her eyes I recognized – desire – flashed in them.

“Cas? Uh.... sorry, the room is unlocked, Jason said.....I....I can wait in his bed. You just finished with practice?” Her voice was breathy, a little uncertain.

“Chad,” I corrected, stepping closer. “It’s Chad,"

She swallowed, her gaze dropping to my chest. “Chad,” she repeated, testing the name on her lips as I can see the memory started to jog on her brain. “Yeah, Chad.”

“Jason’s not here,” I stated, knowing it wasn’t a question.

She shook her head, a nervous laugh escaping her. “No, he’s… still in philosophy club.”

“Right,” I said, closing the distance between us. I reached out, my hand closing around her wrist, pulling her to her feet. Her skin was soft, yielding in my grip. Too soft. She needed to be hardened up. Tamed.

“By the way, read your phone, dropped something you would be interested to read," I said, glancing at her phone with a knowing smirk as I decided that she would be my first female guinea pig

I watched it in real time how the bland, average-looking Kate started to get way more prettier, leagues above Jason definitely, the curve gets wilder and her face really turned exactly how I imagined a sultry blonde bimbo falling head over heels for me would look like. So, after proving my little theory to be correct, that the message is transformative beyond men, I decided to test out yet another probability. Her slightly vacant eyes gave me idea as I saw a potential to create more excitement, more chaos, so I grabbed her by the chin to made her stare at me and start digging

"You get close to my roommate just to have chances to be in the same room with me, don't you? You're not the brightest girl out there, Cathy, I can see right through your play,"

Bingo, I smirked in my mind. That mind was jogging hard to made my words her reality. And since I have started anyway, I decided to take it up a notch to made my words her Bible

"In fact, you always fantasize Jason as me, right? This room smelled like me, you can taste me in the air so when you close your eyes as Jason fucked you, that mind of yours played this little game to make you think I was the one doing the fucking, huh? That's why you always come here earlier than Jason and I, you imprinted my fucking musk in your head by digging through my dirty laundry and closet so you can go through that unimpressive sex with Jason with me in mind, don't you? Well, he's not around, so why not use this time for you to just taste the real thing?"

She didn’t resist as I pulled her closer, my body pressing against hers. And seemingly taken over by her wilder, improved side, she started licking and kissing my abs

We were on Jason's bed in seconds, her clothes ripped open, the cheap fabric tearing easily under my hands. She moaned like a slut in heat, calling my name like I'm his God and only savior which fueled my dominance. It was power. It was control. It was… right.

Just as I was piledriving my cock into her now very irresistibly tight pussy, the door swung open. Jason stood there, textbooks clutched in his hand, his jaw dropping as he took in the scene. Me, thrusting hard into his girlfriend, her muffled moan filling the room.

“Cas?!” His voice was a strangled squawk.

I paused, looking up at him, a smirk playing on my lips. “Chad,” I corrected again. “And you need to check your phone, Jason,”

He stared at me, bewildered, then slowly lowered his gaze to his phone, which he thankfully had in his pocket. He fumbled it out, unlocked it with trembling fingers, and then… his eyes widened. He read something on the screen, his face shifting, contorting.

The change wasn’t as instantaneous as mine had been, but it was happening. His posture straightened. His shoulders broadened. His soft, doughy face hardened, angles emerging where there had been curves. His eyes sharpened, losing their bewildered puppy-dog look, gaining a new, predatory gleam.

“Holy… fuck,” he breathed, dropping his textbooks to the floor with a thud. He looked at me, a grin spreading across his transformed face, a grin that mirrored my own. “Chad?”

“Welcome to the club, bro,” I said, nodding. “Plenty to go around.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He ripped off his shirt, revealing a surprisingly decent set of pecs that I didn’t remember being there before. He was still smaller than me, but… he was getting there. Fast.

Without a word, he joined me on the bed. Cathy, who had been silent and still during the initial shock of Jason’s arrival, moaned again as he climbed on top of her, his gaze now burning with the same predatory hunger I felt.

We tag-teamed her, me dealing with her now bubbly, curvy ass while Jason handled the front, his now uncut 6 inchers really bruised her throay in a brutal, animalistic act of dominance. Tears and sweat leaked out of her alongside the obvious pussy juices and saliva, but she's not really protesting despite all the shit we did to her, just… taking it. Submitting. Like the good, cheerleader slut she was. It was… satisfying. In a deeply, disturbingly primal way.

Later, after we were done, Cathy panted for breath looking like a total wrecked mess on Jason's bed as I and Jason stood side-by-side, flexing in front of the mirror. The dorm room felt… different. Charged. Alive. With power.

As my mind snapped back to the current situation and how much change I have caused, Jason's question really cause a stir in my mind

“Think this… message… can do this to anyone?” Jason asked, running a hand over his newly defined jawline.

I smirked. “Oh I know this shit can do it to anyone. But let's see how far this can go,"

I pulled out my phone, found the message, and forwarded it to the Computer Science group chat. A chat filled with other pathetic, nerdy guys like I used to be. Guys who needed… guidance. Correction.

Almost instantly, phones started buzzing and pinging around the dorm. Then, shouts. Yells. The sound of furniture being overturned. Loud, aggressive music blaring from open windows. Footsteps pounding in the hallway.

Jason and I exchanged a glance. Then we grinned. Wide, feral grins.

The campus is about to change. And Chad Kensington, along with his newly minted alpha brothers, is going to be leading the charge. My birthright, after all.

[hamiltonfc]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖⋆⭒˚｡⋆ MOTH TO A FLAME; JUDE BELLINGHAM (Chapter One)

➤ Summary: Kaia tells Jude about her new beau, throwing yet another spanner in the works of their already complicated relationship.

➤ Pairing: Jude Bellingham x F!OC

➤ Warnings: Swearing, Food mention.

➤ Discussion tag: #my works: moth to a flame (if you ever have any questions about the story, release schedule, etc. my inbox is always open.)

➤ Word Count: 2,254

TAGLIST | SERIES PLAYLIST | SERIES MASTERLIST

Kaia’s POV

The dial tone wasn’t unfamiliar when it came to my relationship with Jude. Over the past few years, phone calls between us have been the main way of communicating with my best friend. With him away in either Germany or Spain, or with myself at my home in Surrey, or away on a film set somewhere, phone calls or long text threads were the best I could get. 

But this call was different. Jude was finally back home in England. Not for long, just for a week or so during the winter break in the Spanish season. It just so happened that I had made the journey up from Surrey to be home with my family for Christmas, so it was only a matter of time before I picked up my phone, ready to call him. 

“Hello?” I heard at the other end of the line when Jude picked up. “Who’s this? The number kinda looked like this girl who last spoke to me about three weeks ago, but, you know, I could be mistaken.”

“Jude,” I say, deadpan. “I swear to God, the day you answer a phone call in a somewhat normal way, that’s when I’ll know the aliens have invaded.”

“I find offence in the fact that’s not the first time you’ve referred to aliens when talking about me,” his smirk was obvious through the way he spoke, it’s not like I’d never heard him speak that way before. “Anyway, stranger, what’s up? Miss my pretty face?”

“Always. But no, I need you to come over,” I stand up from where I was lying on my bed and walk over to my desk, taking a seat on the chair in front of it. 

“You need me to, huh? You should’ve said, Baby, I’d have been over already.” 

“Jesus,” I pinch the bridge of my nose, slumping further back into the chair in feigned annoyance. 

“My name’s Jude, actually, but close enough.”

“Please, Jude. I need to tell you something,” I twist my body, swinging the desk chair side to side a little, nerves creeping up to my heart, which is pounding in my chest. 

“God, I love it when you beg,” Jude whispers, voice a little more serious than it had been before. “Sorry, uhm, I’ll be over in ten. See you soon, Darling.”

****

*knock knock knock*

“FBI, open up!” Jude yells, in the worst American accent I might’ve ever heard (and I’ve been an actor my whole life so I’ve heard some terrible ones), from the other side of my door. He swings the door open, and his beaming face is the first thing I see when he’s revealed. 

I furrow my brows, staring at him with a disappointed look on my face for a few seconds. “Remind me, Jude, why the fuck are we friends?”

Jude places his hand against his chest, mouth open in fake, way too dramatic, offence. “Because we love each other, duh? Did you like it, though? It’s like that show you like, Criminal Brains or whatever it’s called.” He throws himself onto the bed beside me, landing on his stomach, before pushing up onto his forearms, leaning in towards me with only one thing on his mind.

“No,” I whisper, my hand gently placed on his collarbone as I push him back. “I need to talk to you first.”

“Oh,” Jude says with a nod. He grabs one of the many pillows on my bed and tucks it under his head, getting into a more comfortable position so he can look at me properly. Before Jude speaks, I see a look pass across his face, one that I can read instantly. “It’s serious enough that you don’t want to kiss me? Okay,” he drags out the vowels, chocolate brown eyes landing on mine, and at that moment I can do nothing but stare into them. 

My eyes flutter away from his, too scared to look at him during what I’m about to tell him, the weight of his gaze upon me enough to knock my mind off balance. 

“We can’t do this anymore,” I say softly, lips barely moving, but they fall loud and clear upon Jude’s ears. 

“We can’t do what anymore?” He knows. I knew he’d know what I would tell him when I refused to kiss him. But that’s what Jude is like, he is always going to give me space to tell him in my own time. He knows that’s how I want this to go. 

“Whatever we’ve been doing for the past however many years,” it’s then when I look at him, the image of his face etched into my brain of what I imagined he looked like in the moment, and I wasn’t wrong. 

Jude shakes his head, breaking eye contact, his jaw tight, before looking right back at me. “Why?”

“I have a boyfriend.” Silence washes over the room. Only sounds of our breathing can be heard and the ruffling of the bedding when I shift my body towards Jude. “We, uhm, we met on set a few months back and we hit it off, so… yeah. We’re now together.”

I give Jude a tight-lipped smile. He nods slowly in response, eyes wandering around my room. “I’m happy for you.” There it is. Four simple words, but they’re exactly what I expected him to say. He is so predictable. 

“So,” Jude slaps his thighs as he moves to sit up, almost falling backwards due to the lack of support from the mattress underneath him, but his strong core just about manages to complete the manoeuvre. “What’s your mom cooking?”

“A roast, but ab-”

“A roast? Oh, get in, I fucking love your mom’s roasts. Don’t tell my mom but, if I’m being completely honest, I prefer your mom’s Yorkshire puddings,” he smiles, but I can tell in the way he’s moving, his body language, the way his eyes can’t hold contact with mine for longer than three seconds, that he’s trying to distract himself from everything that’s going through his mind. “Mine does do better roast potatoes, though. They’re crispier.” 

“Jude,” I say sharply, placing a hand on his thigh in an attempt to bring him back to reality a little, as I stare at his heaving chest. “Slow the fuck down, yeah?” My stare is wide and long as my hand moves up and down his thigh, the only thing separating our skin are his grey sweatpants. “Take a breath, next time.”

He nods, his hand instinctually moving to grasp mine, giving it a gentle squeeze before letting it go, knowing that if he held on any longer he wouldn’t want to let go at all. “Quick question,” his eyes meet mine. “Why are we having a roast when you’re coming round mine for Christmas dinner in three days?”

I shrug. “Think of it as a pre-roast. You know how my mum gets when she’s not hosting, she can’t sit still to save her life, the roast dinner is just a product of that.”

“Cool,” Jude nods. “Two roast dinners in a week is a lot better than all the nutritional shit I have to eat throughout the season, anyway.”

I let out a quiet laugh, pulling my hand out from underneath his. “Anyway,” I take a deep breath. “As I was trying to say, about the dinner, Noah, my boyfriend, is coming over to eat with us.”

“Okay,” Jude’s voice fades out as he says, a confused look on his face.

“I mean,” I tell him. “It’s up to you, you can stay and meet him if you want, I don’t mind. Like I understand if you don’t want to, but, like I said, it’s completely up to you.”

Jude scoffs. “And like I said, I want that roast dinner. Of course, I’m staying.”

“Right then, I get up from my bed, stretching and letting out a yawn, catching Jude looking at the sliver of my belly that appears when I raise my hands over my head. “We best get downstairs and set the table, because we both know that sister of mine won’t have done it.” 

****

“You do know you have legs, right?” I say to my fifteen-year-old sister, Olivia, as soon as I enter the dining room only to find that the table hadn’t already been set like I had previously hoped. 

My sister only lets out a grunt and shrugs at my words. 

“You alright, Liv?” Jude grabs the coasters, placing one in front of each chair, making sure to count one extra than usual for Noah.

Olivia gives Jude the same grunt as the one that she gave me. 

“Remember when we were like that?” I nudge Jude with my elbow, setting up everyone’s cutlery. 

“What, when we hated everyone and everything that wasn’t on our phones? Yeah, that was rough,” a reminiscent look passes across Jude’s face before I slap him in the tummy with the placemats. 

“Come on, slacker, you going to put them down before I whack you round the head with them, or what?” I giggle, making my way into the kitchen to see if my mum needs any help. 

I see Jude smile at me over my shoulder as he watches me walk away. “You alright, Mum? Need help with anything?”

“No, I’m alright, thanks, Love. You go and sit down, I’ll bring the food through in a bit,” she flashes a smile at me before opening the oven up, and checking on the beef and potatoes. 

I turn on my heel, walking back into the dining room when my little brother appears at the doorway. “Judey!” he yells as soon as he spots my best friend. 

My youngest sibling, Leo, runs at Jude, causing him to stop everything he’s doing before he leans down to pick up the little boy. 

“Hello, little man, how are you doing?” Jude squeezes him as tight as he can. In the time that Jude and Leo had known each other, which was the entirety of Leo’s seven years on the planet, they had built up an amazing relationship. Leo considered Jude to be one of his best friends and even went as far as saying that Jude loved him more than me. If he only knew. 

“I’m not too good,” I watch as Leo pouts up at Jude after he’s placed him back on the ground. 

“Why not, Kid?” Jude’s brows furrow, continuing his work setting the table while also giving the small boy as much attention as he can. 

“I’ve been doing my homework all day because Mummy said I had to and if I didn’t I wouldn’t be able to play Roblox later.” 

“Well, we can’t be having that, can we?” Jude smiles when Leo shakes his head and lets out a heavy sigh. “So, did you get it all done?”

“I did,” Leo nods, a proud smile on his face. 

“Good kid,” Jude ruffles his hair before he spots me, leaning against the doorframe, watching their interaction. 

“Go and take a seat, Leo,” soft thuds against the floor can be heard as he runs to his chair next to his older sister. “Mum says dinner will be ready soon.”

I sit down in my usual spot, with Jude going to take the seat right next to me before changing his mind and walking around the table to sit in the seat directly across from me instead. 

Jude and I engage in barely thirty seconds of conversation before it’s broken up by the sound of the doorbell ringing. I feel my expression change immediately, to one full of nerves. Jude notices that immediately, watching me in anticipation as I get up from my seat. 

“That’ll be him,” I say, leaving no room for Jude to reply because I’m out of the room in seconds, making my way towards the door. 

“Hey, Babe,” Noah says in his thick American accent as soon as I open the door. 

I move to the side, signalling for him to come in. “Hi,” I say, my words a lot more muted than the bubbly voice that he’s used to. 

Noah shrugs his coat off as he steps inside and I grab it from him, turning to hang it on one of the hooks beside the door. He leans down, pressing a quick kiss on my lips. “You okay?” His brows furrow together as he analyses my face. 

“Yeah,” I nod, smiling up at him. “There’s someone here I’d like you to meet,” I tell him, leading him into the dining room after about a minute of being gone. 

As soon as Noah and I enter the room, I notice Jude look Noah up and down the moment his eyes land on him. He takes in his outfit, his tanned skin and his blonde hair. I can practically see the moment where he acknowledges that he’s not my type, no that that matters, he doesn’t know my type to be anything other than himself. 

“Noah,” I turn to him, a slight smile on my face. “You’ve already met my brother and sister,” I can feel Jude watching me as I point at the kids beside him. I can also see his face change slightly, most likely to show his disdain at the fact that I let Noah into my house before ever telling him about our relationship. “And this,” My gaze falls upon Jude, prompting Noah to look at him for the first time this evening. “Is Jude. My best friend.”

Taglist: @eunoiasgoal @4evermyownmuse

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[teddiee]

Into Each Life: Chapter 15

Summary:

He lands hard on the floor—metal ridges biting into his skin—and a new wave of adrenaline slams into him. Tony bucks wildly, thrashing. A knee pins his thigh, a forearm braces across his chest. Someone mutters a curse. For a second, it sounds like they might sedate him. Tony wonders if they’ll press a cloth soaked in chloroform over his mouth, maybe jam a needle into his neck. But no sedation comes. Instead, they force him into a corner, shoulders jammed against cold steel.

The engine rumbles to life.

Words: 11,090

Content Warning : 18+ (Explicit language)

Tony’s fingers tremble as he dials. The heavy brass rotary clicks under his touch, each number dragging out the inevitable. The dim glow of the servant’s quarters is the only thing keeping him from feeling like he’s suffocating entirely. It’s not much, but it’s enough to stop his hands from shaking too visibly.

The line crackles. One ring. Two.

Then—

“Yeah?”

Bucky’s voice is thick with exhaustion, a low rasp wrapped in the remnants of sleep. Tony almost falters, almost drops the phone back onto the receiver. But he can’t. He’s already let the moment stretch too long.

He licks his lips, forces his tone to be light, breezy, the way he does when things are spiraling out of his control.

“Guess who’s off the market?”

He immediately winces.

Silence.

A stillness so sharp it might as well be the edge of a knife pressed against his skin.

Then—

CRASH.

Tony jerks the receiver away from his ear as a deafening smash rattles through the line.

Something heavy, ceramic maybe, a plate, hits the wall on the other end. The muffled shout of Steve’s voice follows, alarmed, urgent.

“What the hell, Buck—?”

Tony breathes out a slow, unsteady exhale.

Bucky’s voice is different when it comes back. Lower. Tighter. Lethal.

“Say that again.”

Tony closes his eyes. “It’s official,” he says, voice steadier than he feels. “Howard has it all lined up. Contracts, legalities, the whole nine yards. I’m spoken for.”

Another beat of silence.

Then—

A low, guttural sound rumbles through the receiver.

Tony stiffens. He’s never heard Bucky make that sound before.

It’s not anger. Not entirely.

It’s something more. Something primordial. Something deadly.

“Who.”

Tony doesn’t answer immediately. He doesn’t have to.

Bucky already knows.

But he needs to hear it anyway.

Tony swallows. “Stone.”

The sharp inhale on the other end tells him everything.

Then—

“That’s not happening.”

Tony lets out a weak laugh, but it’s humorless. Wet. “Hate to break it to you, stud, but my old man’s not really one for democratic decision-making.”

Another bang. This time, something heavier. Maybe a chair against the wall.

Steve’s voice, distant and alarmed, filters through again. “Jesus, Buck, calm the hell down—”

“Tell me everything.” Bucky’s voice is so quiet, so measured, that it sends an actual chill down Tony’s spine. “Now.”

So Tony does.

He tells Bucky about the inevitable contract, the moment his father told him like it was a business transaction, the way Tiberius had stood there, smug, reveling in his victory.

He strategically leaves out the part about the press of lips against his cheek, the suffocating scent of the Alpha curling around him, the way his thumb had pressed against Tony’s scent gland like he had a claim.

He doesn’t need Bucky destroying any more of his and Steve’s meager furniture.

Tony doesn’t realize his breathing has gone shallow until he hears Bucky’s next exhale. It’s shaking.

Then, barely above a whisper:

“I’m going to kill him.”

It’s not a threat.

It’s a promise.

Tony exhales shakily, rubbing a hand down his face. “Yeah, well, if you could do that without landing yourself in Leavenworth, that’d be swell—”

“This isn’t a fucking joke, Tony,” Bucky snarls. “He can’t have you. He won’t. I won’t let him.”

Tony flinches, but not out of fear. Out of something else. Something deep in his chest that tightens at the possessive edge in Bucky’s voice.

Because this isn’t just about keeping Tony safe.

This is about keeping Tony.

The silence stretches thick between them, heavy with something unspoken. Then, after what feels like an eternity:

“Tell me where you are.”

Tony hesitates. “Bucky—”

“Tell me where you are, Tony. Now. Tell me he’s not—”

Tony swallows hard. “I’m safe. I’m okay, I’m with the Jarvises.”

He glances at Jarvis, who is watching with quiet, measured concern. The butler doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to.

Tony inhales sharply. Then, slowly:

“I have a plan.”

Bucky’s breath is sharp. “I don’t give a damn about plans. I need you out. I need you with me.”

Tony’s chest clenches. “I know. But if I don’t do this right, I’ll never be free.”

Bucky is silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, deliberately:

“If you’re not free,” he says, voice raw, “then neither am I.”

Tony’s throat tightens.

“You are mine, Tony. Not his. Not ever.”

Tony exhales shakily, gripping the receiver tighter. He can feel it, the fire burning beneath Bucky’s words, the sheer, unwavering truth of them.

“Yours,” he whispers back, like a vow.

***

Tony doesn’t so much wake up as he does surface slowly from a fitful doze, the edges of sleep clinging stubbornly even as his mind alerts him to something amiss. There’s an uneasy hush in the air—a tension he can’t quite place. It takes him a long minute to register that the unusual quiet is because the Jarvises, who typically bustle about at dawn with a comforting routine, aren’t making a sound.

A pang of alarm tightens his chest. He’s still in the modest servant’s suite—tiny bed, worn nightstand, overhead light dimmed to the lowest setting. Jarvis insisted he stay here last night, away from prying eyes. For safety.

If this is safety, Tony thinks sourly, then I’m toast.

He rolls out of bed, wincing at the stiffness in his neck. The recollection of the phone call with Bucky rakes over him like a raw bruise. His pulse jumps as he remembers the crash, the rage in Bucky’s voice, the vow.

You are mine, Tony.

The echo of it warms him even as dread prickles at the base of his spine.

He slides on yesterday’s clothes—still neatly folded on a chair, courtesy of Ana—and smooths his unruly bedhead back with trembling fingers. His heart is thrumming, but he forces his face into neutrality before easing open the bedroom door.

The hallway is empty. Not a whisper of the usual morning clatter. Tony’s ears strain for any sign of the Jarvises. Nothing.

He makes his way toward the small kitchen, footsteps nearly silent. The overhead lights in the corridor are only half-lit, the gloom casting odd shadows along the walls. Outside, the sun has barely crept over the horizon, painting thin slivers of dawn across the windowsills.

When Tony steps into the kitchen, he halts.

Tiberius Stone is seated at the little wooden table at the center of the room—like he belongs there, like this is his domain. He’s alone. No father, no business associates, no staff. Just Tiberius, perched with disconcerting ease in the Jarvises’ private space.

And Tony’s heart drops to his stomach.

Tiberius sports impeccably slicked-back dark hair and a face that radiates smug confidence—traits that, in Tony’s humble view, seem overly assertive for seven in the morning. He’s wearing a crisp, tailored suit, the top few buttons undone as though to display the edge of a claim. It’s a power move—everything Tiberius does is a power move.

He looks up at Tony with a slow, appraising gaze.

“Morning, Stark,” he drawls. “You look like hell.” The corner of his mouth twitches in a half-smile that never reaches his eyes. “Cozy little hole you’ve got back here.”

Tony tucks his hands into his pockets to hide the tremor in his fingertips. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he says evenly, though his throat feels tight. “This is the servants’ quarters. They’re off-limits to visitors.”

Tiberius shrugs, barely acknowledging Tony’s complaint. “Servants, guests—does it matter?” He lazily straightens, rolling his shoulders. “Once the contract is sealed, you’ll figure out how pointless those distinctions are. I go where I want.”

Tony’s stomach lurches. He edges forward, hands slipping into his pockets so Tiberius doesn’t see how his fingers clench. “Where are Ana and Jarvis?”

Tiberius’ lips twitch. “I asked them to step out. Politely, of course. I don’t think they’ll wander too far. They worry about you.” His eyes dance with mock innocence. “Such loyal employees.”

“So you threatened them until they left me alone,” Tony sighs. “How very chivalrous of you. Want to skip the niceties and tell me why you’re here?”

“Straight to business.” Tiberius sets his forearms on the table, leaning in. “I suppose it’s too early to pretend pleasantries. Let’s see...” He tilts his head, nostrils flaring—subtle, but obvious enough in Alpha body language. “You smell… off,” he remarks, distaste curling at the edges of his tone. “One could even say ‘mangy’.”

Tony’s jaw tenses. “You’d know all about it, I’m sure. You do love burying your nose where it doesn’t fucking belong.”

Tiberius’ eyes narrow with predatory interest. “Funny. My nose says you’ve been spending an inordinate amount of time with that Alpha. You reek of someone strong.” There’s a purr in his voice, dangerous and amused. “Daddy still doesn’t know about this one, does he?”

Every muscle in Tony’s body goes rigid. He doesn’t respond. Can’t. Because giving Tiberius anything would be a mistake.

Tiberius interprets the silence with a flicker of triumph. “Mm. Thought so.” He slides his gaze down Tony’s frame, lingering on the faint flush at Tony’s collar. “An Alpha so potent he’s practically branded you. That’s quite the scandal in the making.”

He stands up smoothly, stepping away from the table. Tony’s eyes track the movement, every cell on high alert.

“Dunno what you’re sniffing around for, Stone,” Tony says, voice carefully bored, “but you might want to keep your fantasies on a leash. The last thing that paper-thin reputation of yours needs is another tabloid feeding frenzy.”

Tiberius lifts an eyebrow, still wearing that faint, disinterested smirk. With casual ease, he pulls the cuff of his shirt sleeve over his warped, exposed wrist. “Don’t play stupid. I can practically taste his scent on your skin. Did he knot you yet? Or did you just let him rub one out against you like a desperate pup in rut?”

Tony can’t contain the sharp flare of rage in his chest. It’s only the memory of Jarvis’s and Anna’s presence nearby—anxious, listening—that keeps Tony from lunging at Tiberius.

“Charming,” Tony says instead.

“You smell like him, Tony,” Tiberius volleys, voice dropping to a near-whisper. “And if you won’t tell me who he is, I’ll find out on my own. Not that it matters, of course.” He glances toward the doorway, and Tony can sense Jarvis hovering out of sight. “Once our contract is done, I don’t care who he is—he’ll be irrelevant. But I do like to know exactly who I’m taking from.”

Tony’s chest constricts.

Tiberius steps closer, and before Tony can flinch back, he’s grabbed Tony’s chin. His grip is firm but oddly dispassionate, his thumb brushing over Tony’s lower lip in a way that sends a wave of revulsion through Tony’s entire body.

“So,” Tiberius muses quietly, as if he’s inquiring about the weather, “did your little secret Alpha mark you yet? Did he bite right here—” Tiberius ghosts his thumb over Tony’s scent gland, where Bucky had worried a bruise into the skin mere weeks ago—“pump you full, maybe do it on his knees so he could see how pretty you look when you’re pinned?” He cocks his head. “You strike me as the type who likes it rough. But hey, maybe you prefer a gentle hand. Hard to say with that attitude.”

Tony jerks away, dizzy. “Fuck off, Stone.”

Tiberius leans in, tone dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Or… perhaps he hasn’t actually gotten around to knotting you, yet?” He waits, eyes boring into Tony’s. “Oh, you sweet, foolish pup. That blush on your face is very telling.”

Tony’s fists clench. “Stop—”

Tiberius continues as though Tony never spoke. “Well, he’s done… something, I can smell that much. But not everything. Tsk. So he’s a coward, is he? Or maybe he just doesn’t have the balls to see it through.” He gives a mocking shrug. “Either way, that’s good news for me.”

“I said shut up, you fucking lunatic,” Tony snaps, voice tight with anger and shame. The heat in his cheeks intensifies, exactly what Tiberius wants.

Tiberius’s grin spreads, slow and cruel. “There’s no need to be shy, darling. I’m just assessing the goods. Howard wants me to be fully informed, and let’s be honest—an Omega’s sexual experience is crucial in a contract like this.” His voice is so cold, so casually degrading, that Tony feels sick. “If you were already knotted, well… that would certainly be messy, complicated. But since you’re still unmarked—still untouched in the real sense, anyway—it’s actually quite a relief. Gives me a nice, clean slate to work with.”

“If you’re trying to woo me, jackass, maybe don’t talk about me like I’m a piece of property,” Tony snarls, taking a step forward without even realizing it. He’s so angry he can feel his heartbeat thrumming at the back of his throat.

Tiberius merely raises an eyebrow. “But that’s exactly what you are, Stark. At least, that’s what your old man’s selling. And I’m buying.” His smile turns into something wolfish, a flash of teeth. “Or do you think Daddy would have drawn up these papers if you had a real choice?”

Tony’s stomach churns. He can’t deny the truth in Tiberius’s words—this is exactly what Howard does, packaging Tony up like an investment, a bargaining chip to strengthen alliances. That doesn’t make it any less maddening.

Tiberius lets out a small, theatrical sigh. “For what it’s worth, I’m almost disappointed your Alpha friend hasn’t knotted you. I would’ve enjoyed the challenge—scrubbing his scent off you while I fucked you full of mine.” He laughs, soft and humorless, as though the idea amuses him. “But seeing as he hasn’t staked a real claim, you won’t be that hard to break in.”

Tony recoils, repulsion tightening his chest until he can barely breathe. “You’re insane.”

Tiberius’s eyebrows lift. “Haven’t heard that one in a while.” He stands, looming over the table with the kind of quiet menace that makes the hair on Tony’s arms rise. “Funny how everyone says that, yet nobody seems interested in doing a damn thing about it. Howard, least of all.”

The tension in the cramped kitchen is suffocating, thick enough to taste. Tony watches as Tiberius adjusts his cuffs, methodical and unhurried, like he has all the time in the world. The knowledge that Tiberius waltzed in here—into the Jarvises’ private space—and made himself comfortable only twists the knife deeper.

Tony breathes carefully, forcing himself to think of Bucky’s voice—of that promise he made. It steadies Tony, even if just a little. “If you’re only here to threaten me, consider me underwhelmed. All bark and no bite—can’t expect much more from dad’s lapdog, I suppose.”

Tiberius’ eyes flare. For a moment, Tony wonders if he’s pushed too far. Then Tiberius laughs again, an ugly, abrasive sound. “I do so enjoy that smart mouth of yours. It’ll be fun finding ways to put it to better use.”

Tony’s stomach turns. “H romantic. These threats are becoming increasingly unoriginal, by the way.”

“And you’re stuck with me,” Tiberius says, triumphant. “Let’s not pretend otherwise. I know your father. He won’t let a little detail like your… ah��� private entanglements sway his business. So if you don’t want me ratting out your indiscretion, maybe you should start acting like the good, obedient fiancé—ah, sorry.” He spreads his hands in mock apology. “Whatever the hell your father calls this arrangement. ‘Pre-bonded partner’? ‘Future acquisition?’ The terminology barely matters.”

Tony forces himself to unclench his fists, ignoring the sting in his palms where his nails have bitten into flesh. He can’t risk letting Tiberius goad him into something rash. “What do you want?”

Tiberius steps closer, crowding Tony against the edge of the counter. Tony holds his ground, refusing to back away. This close, the Alpha musk is overpowering, an oppressive weight in the air. “For now?” Tiberius murmurs, voice dropping to a private hush. “I want compliance. I want you to remember exactly who’s in charge, that you can’t wiggle your way out of this. You will present yourself as my prospective mate, as intended. No more of this sneaking off. No more midnight phone calls. If I so much as suspect you’re letting someone else sniff around your neck, I’ll make it known to your father. And I’ll make sure you regret it.”

A flicker of genuine fear churns in Tony’s gut. He hates that Tiberius can see it in his eyes, but there’s no hiding that primal surge of adrenaline in the face of an alpha’s threat.

“Did I make myself clear?” Tiberius demands, stepping close enough that their bodies almost brush, his breath hot against Tony’s cheek.

“Crystal,” Tony says, voice tight.

Tiberius’ lip curls with satisfaction. “Good.” He leans in, dangerously close, and Tony can smell the rancid sweetness of coffee on Tiberius’ breath. “We’ll keep up appearances until the contracts are finalized. Then…” His hand drifts up, just shy of grazing Tony’s mating gland. Tony stiffens, bile rising in his throat. “Then I’ll make my claim real. Permanently. And I won’t let your father’s money or your sense of self-preservation stop me from marking what’s mine.”

Tony glares at him, teeth clenched. “Quit touching me, Svengali, I swear to God—”

Tiberius smirks, letting his hand fall away. “Oh, there weill be plenty of touching, Omega. But I’ll let you cling to your illusions a little longer if that’s what keeps you docile.”

An unsteady breath escapes Tony. He can’t even summon a retort. The raw disgust in his chest makes it hard to speak.

Tiberius gives him a once-over, then steps back. “I’m done here.” He casts a derisive glance around the Jarvises’ modest kitchen. “Tell your father I stopped by, if you like. I’m sure he already knows. But do me a favor…” He turns his gaze back on Tony, eyes gleaming. “Wash off that stink. If I have to smell someone else on you again, I might not be so polite next time.”

Tony swallows, shoulders tight enough to snap, but says nothing.

With a short, humorless laugh, Tiberius saunters past him, heading for the back door. The hush seems to thicken once more, pressing against Tony’s ears until all he hears is the dull thud of his heart.

A heartbeat later, Tiberius is gone, the screen door swinging shut behind him.

Tony waits until he’s certain Tiberius isn’t coming back, then lets out a shaky exhale. His knees feel weak. He braces his palms on the counter, trying to steady the tremor in his hands.

He hears movement at the edge of the hallway. Jarvis, reluctant but stepping in now that the intruder is gone, appears at the threshold. His expression is grave, lines of concern etched across his brow.

“Are you all right, Tony?” Jarvis asks quietly.

Tony doesn’t look up. He can’t. His throat feels too tight. “I’m swell,” he forces out, voice ragged. He clears it, tries again. “Yeah, J. I’m okay.”

Neither of them believes it. But Jarvis doesn’t push. He simply crosses the room and sets a warm hand on Tony’s shoulder, silent comfort radiating in his touch.

Tony draws in a slow breath, chest aching. The memory of Bucky’s voice, fierce and protective, echoes in his mind:

He can’t have you. He won’t. I won’t let him.

Tony lets that resonance ground him. Because if he has any hope of making it out of this nightmare intact—and keeping Bucky free with him—he’s going to need every scrap of resolve he can muster.

***

The kitchens have always been Tony’s refuge, a small pocket of warmth and normalcy in an otherwise suffocating environment. He’s barely left since Friday, tethering himself to the space where Ana moves with practiced ease, flour dusting her sleeves, the scent of fresh bread curling through the air like a lifeline.

She doesn’t question why he’s here, why he hasn’t set foot outside these walls except to sleep. She just… lets him be. And maybe that’s why he hasn’t unraveled completely—because while the rest of the estate looms over him like a cage, Ana and her kitchen is safe.

She fusses over him like it’s a full-time job, placing warm plates in front of him every few hours, making tsk noises when he so much as looks at his coffee without touching the food. He tries to protest—because eating feels like a chore, because his stomach is in knots, because the walls are closing in and the air is too thick—but she just raises an eyebrow and levels him with that look.

The one that says you are not winning this fight, idióta, so eat.

So he does. Mostly because she’s watching him like a hawk.

At least the conversation is a welcome distraction.

“Tell me about your Alphas,” she says, slicing vegetables with quick, sure movements, her back to him but her tone deliberately light.

Tony snorts softly, poking at the eggs on his plate. Tony snorts softly, poking at the eggs on his plate. “Alpha. Singular. One very beautiful, slightly possessive, and currently homicidal Alpha. Steve’s just a friend.”

Ana hums, unimpressed, the rhythmic slice of her knife against the cutting board never faltering. “Oh, igen?” she muses, tone as dry as overbaked biscuits. “Just a friend?”

Tony waves his fork loosely, leaning back against the worn wooden chair. “A good friend. A good, small friend with violent tendencies and a chronic inability to mind his own business, sure, but that doesn’t make him my Alpha. We’ve been over this, Ana.”

Ana simply hums again, turning to toss the diced peppers into a sizzling pan. The scent of caramelizing onions and garlic thickens in the air, grounding, soothing. She moves with a quiet certainty, each movement efficient and precise, but there’s a warmth to it, a familiarity that makes the kitchen feel like a space outside of time.

Tony exhales, rolling his shoulders. “Look, if I had two Alphas by choice, don’t you think I’d be the first to admit it? Alas, I seem to have acquired one through hostile takeover, so forgive me if I’m not throwing a parade.”

Ana doesn’t look up, but he catches the ghost of a smile on her lips. “Of course, drágám.”

Tony eyes her warily. “I feel like you’re humoring me.”

“Always.”

Tony sighs, picking up his fork again. “I can’t win with you.”

“No, you cannot.” Ana slides a skillet onto the stove with a practiced flick of her wrist, setting a wooden spoon against the edge before finally turning back to him. “So, tell me about them anyway.”

Tony exhales but doesn’t protest. He knows what she’s doing—keeping him talking, keeping him here, instead of wherever his mind keeps spiraling. He lets her.

He pushes his eggs around with his fork, nudging a piece to the side like it personally offended him. “Bucky’s still boxing,” he says, voice quieter now. “He’s a YMCA welterweight champion now—ridiculous, right? Not that I’m surprised. I mean, look at him. Or—well, you can’t, but if you could, you’d get it. Not that I—” He cuts himself off, face suddenly warm, and promptly redirects his frustration toward his eggs, stabbing at them like they’re to blame.

Ana smiles, pouring a cup of coffee for herself and sitting down across from him. “And yet, you are the one he has claimed for his own.”

Tony huffs. “Yeah, well, I have many redeeming qualities.”

Ana’s brows lift. “Such as?”

“Excellent bone structure.”

She snorts but waves him on, signaling for more.

Tony shifts, tapping his fork against the edge of his plate. “Steve’s still out there trying to teach Brooklyn’s youth how to throw a proper punch,” he says. “Which is deeply ironic, considering he spends more time getting tossed into gutters than actually landing any hits. You’d think some benevolent force of the universe would’ve given him an upgrade by now, but nope—still five-foot-nothing, a hundred pounds soaking wet, and running purely on spite and righteous indignation.”

Ana’s lips twitch, watching him closely.

“He got into it with some guy last week over a stolen bicycle,” Tony goes on, shaking his head. “One second, he’s just buying milk, next thing you know, he’s nose-deep in a brawl because some punk snatched a kid’s ride.”

Ana hums. “And your Alpha?”

Tony shrugs. “Oh, Buck was furious. He’s got this whole ‘I’m the only one allowed to rough up this vigilante idiot’ thing going on. Almost decked Steve himself out of sheer principle.”

Ana shakes her head, sipping her coffee. “That one—he carries the weight of the world, doesn’t he?”

Tony huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah, well, someone’s gotta do it. And Steve sure as hell isn’t gonna stop picking fights with guys twice his size, so Bucky’s pretty much signed up for a lifetime of damage control.”

Ana hums, setting her cup down. “And what about you?”

Tony blinks. “What about me?”

She gestures vaguely at him. “Do they carry you, too?”

Tony hesitates, fork stilling against his plate. The answer is obvious.

Of course, they do. They always have. In ways he doesn’t always recognize until it’s too late—until he’s halfway drowning and they’re the ones dragging him back to shore.

But he doesn’t reply, just focuses a little too hard on breaking apart a piece of toast, crumbling the edges between his fingers. The silence stretches, not uncomfortable, but not quite easy either.

Ana gives him a look that says I see you, even if you don’t see yourself. But she doesn’t push, just tucks a piece of stray hair behind her ear and reaches over to pluck his fork out of his fingers, setting it back onto his plate. Then, in one smooth motion, she picks up his coffee and slides a small dish of honey-drizzled toast in its place.

Tony blinks at her. “Uh—”

“You are running on caffeine and willpower,” she says, cutting him off. “Eat something real, if you don’t want your eggs, or I will start feeding you by hand.”

Tony squints at her. “You wouldn’t.”

Ana raises an eyebrow, reaching for his plate.

Tony immediately snatches up the toast, taking a bite before she can make good on her threat.

“Okay, okay! Jesus.”

Ana smiles, satisfied, and takes a slow sip of her coffee.

He chews slowly, mechanically, as Ana returns to the stove, but the act feels distant—like he’s watching himself from somewhere just outside his own body. His limbs feel heavy, weighed down by something thick and inescapable, like wading through molasses.

He shifts in his chair, too aware of the way his skin feels too tight, his breath too shallow. There’s an ache in his chest, a pressure building under his ribs that he can’t quite shake.

It’s fine. He’s fine.

He forces himself to focus on the warmth of the kitchen, the scent of fresh bread, the quiet scrape of Ana’s knife against the cutting board. It should be comforting. It is comforting. But something in him won’t settle. His hands are clammy, his pulse a dull, thrumming beat against his ribs. He can still feel the ghost of fingers on his chin, the press of a foreign Alpha’s presence suffocating the air from his lungs.

Tiberius had been in this kitchen. Had leaned against this table, spoken with that same smug certainty, left his scent behind like a warning.

Tony’s stomach churns, and he barely catches himself before he gags on the bite of toast.

He shoves his plate away, appetite completely gone.

Ana’s eyes flicker up from her work, sharp as a blade. She doesn’t speak at first, just watches.

Tony pointedly looks anywhere but at her.

The silence stretches, stretching thin and tight, until—

“Antal.”

His spine stiffens, breath catching in his throat.

Ana sets her knife down and wipes her hands on a dish towel, slow and deliberate. She moves around the counter, quiet and steady, like she’s approaching a wounded animal.

Tony forces a smirk, though it feels cracked around the edges. “If you’re about to give me a lecture on finishing my breakfast, I gotta warn you—I’m a lost cause.”

Ana doesn’t smile. She doesn’t even acknowledge the deflection. Instead, she reaches out and rests a gentle hand on his wrist.

Tony barely stops himself from flinching.

The touch is light, grounding, a counterweight to the spiraling tightness in his chest. It shouldn’t make his eyes sting, but—God—everything inside him feels frayed, pulled too tight.

Ana tilts her head, studying him with that quiet, unshakable patience that somehow makes it worse.

“You are dropping,” she murmurs.

Tony exhales through his nose, gaze flickering away. “I’m fine,” he says, too quickly, too sharp.

Ana’s grip tightens just slightly—not enough to trap him, just enough to keep him here.

“You are not fine,” she corrects, voice firm but soft, like she’s stating an undeniable fact. “Your body knows it, even if you don’t want to admit it.”

Tony swallows. His throat feels thick, uncooperative.

He knows what this is. Just like after the gala.

The aftershock. The crash. The biological recoil of an Omega after an altercation with an Alpha who wasn’t supposed to be near him.

His nervous system is shot, his scent profile probably erratic, and the more he ignores it, the worse it gets.

He can feel it now, the sharp-edged restlessness clawing under his skin, the deep-seated ache in his muscles like he’s been wrung out. His throat feels tight, the air in his lungs too shallow. His body wants comfort, stability, something to anchor him, but—

No.

He clenches his jaw, shoving the feeling down with all the force he can muster.

“I’m fine,” he repeats, more stubborn this time, shaking off Ana’s hand.

Ana doesn’t look convinced.

She exhales through her nose, then—without a word—turns back to the counter and pulls out a clean dish towel. She moves with practiced ease, dipping it into a basin of warm water before wringing it out.

Tony watches, wary, as she steps back toward him and, without hesitation, presses the damp towel to the back of his neck.

The sensation is immediate.

The warmth sinks into his skin, soothing the overheated, overstimulated edges of him, and his breath stutters without permission.

He hates how effective it is.

Ana doesn’t say anything. She just keeps the towel there, firm but gentle, the way one might calm a feverish child.

Tony exhales shakily, fingers curling against his thigh. He should pull away. He should crack a joke, make some clever quip about spa treatments or overbearing housekeepers, but—

He doesn’t.

Because for the first time since Tiberius pressed his lips to Tony’s cheek, since the suffocating presence of that Alpha curled around him like a noose—

He feels like he can breathe.

His muscles unclench by inches, the tension draining so slowly it almost hurts, like a tightly wound spring finally releasing. The air in the kitchen isn’t so thick anymore, and his own pulse, erratic and jagged, starts to even out.

Ana doesn’t speak. Doesn’t comment.

She just stays, standing beside him, the towel warm against his skin, her other hand resting lightly against his shoulder in quiet reassurance.

Tony swallows past the knot in his throat. His fingers twitch against the table.

“… It’s stupid,” he mutters after a long beat.

Ana glances down at him. “No,” she says simply.

The silence stretches between them, thick but not suffocating. Ana gives him the space to gather his thoughts. To decide what he wants to say. If he wants to say anything at all.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Tony exhales shakily. His grip on the edge of his stool tightens, then loosens, then tightens again.

His voice is quieter when he speaks. Less sure. Less armored.

“It’s worse when I’m with him,” he murmurs. “Tiberius.”

Ana doesn’t react, doesn’t so much as flinch. She just nods, waiting for him to continue.

Tony stares down at the counterop, watching the surface seemingly ripple from the slight waver of his gaze.

“The closer I get to Bucky,” he says slowly, “the worse it feels. Being around him.” His throat bobs. “Like my body knows it’s wrong.”

Ana exhales, quiet but steady. “It does know,” she murmurs. “Of course it does.”

Tony swallows. His chest feels too tight, his skin too warm, the residual pull of Alpha presence clinging to his scent receptors like something toxic. “It—it hurts to be around him,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper. “Not just—not just in my head. It’s—physical.” His hands clench into fists against his lap. “Like something inside me is short-circuiting, like—like I’m being rewired wrong.” His breath falters, catching on something jagged. “Like every part of me is fighting it.”

Ana’s lips press together, and her gaze darkens, something sharp and protective flashing through her expression. But she still doesn’t interrupt. She lets him speak.

Tony lets out a shaky breath. “And it wasn’t—it wasn’t this bad, before.” He rubs at his chest like he can soothe the ache blooming beneath his sternum. “But now? Now, it feels like my entire body is rejecting him outright. The closer I get to Bucky, the worse it gets. It’s like my system is…” He trails off, voice cracking slightly.

Ana finishes for him. “Telling you to go to your Alpha instead.”

Tony’s jaw tightens.

Because she’s right.

Everything in him aches to be near Bucky. It screams for him when Tiberius gets too close, when his scent so much as lingers too long. The bond—even unfinished, even incomplete—is already pulling at him, demanding he go where he’s meant to be.

And that’s the worst part.

Because he can’t.

He can’t go to Bucky. He can’t let himself sink into that warmth, that safety. Can’t let himself be taken in the way his body is already pleading for.

Not when this contract looms over him. Not when Tiberius is circling like a vulture, waiting to sink his teeth in.

Ana moves first.

Not quickly. Not sharply. Just with that quiet, practiced ease that makes it so easy to forget she was raised in a world where softness was a liability.

She picks up the damp towel from where she left it, folding it neatly in her hands before pressing it back against the nape of his neck.

Tony stiffens—just slightly—but doesn’t pull away.

The warmth sinks into his skin, soothing the overstimulated ache beneath the surface. His breath stutters, but he lets it happen.

Ana doesn’t say anything.

She just keeps the towel there, firm but gentle, her other hand settling lightly on his shoulder.

It’s grounding.

It shouldn’t be.

But it is.

He’s always been sensitive, there.

Tony exhales, something tight in his chest unraveling just a fraction.

He still feels like he’s too close to the edge, like his own body isn’t entirely his right now, but—this helps.

The warmth. The steadiness. The presence.

Ana moves carefully, like she knows exactly how close he is to shattering, like she’s done this before. And maybe she has. Maybe not with him, but with someone else.

And maybe that’s why she doesn’t say anything.

Because she knows no words will change the fact that his body is wrong right now, that every cell is screaming for something—someone—he can’t have.

No words will change the fact that the one bond he wants is the one he’s being forced to deny.

His fingers twitch against his thigh.

He should joke. He should smile, throw something careless into the air just to fill the silence, make it easier to ignore the weight pressing against his ribs.

But he doesn’t.

Because for once—for once—he doesn’t have the energy.

Ana watches him, quiet and patient.

After a long moment, she speaks.

“You would bond with him,” she murmurs, the words careful, deliberate. “Your Brooklyn boy.” Not a question. Just a quiet, steady acknowledgment.

Tony doesn’t look at her.

His jaw clenches, throat working as he forces down the sharp, aching thing curling in his chest.

“Yeah,” he whispers. It’s not even a confession at this point. Just a tired, inevitable truth. “I would.”

The words settle between them, heavy and irreversible.

Ana’s gaze doesn’t waver.

“Then that’s what we fight for,” she says.

Tony squeezes his eyes shut.

Ana’s hand stays firm on his shoulder, her presence steady, unwavering.

“You are not alone in this, Antal,” she murmurs, low and certain. “No matter how much you try to be.”

Tony exhales slowly so his breath doesn’t expose itself as a shuddering sob.

The kitchen hums around them, the soft crackle of something simmering on the stove, the rhythmic tick of the old clock on the wall. The world is still moving—uncaring, relentless—despite the storm rolling under Tony’s skin.

He lets himself lean into the moment, just for a breath. Just long enough to remember that not everything has to be a battle.

But it never lasts.

Because reality doesn’t care if he’s barely holding himself together. It doesn’t care if he’s unraveling at the seams, if every inch of him is screaming to be somewhere else—to be with someone else.

Tony lifts a hand and drags it down his face, exhaling slowly. “I should get out of your way,” he mutters, his voice rough, too raw around the edges. “You’ve got things to do. I can—”

Ana doesn’t let him finish.

She gives his shoulder the barest squeeze before releasing him, stepping away only to grab another plate. A fresh slice of warm bread, butter melting into the surface, a small dish of preserves set beside it. Nothing extravagant. Nothing overwhelming. Just enough.

She sets it in front of him without a word.

Tony stares at it.

His throat works around something thick, something unbearably fragile.

Ana doesn’t meet his eyes, just busies herself at the counter again, pouring herself another cup of coffee, moving with the same quiet ease she always does.

But the gesture is there.

The choice is there.

No force, no expectations—just something offered. A simple, unspoken stay.

Tony exhales sharply through his nose, blinking hard as he reaches for the toast. He takes a slow bite, ignoring the way his fingers shake just slightly where they curl around the edges.

Ana doesn’t comment.

She never does.

Instead, she sips her coffee, idly stirring the pan on the stove, and lets the silence settle between them like an understanding too old, too deep, to need words.

***

Tony doesn’t so much wake up as lurch into consciousness.

One moment, he’s tumbling through a vague, distorted nightmare of Tiberius’s voice echoing in his head—sly promises, threatening whispers, a sneering mouth pressed too close. The next, he’s wrenched from his bed by rough hands, his entire body jolting awake in a visceral rush of fear.

He yelps, and fights on instinct, half-blind in the dark, still tangled in sheets and disoriented by the abruptness of it all. His limbs flail, heart pounding a frantic tattoo in his ears. He tries to shout, to demand to know what the hell is happening, but the words die in his throat as a thick gag is shoved between his teeth. It tastes of cloth and dust and panic.

He chokes on it, a muffled curse burning in his mouth. The blindfold slams over his eyes a breath later. He barely has time to register the shape of the intruders—too many, definitely more than one or two—before everything goes black. The press of cloth against his face is suffocating, and for a moment, he’s seized by raw, animal terror: I can’t see, I can’t breathe, I can’t—

The hands grip him like a vice, manhandling him off the mattress. He’s in nothing but his thin boxer shorts and a threadbare undershirt.

If he weren’t terrified, he’d be a little mortified.

The nighttime warmth of June does little to shield him from the gooseflesh prickling across his skin.

He thrashes, wild and uncoordinated, elbows connecting with unyielding torsos, knees slamming into muscle. One of the intruders grunts sharply—Tony hopes he’s done some damage—but they don’t relent. Strong arms clamp around his shoulders, and a new surge of panic flares in Tony’s gut as he’s dragged across the room. He can’t see, can’t even get his bearings. His socks catch on the carpet, tangling around his toes.

A voice hisses, “Careful, don’t let him—”

Then Tony’s back hits a solid wall—no, a doorframe—and a burst of pain explodes across his shoulder blades. He lets out a furious, muffled scream. The gag reduces it to little more than a choked growl.

How the hell did they even get into the Stark estate?

His father’s property is patrolled by private security and guarded by enormous wrought-iron gates. And Tony can’t imagine Jarvis letting some random strangers just march upstairs to yank Tony from his bed. Unless these people wore S.I. badges… or had forged some kind of official paperwork.

Or Tiberius. Could Tiberius have bribed someone?

And if Tony could roll his eyes, he would.

Because, of course, Tiberius would bribe someone.

He tries to snarl something around the gag—an insult, a plea, a demand, he isn’t sure—when another set of hands wraps around his legs, lifting his feet from the floor. He’s bodily carried from his bedroom, pinned between two or three people like a struggling cat.

The estate’s corridors blur by in frantic half-steps and stumbles. Tony’s sense of direction is shot. He’s never been more aware of the echoes of footsteps, the shifts in the air, the temperature changes between rooms. They’re moving fast, too fast for him to count corners or guess where they’re headed. Outside? Probably. He can feel the rush of warmer air—summer night humidity clinging to his skin. Then a jarring tilt, a sudden down-step—stairs—and he almost slips from their grip. They hoist him higher, ignoring the bruises no doubt forming on his arms.

Eventually, they reach what Tony assumes is the driveway—or maybe the side parking lot? He’s not sure. Either way, he hears the slam of a heavy door, feels the shift of night air replaced by stifling, enclosed darkness. A vehicle. A van, most likely. The sting of metal against his bare ankles confirms it: he’s being shoved into a cargo area.

He lands hard on the floor—metal ridges biting into his skin—and a new wave of adrenaline slams into him. Tony bucks wildly, thrashing. A knee pins his thigh, a forearm braces across his chest. Someone mutters a curse. For a second, it sounds like they might sedate him. Tony wonders if they’ll press a cloth soaked in chloroform over his mouth, maybe jam a needle into his neck. But no sedation comes. Instead, they force him into a corner, shoulders jammed against cold steel.

The engine rumbles to life.

He’s moving. And there’s nothing he can do about it.

It’s a long drive.

Could be an hour, could be three—Tony’s sense of time distorts into a haze of terror and anger. His limbs ache from being twisted in an uncomfortable position. The gag is suffocating; saliva soaks into the fabric, and breathing becomes an exercise in willpower. He’s painfully aware of every noise: the hum of the van’s tires against asphalt, the occasional hiss of static on a radio, subdued voices murmuring instructions.

He keeps trying to place them—who the hell are these people? But none of the voices are distinct enough to recognize. They don’t speak enough for him to get a real read. All he can do is nurse his fury and try to calm the wild, panicked flutter in his chest.

He realizes that everyone in the van can probably smell his panic. The thought angers him as much as it should unsettle him.

By the time his right hand is asleep, Tony’s fully convinced Tiberius is behind everything

The slimy bastard had threatened him, after all—threatened to ensure Tony couldn’t run, threatened to force the bond before Tony could do anything about it. This must be Tiberius’s next move, right?

And yet…

The way these people handle him isn’t the typical manhandling of personal goons. They feel more regimented, more disciplined—like soldiers. They keep Tony pinned with minimal force, never letting him slip free, but not breaking bones either. They haven’t battered him unconscious.

They’re rough, but they aren’t sloppy. Professional.

Besides, it doesn’t match the typical brute force Tony’s beloved betrothed would probably employ.

So… maybe Howard’s enemies? Or some other corporate sabotage? Or possibly Howard himself, pulling a twisted power play? Tony doesn’t know. He can only stew in the uncertainty as the miles roll by beneath them.

Eventually, the van stops.

There’s a jolting sense of movement as the doors slide open. The arms haul him out again, and the night air—or is it morning now?—smacks him in the face. The temperature is cooler, less humid. Maybe they’re farther north, or near a coastline. Tony can’t tell. Everything’s disorienting.

They drag him through another threshold, and the air changes again: colder, staler, artificially filtered. A building with heavy ventilation, maybe a lab or an industrial facility. The faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead sets his nerves on edge. The floor under his feet is concrete. His toes are cold. The blindfold is still on, pressing uncomfortably into the bridge of his nose, and every small sound—footsteps, the rustle of clothing, the echo of doors opening—is a brand-new source of panic.

They march him down a corridor—turn left, then right, then left again. Tony keeps track of corners automatically, clinging to whatever details he can glean. He tries to force himself to memorize the route, just in case an opportunity to escape arises.

At last, they halt. A door hisses open—mechanical, high-tech. Then Tony is shoved forward, stumbling blindly until he collides with the cold metal of a chair. He grips its back to steady himself. The hands on his arms don’t let go until he’s properly seated.

Then, mercifully, the blindfold slips away, undone from behind. Tony flinches at the sudden brightness, eyes watering as he blinks rapidly. The gag remains, cutting off any immediate demands he might have.

His surroundings come into focus slowly: white walls, bright overhead lights, a wide mirrored window on one side—one-way glass. Definitely an interrogation room. Stainless steel table, two chairs, minimal furnishings. No windows. No sign of Tiberius or anyone else Tony recognizes.

Tony’s chest heaves, each breath rasping past the gag. He’s about to try and speak around the cloth when when one of the men in dark suits steps forward. Without ceremony, he grabs hold of the cloth and yanks it free with a sharp tug. The burn in Tony’s mouth is immediate; the corners of his lips sting, raw from friction. He coughs, sputtering.

“What the—cough—hell—” He sucks in a deep breath. “Where am I?” His voice comes out harsh and ragged. He looks around, seeing that the people who brought him here—maybe three or four?—are stepping back toward the door. None of them answer. “Who are you working for?”

Tony demands, anger lacing every syllable. “Stone? Howard? Who?”

No one responds.

Lovely.

One by one, they file out, leaving him alone in the room with only the reflection of his disheveled self in the mirrored glass. Tony curses loudly, stands up, slams his palm against the table to anchor his swirling thoughts.

Nothing. No response.

“Hey!” Tony barks, his voice cracking slightly, raw from the gag. “This is kidnapping, you bunch of two-bit gangsters! You can’t just—just—” He slams his palm against the cold metal table, the sharp sound cutting through the room. Frustration burns hot in his chest, setting his nerves on edge. “Do you have any idea who I am? If my father doesn’t skin you alive for this, I—”

He cuts himself off, bile rising in his throat at the mention of his father.

Howard’s involvement is ambiguous, but Tony can’t imagine him orchestrating something so clandestine. Usually, Howard likes to operate in the spotlight of his own ego.

This feels too neat, too government.

Seconds tick by. Minutes, maybe. The buzzing fluorescent light overhead sets his teeth on edge.

Tony paces, every muscle wound tight, his mind racing with a thousand worst-case scenarios.

He’s being tested, or they’re waiting for him to break, or Tiberius is about to walk in with a smug grin and a twisted contract of his own.

When the door finally clicks, Tony whirls around so fast he nearly topples the chair. He braces himself, fists clenched at his sides, bracing for Tiberius or a stranger or maybe even some official he’s never met.

Instead, Abraham Erskine steps through.

Tony stands still, unmoving. Stunned.

Erskine closes the door behind him with deliberate care. He wears a utilitarian suit, tie slightly askew, as though he threw it on in a hurry.

He looks… tired.

“Stark,” Erskine says quietly, his accent unmistakable. “I do apologize. Truly, this was not how I intended to do this.”

Tony blinks, adrenaline coursing through him. “You—what—why—?” It could be the interrupted sleep, or the lack of caffeine, but he can’t seem to process the fact that it’s the German doctor in front of him, not some foreign operative or Tiberius Stone’s hired muscle.

Erskine offers a small, apologetic tilt of his head. “The dramatics were… regrettable. But it was necessary. Bringing you here discreetly was the only way we could ensure your father—and certain parties—would not interfere.”

Tony’s pulse still thrums with leftover adrenaline. His mind wrestles with contradictory impulses—run or demand answers—but his body is too exhausted to do either effectively. He slumps back against the metal chair, every nerve on high alert.

“Not how you intended to do this?” he hisses, voice shaking with residual fury and no small dose of fear. “You—what the hell is going on, Erskine? You abducted me.”

Erskine exhales heavily, stepping closer with slow, deliberate movements, as though trying not to spook a cornered animal. “It wasn’t my first choice, Anthony.” He gestures apologetically at the mirrored glass and the harsh lighting. “But we were running out of time, and it was critical that we get you away from Stark Industries—away from Howard’s estate—without drawing attention.”

Tony’s eyes narrow. “This is the Strategic Scientific Reserve, isn’t it? Some secret bunker in the middle of nowhere.” He flings an arm at the sterile walls. “Could’ve just asked me to come along, you know. Maybe sent a nice letter? A singing telegram? Instead of… this.” He motions to the reddened marks on his wrists where the bindings had cut into his skin.

Erskine’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “Mm, yes, I considered a formal invitation. But then I remembered your father reads your mail. Besides, we had to circumvent certain… legal entanglements. From what little you’ve told me, I understand you have… contractual obligations. And that you wish to be free of them.”

“My father reads my mail?”

Erskine continues, voice even. “The law is not in your favor, Tony. You know this. Omegas—especially those with binding contracts—have little recourse without intervention. We are that intervention.”

Tony huffs a breath, shifting his weight like he’s trying to shake off the tension crawling up his spine. “And what, you just happened to have a legal team on hand to pull an Omega out of a bonding contract? Not sure if I buy that little fairytale.”

Erskine actually smiles at that, small and wry. “No, I planned for it. I had already begun drafting the petition once you called me. I anticipated you would need an alternative to your current… situation.”

Erskine then settles into the other chair, leaning forward with his hands laced atop the metal table. There’s a studied calm to his posture, like a kindly professor about to walk a student through a complicated theorem. The fluorescent light overhead hums, painting Erskine’s face in tired lines.

“Let me explain, Tony,” he begins, voice subdued. “I plan to invoke what is known as the ‘Defense Priority Omega Provision’—an emergency wartime statute that rarely sees the light of day, even within these halls. It’s been on the books less than a year.”

Tony rubs his sore arms, wincing at the faint bruises left by the government lackeys. “But why? I didn’t even know the War Department had laws that could override standard Omega guardianship.”

“It’s a convoluted legal beast,” Erskine admits. “When war broke out, the War Department pushed for a series of emergency measures to secure any and all resources they deemed critical. Usually, they aim for materials—steel, rubber, uranium. But in theory, the same logic can apply to specialized personnel, including…” His eyes flick sympathetically to Tony. “…unbonded Omegas with key expertise. Nurses, mainly. Medical staff.”

Tony’s heart gives an unsteady thump at being referred to as a ‘key resource.’ He’s not sure whether it’s flattering or unnerving. “So you’re saying the SSR can basically step in and say, ‘We need Tony Stark for national defense,’ and that trumps my father’s guardianship? And—and the bonding contract?” He stumbles over the last phrase, Tiberius’s sneering voice a jagged echo in his mind.

Erskine offers a small, encouraging nod. “Exactly so. Under this statute, the SSR is authorized to file a federal injunction on your behalf—if I can prove that you are indispensable. It won’t sever your father’s guardianship permanently, not immediately, but it will suspend it for the duration of your involvement with our project.”

Tony frowns, lips pressing into a thin line. “So this would be… temporary?”

“For now, yes,” Erskine says gently. “But experience shows once you’ve been granted a measure of legal autonomy—especially in a high-security context—it’s difficult for anyone to reassert the old constraints. The War Department wouldn’t easily relinquish valuable personnel to a private Alpha who might hamper the war effort. You’d remain under an SSR ‘protective contract’—not so different from a civilian consultant—but with additional legal shields in place because of your Omega status. A judge’s signature would ensure neither Howard nor your intended Alpha could force you back home against your will.”

Tony’s pulse hitches at the thought of a protective contract. The last time he heard the word ‘contract,’ it involved Howard trying to brand Tony’s neck for good a mere two days ago. But this… “So I’d be… effectively on loan to the SSR,” he says slowly, processing. “As long as you need my math, you keep me safe.”

It sounds ludicrous to even say out loud.

Erskine gives a faint, wry smile. “It’s an extraordinary measure for extraordinary times. The formal petition is an ‘Emergency Guardianship Override’—coupled with a ‘Non-Compete Injunction’ that bars your father and your Alpha from interfering. We’d cite the War Powers Act of ’41, along with our own SSR statutes and this new Omega provision. It sounds complicated—because it is—but the net result is straightforward: you would answer to us, not Howard, for the duration of this work.”

Tony wants to scoff at the idea of answering to anyone, because he’s Tony, but it’s still better than being under Howard’s thumb.

He also can’t ignore the coil of real fear that tightens in his chest every time he thinks about confronting his father. “He’s not going to stand for it,” Tony mutters, knuckles going white where they grip the table. “When he finds out I’ve gone behind his back… he’s not just going to yell, Erskine. He gets—” Tony’s throat works. He can almost feel Howard’s hand clamping down, bruises blossoming. “He gets physical.”

Erskine’s expression darkens, genuine concern etched across his features. “I’m sorry, Anthony,” he says softly. “Truly. I suspected Howard’s temper was no small matter, but I didn’t realize…” He clears his throat, something like sorrow flickering behind his glasses. “Well. Under these War Department clauses, if your father tried to forcibly remove you from SSR premises or harm you, he’d be in violation of a federal injunction and could face charges as serious as treason—especially if it was deemed sabotage of essential defense personnel.”

Tony’s breath catches. “Treason? Because of me?”

“Yes,” Erskine agrees quietly. “But it means you’d be protected. Legally, physically. They’ll station guards if necessary. Your father might be powerful, Tony, but the federal government has ways of ensuring cooperation—especially during wartime.”

Tony drags a hand down his face, exhaustion settling over him like a heavy blanket. “All right. Okay. Jesus. So let’s say we do that. I get assigned to this project under SSR oversight. But how long are we talking? Because this—” He gestures at the sterile interrogation room. “This doesn’t exactly feel like a place I want to hole up in for the rest of the war. I have a… I have a life out there. I can’t just vanish for a year.”

“We don’t intend for you to live on-site permanently. The chamber construction is projected to run at least through next summer—maybe longer—but that doesn’t mean you’ll be confined here the entire time. Once we secure the injunction, you’ll be free to come and go under SSR jurisdiction. Think of it as a specialized consultancy contract. You’ll return here for major breakthroughs, tests, demonstrations. In between, you can live wherever you choose—Brooklyn, if that’s your preference.” He arches a subtle eyebrow.

Brooklyn. Just the mention of it unleashes a tumult of hope tangled with dread. Tony’s mind jumps straight to Bucky—God, he’s been picturing Bucky’s restless pacing ever since the van ride, those broad hands curled white-knuckled, ready to stand against the entire world once Monday night comes and Tony doesn’t appear at the cramped apartment like he promised.

He can practically feel his Alpha’s anxiety, that fierce protectiveness turning into a raw, furious determination. Bucky would tear through every street, every corner of the city, until he was certain Tony was safe.

Suddenly, the ache in Tony’s chest is impossible to ignore. He lowers his gaze, swallowing hard before forcing himself to speak. “I… yeah,” he manages, voice tight. “Brooklyn would be good. I—there’s someone… some people there.” It’s lame, not nearly the declaration he wants to make—I have an Alpha who’s my everything, and I need to get back to him.

Erskine nods, a fleeting smile acknowledging Tony’s unspoken admission. “There would be restrictions, of course,” he cautions gently. “You can’t publicly share anything about the project. You’ll probably have to meet with an SSR liaison regularly for status updates. But otherwise, you can maintain a private life. We’re not trying to conscript you, Tony. We just need your work.”

Tony swallows the rush of conflicting emotions—gratitude, fear, relief, disbelief. “You make it sound almost too good to be true,” he mutters. “But I guess if it keeps Howard and—” He hesitates, heart pounding at the thought of Tiberius. “—and any other Alpha from forcing a bond on me, I’ll take my chances. Speaking of which,” he says, “where the hell are we, anyway? Because I swear if we’re in some government dungeon in Manhattan, you people really took the scenic route.”

Erskine shifts, as though weighing whether to divulge that detail. Eventually, he says, “This is an SSR holding facility in New Jersey.”

Tony stares at him, deadpan. “New Jersey?” The words drip with derision. “You kidnapped me and dragged me across state lines just to plop me into the one situation that might be worse than a forced bond?” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “God. If my father doesn’t kill me, the smell of this place might do it.”

Erskine hums in amusement. “I didn’t realize you held such animosity for your neighbor.”

Tony snorts. “Neighbor, schneighbor. Guess we just skip Manhattan, skip civilization, and hide in some random bunker in an East Coast armpit.” He throws his hands up. “Great. Can’t wait to sample the local… bagels.”

Erskine regards him quietly for a moment. “May I ask one thing?”

Tony tenses. “What?”

“If there is someone in Brooklyn you trust—someone you might want to inform you’re safe—” Erskine lifts a hand in a calming gesture. “We can arrange a discreet communication. No details of your location or the project, of course, but perhaps a short telegram letting them know you’re unharmed.”

Tony’s chest tightens. Bucky’s face flashes through his mind. He wants nothing more than to tell him, I’m okay, don’t do anything reckless, but the risk… “Maybe,” he says, voice rough. “Let me think about it.” The last thing he needs is a paper trail leading Howard or Tiberius to Bucky’s door.

“Of course,” Erskine says. He’s perceptive enough not to pry further. “But know that it’s an option. We don’t want your life suspended entirely.”

Tony nods, releasing a slow breath that does little to quell the racing in his veins. “All right. So… when does this all go down? The hearing, the demonstration, the whole dog-and-pony show?”

“It’s set to move swiftly,” Erskine explains, laying out the timeline with methodical care. “Colonel Phillips arrives in a few days, along with Senator Brandt. We’ll brief them on your role and demonstrate that Howard’s current blueprint is unworkable without your corrections. Once we have their backing, we’ll file the injunction in federal court—likely in Washington, if we can expedite it. Given the war climate, I expect they’ll push it through quickly.”

He folds his hands. “In the meantime, you’ll begin reviewing the existing Chamber schematics. Identify every critical flaw, start drafting solutions. If the War Department sees that you’ve already made progress—maybe even solved major issues—they won’t hesitate to sign off on your provisional independence.”

“So,” Tony says, voice rough, “I roll out the improvements on Howard’s designs, prove I’m not just some spare part, and then… the War Department grants me independence? They’ll step in and remind him he can’t keep me under lock and key?”

A faint smile touches Erskine’s lips. “That’s the essence, yes. Of course, Howard remains a powerful figure—he won’t be dismissed from the project entirely. In fact, we still need him for funding and resources, not to mention his existing contracts. The government can’t exactly throw Stark Industries out the door. But we can set legal boundaries around you. If we can show you’re vital on your own terms, the War Department won’t let him override that.”

Tony’s mouth tightens at the thought of Howard retaining any control, but he exhales through his nose, reminding himself that partial freedom is still miles better than none. “Well, it’s not a perfect solution,” he says wryly, “but I’m sure I can find a way to live with it.”

He doesn’t tell Erskine that it’s more privilege than anyone has ever promised him. That the promise of it is so tempting that Tony can almost taste it.

“Another option is to file a sworn statement about any… potential mistreatment, to emphasize the national interest in keeping you safe. The War Department could label it an anti-sabotage measure, if necessary.”

The suggestion hangs in the air, sharp as glass. Tony’s face shutters, all amusement draining away at the thought of sharing details of Howard’s cruelty—in writing, on an official document no less. His stomach churns violently. He shakes his head, words caught in his throat. “No,” he says at last, bracing his palms against the table. “I’m not—I’m not doing that.”

Erskine doesn’t press. “Understood,” he says quietly, and leaves it at that. He stands, pushing his chair back with a soft scrape. His smile is subdued, but there’s gentle warmth behind it.

“Regardless, Tony, you should know you aren’t alone here. The SSR is prepared to see this through. And—if I may speak freely—I have every faith you can outshine even your father’s reputation.”

Tony’s throat works around a tangle of emotion. He thinks of Bucky again, of that quiet vows they shared in the dark of a cramped Brooklyn dorm room: We’ll figure this out. We’ll find a way. Maybe this is it.

He stands too, legs still shaky from the night’s ordeal, but he musters a ragged half-smile. “All right, Doc,” he says. “Point me to the nearest drafting table, and let’s fix your mechanical fiasco. Then we can kick my father’s guardianship all the way to Siberia. And, uh… any chance you’ve got some pants on standby?” He glances down at his bare legs with a grimace. “Or at least a bathrobe? I’m all for making a statement, but this wasn’t exactly the outfit I had in mind for my big professional debut.”

Erskine’s grin warms into something genuine. “Follow me,” he says, opening the door to the corridor. “First, we’ll get you settled in. This facility isn’t home, but we’ll do our best to make you comfortable for now. And once the immediate demonstration’s done, we can talk about letting you return to Brooklyn.”

As Tony steps out into the glaring hallway lights, a quiet sense of possibility hums in his chest. It’s not a guarantee—he knows that. There’s a thousand ways this could blow up in his face, especially if Howard gets wind of it too soon, or if Tiberius angles for a final power grab. But if the government can truly shield him… maybe Tony can have a future that doesn’t end in a forced bond or a black eye.

A future that includes Bucky, openly, without fear.

Until he leaves Tony.

But that’s a problem for another day.

Tony will make it work, if only for the sake of the promise he made to himself—and, in unspoken moments, to Bucky. No more hiding. No more limping away from Howard’s fists or another Alpha’s schemes.

And so when Erskine leads him past a pair of uniformed guards who nod respectfully, Tony—with as much dignity as he can muster in his wrinkled undershirt and bare feet—straightens his spine and returns it.

He has work to do.

[kaakelymaakely]

the winner takes it all

Klance fanfic

CHAPTER 1/2

Lance has always known he was destined for greatness. Broadway, Hollywood—maybe even both at the same time. But for now, he's ensemble in his college’s production of Beauty and the Beast. Not ideal, but hey, all the greats start somewhere.

Unfortunately, "somewhere" happens to be one forgettable scene, zero lines, and a tragic lack of stage time. But when a new opportunity presents itself—one that involves working very closely with Keith, the ever-annoying, ever-broody stage manager—Lance is faced with a choice.

College Theatre! AU

The boys’ dorm room was a picture-perfect description of chaos– textbooks cracked open but long forgotten, laundry threatening to pile over from the desk chair, and a half-empty bag of chips lounging on Lance’s stomach. The single window was unlatched, letting in the gross, stale smells of campus life– more specifically, the strong tang of weed from two floors down. Their cheap LED strip bathed the walls in a flickering red glow. 

Lance was sprawled across Hunk’s bed like a sickly Victorian woman, one arm flung dramatically over his forehead, the other digging into the bag of Lays. Pidge sat criss-crossed on the floor, back against the mini fridge, scrolling on their tablet as usual. Hunk– the one who should’ve had an actual claim to his bed because Lance’s was right there— was too kind to kick Lance off, instead opting to nudge him periodically in protest. 

After a long week of auditions, and a seemingly longer day of callbacks, the cast list for VLD University’s musical had just been posted. Or, more accurately, emailed. The trio had been arguing over the logistics of a heist into Professor Coran’s office– he’d totally notice a missing computer!-- when the message had been delivered. As the only one in the room who was participating in the college’s production, had refused to read the email himself. Instead, when he heard the telltale ping of his phone, he scrambled to toss it towards Hunk.

Ever the sweetest friend, Hunk graciously caught it, easily unlocking Lance’s phone and opening the message. He skimmed through the list, searching for Lance’s name. Lance watched as he scrolled, and scrolled… and scrolled… and… scrolled… until finally–

“I’m just saying,” Lance begins, talking through a mouthful of chips, crumbs flying as he gestures wildly with his free hand. He swallows– a little too quickly, coughing once before soldiering on. “Don’t be surprised when I get my first Broadway contract from Mr. Broadway himself.” 

“Lance… listen, I’m super duper proud of you— we both are!” Hunk pats Lance’s knee for emphasis.

Pidge gives a solemn nod, barely glancing up from their tablet.

“But?” Lance prompts, narrowing his eyes.

Hunk winces. “...But… you’re only Townsperson Number 4.”

Pidge laughs. “Not even Townsperson Number 1!”

Lance waves his hand dismissively. “Irrelevant. All the best people start off in the ensemble! It’s an important learning curve.” He flings a chip in Pidge’s direction, but they easily dodge it.

“Maybe,” Pidge shrugs, “but you’re not even really in the ensemble, you’re in one song. And then… nothing else.”

They reach for the bag of chips. Lance, lightning-fast, smacks their hand away with a scandalized gasp. “Thank you, Pidge. Really helping me live my dreams here.” He cradles the bag protectively. “Who even got The Beast?”

Hunk squints at his phone, scrolling through the email. “...Keith…”

“WHAT!?” Lance sits up so fast the bag of chips tumbles off his chest, spilling onto the already-cluttered floor.

Hunk bursts into laughter. “Just kidding, he’s the stage manager.”

Lance glares at him before dramatically flopping back down. “Typical.” He doesn’t bother picking up the chips.

Pidge suddenly straightens, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Oooooo! Idea!”

Hunk and Lance turn to them in sync, expectant.

Pidge grins, wiggling their eyebrows. “Since you’re only in one number, maybe you could help out backstage with Keith! Be a stagehand, get all up close and personal.” They smirk before throwing on an absolutely horrendous Bridgerton-esque accent, fanning themself for effect. “‘Oh, Keith! I can’t lift this set piece all by myself! I need your big strong biceps to help me!’” 

Hunk snorts, covering his mouth to muffle his laughter.

Lance lets out an offended squawk, swinging a pillow at Pidge, who dodges just in time. “Hush, you!” His scowl barely lasts a second before slipping into a grin. “...Though that’s not a horrible idea…”

Hunk smacks him with a pillow. 

–

The Director’s office was always intimidating. Or maybe it’s because Lance was really only invited in when he was causing a ruckus. 

 It was tucked away in the back corner of the auditorium, past the racks of abandoned costumes and towering set pieces. The door itself was old, its once-polished surface now scratched and dented from years of stressed-out techies knocking too hard or actors slamming it in frustration. A laminated sign reading Director’s Office was taped just slightly crooked above the handle—probably slapped on last-minute after too many people barged in unannounced.

Lance barely bothers to knock before pushing it open with a dramatic flourish. “Hey, Allura!”

Inside, Allura’s office was no less intimidating. The cramped space was lined with tall bookshelves, each crammed with stacks of play scripts, mismatched binders, and hastily scribbled notes shoved between them. The air smelled like old paper and the faint lingering scent of coffee, despite the fact that Allura had officially quit caffeine three times this semester.

Allura, seated behind her cluttered desk, barely glances up from the paperwork in front of her. “Lance.”

With a grin, Lance steps inside and slams the door shut behind him—loudly. Allura jolts in her seat, her pen skidding across the page.

Lance snickers. “That’s Townsperson Number 4 to you, Miss Director.”

The corner of Allura’s mouth twitches upwards, but she quickly schools her expression back into neutrality.

Lance leans against the desk, crossing his arms. “Anyway,” he starts, stretching out the word. “I need to ask a favor.”

Her expression fades. A slow, exhausted sigh escapes her lips as she folds her hands on the desk, tilting her head in mild suspicion. “What do you need?”

“I was wondering, since I’m really only in one song—”

“No, Lance.” Allura cuts him off before he can finish, her voice firm. “I’m not giving Townsperson 4 any more lines. If I change the script, I’ll have a Disney lawsuit on my hands.”

“Actually, not what I was going to ask, but definitely noted. I was actually wondering if I’d be able to help out backstage.”

Allura raises an eyebrow. “You… Lance McClain… want to help out backstage?”

Lance nods quickly. “Yes. That is exactly what I just said.”

She leans back in her chair, arms crossed now, considering him with a knowing look. “What’s the catch?”

Lance sputters. “What!? There’s no catch!”

Before Allura can respond, the door creaks open, and Keith walks in, clipboard in hand. He’s already speaking before he fully looks up. “Hey, Allura, I needed to—” He stops short when he sees Lance. “Oh. Sorry. I’ll come back.”

“This’ll only take a minute, Keith,” Allura says smoothly. “Please wait outside.”

Keith hesitates, then nods. He turns to leave, but Lance lifts a hand, giving him a slow, totally casual wave.

“Heyyy.”

Keith blinks at him, unimpressed. He presses his lips together in a tight line, nods stiffly, and ducks back out, letting the door click softly shut behind him.

Lance is still watching the door when he hears it—Allura’s soft, knowing hum of realization.

“Ah.”

He turns back.

She’s smiling now, but it’s different this time—smaller, sly, dripping with amusement.

“There’s the catch.”

–

“You, Lance McClain, want to help out backstage?”

Lance groaned, his shoulders slumping forward dramatically. “That’s exactly what Allura said too.”

Shiro shrugged, arms crossed as he leaned against the nearby workbench. The tech room smelled faintly of sawdust and old paint, the shelves behind him cluttered with tangled extension cords, and a chaotic assortment of tools that only he seemed to know how to use. “Sorry, Lance—”

“Townsperson 4.”

“—Townsperson 4,” Shiro corrected with an amused smirk. “It’s just… hard to believe. You’ve always been more interested in being in the spotlight, not actually… you know. Being it.”

Lance clasped his hands together, lacing his fingers with an exaggerated plea. “Shiro, my heart, my life, my incredible and amazingly talented tech director—please, please, you’ve got to let me help out. I’m going to die of boredom if I don’t have something to do. Do y’all seriously expect me to just sit backstage quietly during the show?”

Shiro exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s… fair.” He seemed to consider it for a moment before nodding. “Alright, tell you what. We’ll start you off helping with building the set before we even think about letting you near lights or sound.”

Lance perked up instantly, hands dropping to his sides. “That’s a very safe choice.”

“Then it’s settled. Keith will help you figure out where to start.”

“Wait—I’m doing what?”

Lance nearly jumped out of his skin. He whirled around to find Keith standing behind him, arms crossed, brows furrowed in immediate suspicion. How long had he been standing there?

Shiro grinned, completely unfazed. He reached over and ruffled Keith’s hair, earning a sharp glare. “Townsperson 4 here wants to help out with the set! And, as stage manager, I’m trusting you to help him learn how.”

Keith swatted Shiro’s hand away with a scowl before shifting that glare to Lance. “Lance McClain wants to help out backstage?”

Lance threw up his hands. “Seriously?! Why is everyone so surprised?”

Keith shot a look at Shiro. It wasn’t just a glance—it was a whole silent conversation, one that Lance definitely wasn’t privy to. He frowned as Keith’s expression twisted into something frustrated, his lips pressing into a thin line before—

Keith flushed.

It was quick, barely there, just a dusting of pink along the tips of his ears, but Lance saw it. And before he could even process it, Keith snapped his attention back to him, scowling even harder.

“Fine.” The word was practically spat out.

Wow. What a way to make a guy feel welcome.

Before Lance could comment, Keith grabbed his wrist and yanked him forward, practically dragging him out of the room.

Lance barely had time to shoot a helpless look back at Shiro—who, the traitor, just winked at him in silent encouragement.

Keith led him to the workshop, a chaotic but organized mess. Long wooden tables lined the room, covered in half-painted set pieces, rolls of masking tape, and scattered paint brushes soaking in murky water. Over in one corner, a group of students were painting a large sign, their laughter mixing with the occasional curse whenever someone smudged their work. A few others were hunched over a prop table, adjusting a broken chair leg.

Lance barely had time to take it all in before turning back to Keith—only to find him holding a sharp, jagged saw.

Lance’s eyes bulged out of his head. Oh hell no.

Keith barely looked up. “Do you know how to use a handsaw?”

Lance took a step back, eyes flicking between Keith and the saw like he’d just been handed a live grenade. “I’m not trusted around weapons.” He shook his head solemnly.

Keith sighed, lowering the saw. “Okay… um, can you use a staple gun?”

Lance raised a brow. “Also a weapon.”

Keith pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath. “Fine. How about some wood glue?”

Lance’s expression instantly brightened. He shot Keith a wink. “Now that, I can do.”

Keith huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “Okay, basically, you’re going to glue these pieces together first, and then we staple them.”

Lance frowned. “Why not just staple them without gluing them?”

Keith leveled him with a deadpan stare. “Trust the process, Townsperson 4.”

Lance groaned, dropping his head back. “It’s humiliating when you call me that.”

Keith smirked. “Maybe try and get a better part next time, then.”

Lance scoffed. “Hardy-har-har. Keith’s got jokes over here.”

Keith’s smirk widened. “I’m full of surprises.”

“More like full of shit.” Lance crossed his arms, eyebrows raised. “Now teach me how to glue these together.”

–

Keith strides over, carrying two thick planks of wood under one arm like they weigh nothing. He drops them onto the worktable with a dull thud before crossing his arms over his chest.

“All you have to do is glue these two ends together,” he says, nodding toward the planks. “Easy peasy. Even someone as dull and oblivious as you can do it.”

Lance, who had been examining the wood with mild curiosity, snaps his head up so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash.

“Dull and oblivious?!” His voice cracks with outrage, loud enough that several people stop what they’re doing to stare. Some of them exchange amused glances, waiting to see what will happen next. If anything, Lance thrives under the attention. He straightens his back and dramatically places a hand over his chest. “Name one thing I’ve been oblivious about!”

Keith meets his eyes, expression unreadable. His lips part slightly, and for a split second, Lance thinks he might actually answer. But then Keith exhales sharply, shakes his head, and mutters, “Just glue.”

Lance squints at him in suspicion but lets it slide, instead picking up the glue bottle. He presses the tip against the wood and squeezes. Nothing happens. He squeezes harder. Still nothing.

“This isn’t working.”

Keith lets out a long-suffering sigh, stepping in close—so close that their shoulders brush. The warmth of him seeps through the thin fabric of their shirts, and before Lance can react, Keith’s hand is wrapping around his. His grip is firm but not rough, guiding Lance’s fingers into applying more pressure to the bottle. A thick line of glue finally squeezes out onto the plank.

“There,” Keith murmurs. “You just needed to apply more pressure.”

Lance doesn’t respond. He can’t respond. His brain has short-circuited.

Because Keith is still there, pressed up against him, voice low and steady in a way that makes something inside Lance buzz. He keeps his eyes firmly trained on the glue, as if it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. His throat feels tight, and when he finally tries to speak, it comes out as a choked, strangled noise.

Keith turns to look at him, an amused glint in his eye. “Cat got your tongue?”

“As if,” Lance forces out, his voice an octave too high. He clears his throat and tries again. “I just… am really focused on gluing this wood.”

Keith smirks. It’s the kind of smirk that screams I know something you don’t want me to know. He presses his side harder against Lance’s, leaning in ever so slightly. If Lance turned his head right now, they’d be right there, noses almost brushing, lips—

Lance makes a small, wounded sound in the back of his throat.

Keith grins. “I see.”

“I’d sure hope so—I bet it’d be real hard to stage manage if you couldn’t,” Lance blurts, desperate to regain some control of the situation.

Keith hums, still far too smug for Lance’s liking. “You can dish it out, but you can’t take it.”

“...What?”

Keith tilts his head slightly, like he’s about to say something more, like he’s enjoying watching Lance squirm—

But before he can, a voice cuts through the air.

“Keith!”

A freshman jogs into the workshop, out of breath, hands braced on her knees. “Griffin just spilled paint all over the stage-right flat!”

Keith curses under his breath and immediately pulls away, already turning toward the stairs. And Lance—Lance does not miss the warmth, and he absolutely does not watch Keith’s ass as he marches off.

[mik-mania]

inscribed upon one of the HVAC ducts in the far back corner of the 4th level UW Madison engineering building

[inkskinned]

it's easier to apply for jobs than ever! so what if you lost your insurance, anyone can get a job these days, even without meds. everyone is hiring! there's a "good employee" shortage!

well you just need to revamp your resume, here's a paid app subscription that can read it for you. rewrite the cover letter they won't read. google jobs in my area and then scrawl through Monster/Indeed/worbly. did you want to save the search? this was posted 98 days ago. over 1 billion applicants! this position is trending.

jobs i actively like doing and get paid for. your search returned no results. easy-apply with HireSpin! easy apply with SparkFire! easy apply with PenisFlash! with a few short clicks, get your information stolen.

watch out! the first 98 links on google are actually scams! they're false postings. oopsie. that business isn't even hiring. that other one is closed permanently. find one that looks halfway legit, google the company and the word "careers". go to their page. scroll past brightly-lit diversity stock photo JOIN US white sans serif. we are a unique, fresh, client-focused stock value capitalism. we are committed to excellence and selling your soul on ebay. we are DRIVEN with POWER to INNOVATE our greed. yippee! our company has big values of divisive decision making, sucking our dicks, and hating work-life balances. our values are to piss in your mouth. sign here and tell us if you have gender issues so we can get ahead of the sexual harassment claim. are you hispanic although let's be real we threw out the resume when we saw your last name.

sign up to LinkHub to access updates from this company. make a HirePlus account to apply. download the PoundLink app. your account has been created, click the link we sent you in 15 minutes. upload that resume. we didn't read the resume, manually fill in the lines now. what is your expected pay grade. oh actually we want hungry people, not people driven by a salary. cut a zero off that number, buddy, this is about opportunity, and we need to be thrifty. highest level of education. autofill is glitching. here is an AI generated set of questions. what is your favorite part of our sexy, sexy company. how do you resolve conflict. will you get our company logo tattooed on your person. warning: while our CEO is guilty of wage theft, we will absolutely refuse to hire a nonviolent felon.

thank you for your interest at WEEBLIX. we actually already filled this position internally. we actually never had that posting. we actually needed you to have 9 years of experience and since you have 10 years we think it might be too many? we'll be texting you. we'll email you. we'll keep your resume. definitely absolutely we won't just completely ignore you. look at your phone, there's already a spam text from Bethany@stealyouridentity. they're hiring!

wait, did you get an interview? well that's special, aren't you lucky. out of 910 jobs you applied to, one answered, finally. and funny story! actually the position isn't exactly as advertised, we are looking for someone curious and dedicated. it's sort of more managerial. no, the pay doesn't change - you won't have any leadership title. now take this 90 minute assessment. in order to be a dog groomer, we need you to explain cell biology. in order to be a copyeditor, write a tiny dissertation about the dwindling supply of helium on the planet. answer our riddles three. great job! we just need to push this up to Tracy in HR who will send it to Rodney who is actually in charge. and then of course it's jay's decision and then greg will need to see you naked and if you survive you'll be given a drug test and a full anal examination.

and of course you'll be hungry this whole time, aren't you, months and months of the same shit. months of no insurance, no meds, no funding, barely able to afford the internet and the phone and the rent - all things you need in order to even apply for our thing. but do it again! do it again and again and again, until you flip inside out and turn into a being of pure dread!

you're not hired yet because you're lazy. there's over one million AI-generated hallucinated jobs in your area. don't worry. with zipruiter, hiring and firing is easier than ever. sign up. stay on-call.

in the meantime, little peon - why don't you just fucking suffer.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

How I got scammed

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/05/cyber-dunning-kruger/#swiss-cheese-security

I wuz robbed.

More specifically, I was tricked by a phone-phisher pretending to be from my bank, and he convinced me to hand over my credit-card number, then did $8,000+ worth of fraud with it before I figured out what happened. And then he tried to do it again, a week later!

Here's what happened. Over the Christmas holiday, I traveled to New Orleans. The day we landed, I hit a Chase ATM in the French Quarter for some cash, but the machine declined the transaction. Later in the day, we passed a little credit-union's ATM and I used that one instead (I bank with a one-branch credit union and generally there's no fee to use another CU's ATM).

A couple days later, I got a call from my credit union. It was a weekend, during the holiday, and the guy who called was obviously working for my little CU's after-hours fraud contractor. I'd dealt with these folks before – they service a ton of little credit unions, and generally the call quality isn't great and the staff will often make mistakes like mispronouncing my credit union's name.

That's what happened here – the guy was on a terrible VOIP line and I had to ask him to readjust his mic before I could even understand him. He mispronounced my bank's name and then asked if I'd attempted to spend $1,000 at an Apple Store in NYC that day. No, I said, and groaned inwardly. What a pain in the ass. Obviously, I'd had my ATM card skimmed – either at the Chase ATM (maybe that was why the transaction failed), or at the other credit union's ATM (it had been a very cheap looking system).

I told the guy to block my card and we started going through the tedious business of running through recent transactions, verifying my identity, and so on. It dragged on and on. These were my last hours in New Orleans, and I'd left my family at home and gone out to see some of the pre-Mardi Gras krewe celebrations and get a muffalata, and I could tell that I was going to run out of time before I finished talking to this guy.

"Look," I said, "you've got all my details, you've frozen the card. I gotta go home and meet my family and head to the airport. I'll call you back on the after-hours number once I'm through security, all right?"

He was frustrated, but that was his problem. I hung up, got my sandwich, went to the airport, and we checked in. It was total chaos: an Alaska Air 737 Max had just lost its door-plug in mid-air and every Max in every airline's fleet had been grounded, so the check in was crammed with people trying to rebook. We got through to the gate and I sat down to call the CU's after-hours line. The person on the other end told me that she could only handle lost and stolen cards, not fraud, and given that I'd already frozen the card, I should just drop by the branch on Monday to get a new card.

We flew home, and later the next day, I logged into my account and made a list of all the fraudulent transactions and printed them out, and on Monday morning, I drove to the bank to deal with all the paperwork. The folks at the CU were even more pissed than I was. The fraud that run up to more than $8,000, and if Visa refused to take it out of the merchants where the card had been used, my little credit union would have to eat the loss.

I agreed and commiserated. I also pointed out that their outsource, after-hours fraud center bore some blame here: I'd canceled the card on Saturday but most of the fraud had taken place on Sunday. Something had gone wrong.

One cool thing about banking at a tiny credit-union is that you end up talking to people who have actual authority, responsibility and agency. It turned out the the woman who was processing my fraud paperwork was a VP, and she decided to look into it. A few minutes later she came back and told me that the fraud center had no record of having called me on Saturday.

"That was the fraudster," she said.

Oh, shit. I frantically rewound my conversation, trying to figure out if this could possibly be true. I hadn't given him anything apart from some very anodyne info, like what city I live in (which is in my Wikipedia entry), my date of birth (ditto), and the last four digits of my card.

Wait a sec.

He hadn't asked for the last four digits. He'd asked for the last seven digits. At the time, I'd found that very frustrating, but now – "The first nine digits are the same for every card you issue, right?" I asked the VP.

I'd given him my entire card number.

Goddammit.

The thing is, I know a lot about fraud. I'm writing an entire series of novels about this kind of scam:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865878/thebezzle

And most summers, I go to Defcon, and I always go to the "social engineering" competitions where an audience listens as a hacker in a soundproof booth cold-calls merchants (with the owner's permission) and tries to con whoever answers the phone into giving up important information.

But I'd been conned.

Now look, I knew I could be conned. I'd been conned before, 13 years ago, by a Twitter worm that successfully phished out of my password via DM:

https://locusmag.com/2010/05/cory-doctorow-persistence-pays-parasites/

That scam had required a miracle of timing. It started the day before, when I'd reset my phone to factory defaults and reinstalled all my apps. That same day, I'd published two big online features that a lot of people were talking about. The next morning, we were late getting out of the house, so by the time my wife and I dropped the kid at daycare and went to the coffee shop, it had a long line. Rather than wait in line with me, my wife sat down to read a newspaper, and so I pulled out my phone and found a Twitter DM from a friend asking "is this you?" with a URL.

Assuming this was something to do with those articles I'd published the day before, I clicked the link and got prompted for my Twitter login again. This had been happening all day because I'd done that mobile reinstall the day before and all my stored passwords had been wiped. I entered it but the page timed out. By that time, the coffees were ready. We sat and chatted for a bit, then went our own ways.

I was on my way to the office when I checked my phone again. I had a whole string of DMs from other friends. Each one read "is this you?" and had a URL.

Oh, shit, I'd been phished.

If I hadn't reinstalled my mobile OS the day before. If I hadn't published a pair of big articles the day before. If we hadn't been late getting out the door. If we had been a little more late getting out the door (so that I'd have seen the multiple DMs, which would have tipped me off).

There's a name for this in security circles: "Swiss-cheese security." Imagine multiple slices of Swiss cheese all stacked up, the holes in one slice blocked by the slice below it. All the slices move around and every now and again, a hole opens up that goes all the way through the stack. Zap!

The fraudster who tricked me out of my credit card number had Swiss cheese security on his side. Yes, he spoofed my bank's caller ID, but that wouldn't have been enough to fool me if I hadn't been on vacation, having just used a pair of dodgy ATMs, in a hurry and distracted. If the 737 Max disaster hadn't happened that day and I'd had more time at the gate, I'd have called my bank back. If my bank didn't use a slightly crappy outsource/out-of-hours fraud center that I'd already had sub-par experiences with. If, if, if.

The next Friday night, at 5:30PM, the fraudster called me back, pretending to be the bank's after-hours center. He told me my card had been compromised again. But: I hadn't removed my card from my wallet since I'd had it replaced. Also, it was half an hour after the bank closed for the long weekend, a very fraud-friendly time. And when I told him I'd call him back and asked for the after-hours fraud number, he got very threatening and warned me that because I'd now been notified about the fraud that any losses the bank suffered after I hung up the phone without completing the fraud protocol would be billed to me. I hung up on him. He called me back immediately. I hung up on him again and put my phone into do-not-disturb.

The following Tuesday, I called my bank and spoke to their head of risk-management. I went through everything I'd figured out about the fraudsters, and she told me that credit unions across America were being hit by this scam, by fraudsters who somehow knew CU customers' phone numbers and names, and which CU they banked at. This was key: my phone number is a reasonably well-kept secret. You can get it by spending money with Equifax or another nonconsensual doxing giant, but you can't just google it or get it at any of the free services. The fact that the fraudsters knew where I banked, knew my name, and had my phone number had really caused me to let down my guard.

The risk management person and I talked about how the credit union could mitigate this attack: for example, by better-training the after-hours card-loss staff to be on the alert for calls from people who had been contacted about supposed card fraud. We also went through the confusing phone-menu that had funneled me to the wrong department when I called in, and worked through alternate wording for the menu system that would be clearer (this is the best part about banking with a small CU – you can talk directly to the responsible person and have a productive discussion!). I even convinced her to buy a ticket to next summer's Defcon to attend the social engineering competitions.

There's a leak somewhere in the CU systems' supply chain. Maybe it's Zelle, or the small number of corresponding banks that CUs rely on for SWIFT transaction forwarding. Maybe it's even those after-hours fraud/card-loss centers. But all across the USA, CU customers are getting calls with spoofed caller IDs from fraudsters who know their registered phone numbers and where they bank.

I've been mulling this over for most of a month now, and one thing has really been eating at me: the way that AI is going to make this kind of problem much worse.

Not because AI is going to commit fraud, though.

One of the truest things I know about AI is: "we're nowhere near a place where bots can steal your job, we're certainly at the point where your boss can be suckered into firing you and replacing you with a bot that fails at doing your job":

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/15/passive-income-brainworms/#four-hour-work-week

I trusted this fraudster specifically because I knew that the outsource, out-of-hours contractors my bank uses have crummy headsets, don't know how to pronounce my bank's name, and have long-ass, tedious, and pointless standardized questionnaires they run through when taking fraud reports. All of this created cover for the fraudster, whose plausibility was enhanced by the rough edges in his pitch - they didn't raise red flags.

As this kind of fraud reporting and fraud contacting is increasingly outsourced to AI, bank customers will be conditioned to dealing with semi-automated systems that make stupid mistakes, force you to repeat yourself, ask you questions they should already know the answers to, and so on. In other words, AI will groom bank customers to be phishing victims.

This is a mistake the finance sector keeps making. 15 years ago, Ben Laurie excoriated the UK banks for their "Verified By Visa" system, which validated credit card transactions by taking users to a third party site and requiring them to re-enter parts of their password there:

https://web.archive.org/web/20090331094020/http://www.links.org/?p=591

This is exactly how a phishing attack works. As Laurie pointed out, this was the banks training their customers to be phished.

I came close to getting phished again today, as it happens. I got back from Berlin on Friday and my suitcase was damaged in transit. I've been dealing with the airline, which means I've really been dealing with their third-party, outsource luggage-damage service. They have a terrible website, their emails are incoherent, and they officiously demand the same information over and over again.

This morning, I got a scam email asking me for more information to complete my damaged luggage claim. It was a terrible email, from a noreply@ email address, and it was vague, officious, and dishearteningly bureaucratic. For just a moment, my finger hovered over the phishing link, and then I looked a little closer.

On any other day, it wouldn't have had a chance. Today – right after I had my luggage wrecked, while I'm still jetlagged, and after days of dealing with my airline's terrible outsource partner – it almost worked.

So much fraud is a Swiss-cheese attack, and while companies can't close all the holes, they can stop creating new ones.

Meanwhile, I'll continue to post about it whenever I get scammed. I find the inner workings of scams to be fascinating, and it's also important to remind people that everyone is vulnerable sometimes, and scammers are willing to try endless variations until an attack lands at just the right place, at just the right time, in just the right way. If you think you can't get scammed, that makes you especially vulnerable:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/24/passive-income/#swiss-cheese-security

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[purplecoffee13]

Cross The Line*

Summary: “Harry and Y/N have always had a great professional relationship, all based on one rule; a line they drew the first time they met. But when one day that line accidentally blurs, Harry finds that he doesn’t want it to go back to the way it was…”

Wc: 13k

Tropes: Boss!rry x Secretary!Y/N

Warnings: A LOT of back and forth (this is what Katy Perry wrote hot and cold about), arguing, curse words, smut, dirty talk, degradation, light ch0king, dom/sub dynamics, edging, b0ndage, and recording while… yk🤗

A/N: I’m terribly sorry to have been testing your patience so much the second half of this year, here is a long one shot to say I’m sorry🥲 and I appreciate all of you and I hope you are happy and healthy and will get everything you want in the new year xx💘💘

General Masterlist

HEADER = POV change

Harry's relationship with his secretary is completely normal.

At least, he’s always thought it is.

Sure, it may have seemed more friendly than the usual boss/secretary relationship, but that was only because Y/N was special. She was one of the kind. Smart, stealthy, and sneaky if need be. She did everything he asked for, sometimes before he even realized he should ask her, and was always ready to do more.

Of course, she was attractive as well. Shit, attractive may have even been an understatement. Y/N was drop dead gorgeous and Harry was entirely aware of it. Her ambition made her even sexier, and it's one of the reasons he hired her in the first place.

When Y/N walked through his office door that first time three years ago, he couldn't believe his eyes.

He remembers it like it was yesterday, those wide eyes staring back at him as she froze a couple feet away from him. She was quick to regain herself, though—he had to give her that. But she was nervous as she sat down, even though her movements were calm and the tone of her voice stern. He saw the slightest shake of those hands of her.

Because that job interview hadn't been the first time Harry and Y/N came across each other. It was actually a Halloween party at some high end secretive club in New York one month prior. A night that ended with them hooking up in one of the private lounges.

Even back then, when he never thought he'd see her again, he knew that he would never forget that night, nor the way her face scrunched up as she clenched around him, or the sounds that she made as he drove into her.

He could see that she remembered it as well as she sat across from him that day, but Y/N had quickly made it clear that she was serious about pursuing a career in the film industry. She said she could prove what a great secretary she could be for him, as long as they could put that Halloween night behind them and pretend it never happened. She wouldn't make him regret it, she had told him. He took the chance.

And she had been absolutely right.

Three years had passed and Harry was still thankful to himself for hiring Y/N. She was the best around; fiercely loyal as well. Y/N had been offered jobs by other companies, but she turned down every last one of them. Harry liked to think their relationship played a bit of a part in that as well.

They had become friends—if that's what you could call it—over the years. They had a playful dynamic filled with flirty jokes and random phone calls and favors that blurred that line they had drawn so carefully during Y/N's job interview.

No matter what, Y/N would be the first Harry would call, every time. Whether it was bad business news or a drunken phone call, her number was most likely to be at the top of his last calls. And she always answered, even though she didn't have to. It was a special bond, and while they always danced on it—especially Harry—they never crossed that one line.

Not that Harry needed to. As a matter of a fact, he had quite the adventurous love life. With plenty of people on speed dial and a charming smile that could make anyone's panties drop, Harry wasn't short on romantic escapades. The one thing they all had in common, though, was that it'd never last longer than a few days, and they were rarely ever repeated.

The same couldn't be said for Y/N. In fact, Harry had never seen her with anyone outside of her work, and he never heard her mentioning anything about it...

He didn't know why, but somehow, that thought popped up into his head last Friday as they sat in his office with a drink, celebrating the outstanding reviews that critics had given the newest produced film that was set to premiere next week. Before Harry knew it, he was asking about it.

"Why are you rubbing your temples?" He questioned, watching Y/N massage the side of her head with her eyes closed. He was leaned back in his seat, whiskey in hand as he observed the woman across from him.

"Tension headache." She groaned in response. Despite her grumpiness, Harry couldn't help but grin. What could he say? She was cute when she was grumpy.

"We are literally celebrating, Y/N. What could you possibly be so tense about right now?" He teased, and felt his stomach swirl as a smile painted her lips. She might have rolled her eyes, but she still thought he was funny.

"Oh you have no idea." She mumbled, grabbing her glass and leaning back into her chair. She took a big gulp, her face pulling at the strong taste of the liquor. Harry chuckled.

"You should relax more. Maybe get a hot date to take care of some of that stress for you." He suggested jokingly. Y/N scoffed at the insinuation.

Shaking her head, she said: "I get taken care of just fine, thank you very much."

The equally teasing tone in which she responded caught Harry seriously off guard. Her slight grin pressed down on his chest, and despite having started this joking banter himself, he suddenly didn't find the topic very funny anymore.

"When?"

Y/N locked eyes with her boss. “What?”

"You're here 24/7, when do you even have time to hook up with someone?"

"You know there's this thing called weekends." She joked, but the amusement faded when Harry's mouth didn't even quirk upwards in the slightest bit. It fell quiet for a second or two, and just when Y/N opened her mouth to say something else, someone knocked on the office door.

"Come in."

Harry had said, and soon enough Robin, one of the managers walked in, telling them everyone was going to the pub down the street to celebrate, and if they wanted to come along.

Harry didn't even have the chance to reject the offer—he'd rather spend his nights with his secretary—before Y/N agreed to go along. Feeling obligated, Harry reluctantly gave in as well.

He ended up going home quite early that night, not even properly saying goodbye to Y/N like he normally would before leaving, and he couldn't get the image of her wrapped around another man out of his head the entire ride home. He didn't know why it bothered him so much. Maybe it was the fact that it shouldn't, and more importantly, couldn't bother him, which made it even less bearable.

Whichever reason there may have been for it, he decided to drown out his thoughts by inviting one of his old hook-ups to his house. But even as he drove himself into her as she kept screaming his name, he couldn't stop thinking of Y/N. When she had reached her climax and he began to chase his own high—Harry was caught off guard by Y/N's face flashing through his mind, and extremely embarrassed when those images triggered his orgasm.

The next week is awkward, to say the least. It started out Monday, when Harry could barely look Y/N in the eye. She had received the sudden cold shoulder pretty well, but Harry still felt horrible about it. His attitude got less stiff throughout the week, but it was still bad.

By the time Thursday rolls around again, Harry still hasn't had the chance to get that weird feeling out of his system. So when he approaches his office and spots Y/N behind her desk smiling at him, a wave of guilt washes over him.

He curses himself as he sinks into his desk chair, absentmindedly turning on his laptop. What is he doing? Y/N is his assistant. He shouldn't let his protectiveness of her get the best of him. He does not want to lose her in any way.

Harry flinches when there is a knock on his door. He looks up, finding Y/N standing in his doorway. Immediately, he signals for her to come in. She seems a bit nervous as she nears him, and considering she's never been nervous around him, his heart sinks at the idea that the cold shoulder he's been giving her the other night might have affected her way more than he thought.

He just doesn't know how to behave instead.

"You have a meeting in conference room C in five minutes. It's the banker's son who's been proposing his script for the past year. I  know your schedule is tight, especially with the premiere coming up, but I thought you might as well get it over with." She says, putting a stack of papers on the table that Harry can only assume is the script. He nods, quirking up the corner of his mouth.

"Thank you, smart thinking." The praise falls from his lips in a casual manner, and he doesn't miss the way she physically relaxes at the positive reinforcement. She nods at him, and turns back to the door. Right before she is about to leave the office, she turns around again. Harry leans back in his seat, waiting to hear what she'll say.

"I'm sorry if I overstepped last week." She says, and Harry frowns at the apology.

"What?"

"I clearly said something that ticked you off." She explains,her shoulders slumping slightly. "I know we joke around, but I was afraid that maybe I'd accidentally crossed a line—“

"Y/N, stop it." Harry interrupts her, getting up from his seat. Her lips are locked within a second, and she stares at her boss with wide eyes. His stomach twists at the sight of it. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"But— if I said something inappropriate then I want to apologize for it." She says, straightening her posture again, biting her bottom lip so he won't see it quiver. As if he doesn't know the way her body works. As if he hasn't known for three years.

Putting his hands inside his pockets, Harry walks around his desk and stands in front of her. A little closer than he needs to, and yet not as close he would like.

"Let me ask you this: How many times have you declined booty calls for me?" He asks, tilting his head a bit. A slight smile appears on Y/N's face, and she pretends to think it over.

"Twenty-seven." Her smile crinkles her eyes, making them even more glassy. Harry quite literally feels his hand itch to touch her face, but he keeps it sternly in his pocket. "I kept track so I could count all the reasons you definitely won't get into heaven."

At that, he lets out a snort. Y/N can't help but chuckle too, and slowly but surely the weirdness dissolves from the room. When the laughter has died down, she speaks up again.

"So... we're good?"

"We're good." Harry smiles at his secretary, and his chest heats up when he spots the faint blush that appears on her cheeks. Jesus Christ, did she become even more beautiful than she was yesterday or was he just too stupid to notice earlier? Probably the latter.

"Well in that case you need to leave because your meeting is like, right now." She reminds him, and he hums in agreement as he gets up from his seat and walks towards the door with Y/N.

"Already gone, love." He winks at her, walking out the door with a lot more confidence in his relationship with Y/N. Maybe everything can go back to normal again. Maybe he was just exaggerating when he couldn't get her out of his head this weekend. Perhaps it was just a glitch, a temporary error in his brain that had come and gone in a flash.

That must've been it, he tells himself as he makes his way to conference room C. He takes a deep breath, musters a polite smile, and opens the door to the room. Harry already knows this guy is going to be wasting his time, but he made a promise to hear him out, so he will.

The guy sitting at the table is the stereotypical spoiled rich son. When John Longwell—a long-time business partner of Harry's— asked him to revise his son's script as a favor, Harry told him he'd do it if he ever found the time. He always hoped John's son would lose interest and forget about the script by the time Harry could find a free space in his agenda, but unfortunately that hadn't been the case.

And although the arc of the story had sounded absolutely horrendous— something about zombies fueled by a brainwashing radio song, which didn't even make sense to Harry because zombies don't have brains—he couldn't back out anymore. So he needs to get it over with, starting now.

Harry loudly shuts the door.

The guy—whose name he can't really remember at the moment—flinches and turns around, a big grin on his face as he gets up from his seat.

"Mr. Styles, it's a pleasure to see you." The man says, extending his hand, which Harry, in turn, takes. He only gives a slight nod before heading over to the other side of the table and sitting down.

"So, where's your script?" Harry asks, eyeing the empty table. The guy looks flustered, opening his mouth to say something, but the opening of the door interrupts that. Harry leans back in his seat when he spots his secretary walk through it, not even eyeing the other guy as she struts over to him and lays the printed out script on the glass table.

"Sorry, you forgot this. It was still on your desk." She says, finally turning to the man to throw him an innocent smile. His sheepish grin satisfies her enough to turn back to her boss and focus all her attention on him. "I also forgot to ask you— do you want to move up lunch today?"

The corner of Harry's mouth tugs up. Over the last three years, the concept of 'moving up lunch' has become a code for 'should I get you out of this early?'. Y/N came up with it a long time ago, and it has stuck ever since.

"Yes, I would very much like that. Thank you, Y/N." He says, and the way a smirk slowly creeps onto her face makes the hairs on his body rise.

"It's my pleasure, Mr. Styles." She gives one final nod before walking out of the room and closing the door behind her. Harry would lie if he said he didn't let his eyes fall onto the way her hips moved as she strolled away.

Unfortunately the fun doesn't last long, and with the slam of the door Harry is reminded that he still has to sit through this meeting a little longer. He looks down at the script.

"A Thousand Zombies

By Jason Longwell."

Right, Jason, that was his name.

"Jesus Christ, if that were my secretary I'd have her bent over my desk all day. How do you get any work done?" Jason breathed out, grinning like a stupid fucking schoolboy. Harry quite literally felt the storm cloud that came floating right above his head the second he heard that incompetent loser say those words. His hands balled up into fists at the suggestive comment, knuckles getting whiter by the second.

"Get out." Harry growls. John raises his eyebrows, looking around him as if Harry couldn't have possibly been addressing it to him.

"W— what?" He stumbles.

"I don't do business with insolent idiots. Get out." Harry repeats, getting up from his seat and buttoning his suit jacket. John follows his movements, anger starting to cloud on his face.

"What the fuck did you just call me?" He exclaims in a failed attempt to sound intimidating. At least, Harry assumes that's what he's trying to do.

"I called you an idiot. Now, get the hell out of my face before I boot your sorry ass right to the front door." With one brow raised, he waits as John tries to muster a response until he eventually gives up and storms out of the room. Harry throws the script into the trash as he walks out of the conference room half a minute later. Y/N is immediately by his side.

"That was quick, I didn't even have time to think of an emergency." She jokes as they walk back to Harry's office together. He raises a brow.

"Yes you did. What was it this time? Food poisoning?" He guesses, holding the door to his office open once they've reached it. Y/N grins as she walks past him and takes a seat at one of the chairs in front of his desk.

"Actually, your car was going to get stolen in about five minutes." She responds, the blush of her cheeks revealing the slight embarrassment of having to voice this excuse out loud. Harry's eyes widen as he walks over to his desk, feeling his assistant watching his every move. He quite likes the feeling.

"No way." He laughs. "You just get more creative by the day."

"What can I say, I'm good at crisis management." She shrugs, crossing her legs and getting into a more comfortable position on the chair. Harry tries his best to not let his eyes float to her legs.

"That you are." He murmurs, the huskier sound of his voice giving a different ambiance to the conversation. As Harry feels the mood switch, he curses himself. Why did he have to ruin it?

Y/N clears her throat. "Anyway— why'd the meeting end early?"

"It ended early because Jason Longwell is a sleazy douchebag." He responds shortly, straightening in his seat in an attempt to gain control of the situation again. He can't let himself slip like this again, and she can't know the real reason he kicked out Jason. But there is no denying the sheer rage that boils his blood when that comment flashes through his memory. He hates that the asshole thought he could just speak about Y/N like that.

"Ooh, what did he say when you kicked him out?" Y/N asks eagerly, still in a playful mood. "You did kick him out right?"

"I don't have time to get into this right now. I need to sign those contracts that were sent in yesterday before I go home." Harry says sternly, avoiding eye contact with Y/N as he speaks, but he still sees the slump in her shoulders at his sudden shift in attitude.

"Right, of course." She immediately returns to the responsible secretary she always is, getting up from her seat. He hears her exit the room, heels clacking against the wooden floor. As soon as the door has shut, Harry throws his head back in frustration.

So much for going back to normal.

Playing into the teasing will only rope him further into that forbidden fantasy, and he clearly won't be able to stop himself from resisting her if he does. But he's the one who started all the playfulness, massively screwing himself over he realizes now. If he shifts his behavior, she's always going to think he's mad at her because of something.  But he's going to have to, because Harry can't go back to normal anymore.

Deciding he needs to clear his head, Harry grabs his coat and heads for the elevators without so much as a word. He pretends not to notice the way people's eyes widen when he walks by, suddenly on their best behavior, and although it used to give him an ego boost back when he started, nowadays he just prefers it if people aren't scared of him.

It turns out to be a particularly nice outside for a winter day in London. Not to get it twisted— it's still freakishly cold. It's just that the sun has replaced the endless rain of this entire month. Harry suppresses a chuckle at the irony of the sun finally being out at the very first moment where he's felt so shitty in a long time.

He doesn't know how long he's outside, so he knows it's not fair to be frustrated when he comes back and Y/N isn't at her desk, but he can't help the slight distress that washes over him at the empty seat.

"It's just a date—"

"Your second date!"

Harry creased brows don't do much to hide his feelings when he turns around to see his secretary with a co-worker. The shy smile on her face—accompanied with that blush on her cheeks she always gets when she's secretly giddy about something—disappears at the sight of her boss looking at her like she just killed a puppy.

"Ha— Mr. Styles." She is quick to catch her almost error. Her wide eyes bore into his, filled with confusion and worry. But Harry's frown doesn't give away much, aside. From the fact that he is obviously annoyed.

"I was looking for you." He states stoically, not even acknowledging the employee that is standing next to her. The woman takes the hint and gives Y/N and Harry a small nod before walking away. As soon as she does, Harry turns around and walks towards his own office. He can hear her footsteps following him inside, and with the inconsistent clacking against the floor he can tell she's having a hard time keeping up with his long strides. Still, he doesn't slow his pace.

"I need the papers for the donations printed out and on my desk. And I'll need you to move the meeting with the director of the romance movie to Tuesday evening."

"Yes, of course." The breathy response falls from Y/N's lips the second he finishes his sentence, and by the time he enters his office, she is long gone to do exactly what he asked. Harry shuts the door a little louder than intending to, accidentally shaking the framed artwork on the wall.

Y/N isn't very talkative for the rest of the day, that usual spark of hers seemingly having dimmed. Harry's chest is heavy, knowing his cold attitude was the catalyst for that, but he keeps it up nonetheless. He can't help himself from falling back into it every time he sees her face.

A date. She's going on a date. A second one at that. He can't believe it. Is this who she referred to when she said she gets taken care of? His stomach churns at the possibility.

He tries not to, but Harry still gets warped into the spiral of overthinking about 'date' Y/N has tonight. So much, in fact, that he almost doesn't notice the time flying by until Y/N knocks on his door at 6PM. Harry spots the coat that hangs over her desk chair, and he realizes the work day is over.

"Everything is done for the day and ready for next week. I also sent the papers about the donations with a courier who owed me a favor, so the documents are signed on both parts and the donations will be officially registered by Monday." She explains, hands behind her back. Her new shy behavior—while quite endearing—is excruciating to see. She had always been comfortable around Harry, until now. Until he had to ruin it for the both of them.

"Thank you." Harry gives her a firm nod.

"No problem." She responds a bit awkwardly. "So... I'm going to clock out for the day."

Y/N has already turned around by them time Harry's voice croaks out a 'no'. She whips her head towards her boss, head tilted as she awaited whatever it was that he was going to say.

"I need those contracts for that romance movie." He says before he can even comprehend his words.

"But you won't be negotiating that deal for another two weeks." Y/N retorts, her tone more stern than usual. He can tell she's tired.

"I don't care. I want them on my desk tonight." He holds his head high, despite knowing damn well what he's doing.

He's stalling. Long enough for... he doesn't know actually. For her to cancel her date? It sounds ridiculous now that he really thinks about it.

"Harry, I have an appointment tonight—"

"I said I don't care. I pay you to do as I ask. This is not something you can argue me on." He grumbles. With how Y/N's jaw is clenched, he can't say the same for her attitude. Without another word, she leaves the office.

Harry's worry begins to grow every minute that passes with Y/N out of sight. But when she returns with a stack of papers in her hand after a bit—seven minutes to be exact—that worry evolves into surprise. Walking over to his desk, she plops the papers on them a bit carelessly before speaking up.

"I had them made on Monday because I like to be a few steps ahead." She elaborates. "Now, if that's all, I'm going home."

Y/N doesn't even say goodbye when she grabs her coat and walks to the elevators. Harry sighs to himself, not knowing how the hell he should handle this. It takes him a few seconds before he realizes he really can't do this anymore. He needs to talk to her, if only just to clear the air.

And so, he gets up from his seat and hurries after his assistant.

He catches her just as she walks into an empty elevator, and he joins just before the doors close. Her knitted brows make it clear that she is not in the mood to talk to him.

"I'm sorry... about the documents." Harry confesses, but she doesn't face him. It stays quiet between them for a bit, until the biting sentence falls from Y/N's lips.

"You said we were good."

His heart cracks at her wobbly voice. He can't believe he made her feel this way. If any other person would've brought her to tears, he would've beaten the shit out of them. He reaches for her arm.

"W— we are." He lies. It's the biggest lie he's ever told her, and she knows it, because she immediately turns around.

"No we're not! I said I was sorry if I did something wrong, and you told me it was okay, and now all of a sudden you're being so... cold. I don't understand—" her eyes become glassy. "I don't understand what I did wrong."

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Harry opens his mouth, ready to spout out his apologies, when Y/N's phone starts to ring. It takes them out of their little trance, and Y/N fumbles around her jacket for a bit until she's finally found her phone. He can't see who's calling her, but it can't be an expected call if he has to judge by the expression on her face.

"Marco, why are you—" her eyes widen at whatever the voice on the other side of the line is telling her, and Harry subconsciously finds himself leaning in a bit in the hope to find out what's wrong.

"What?" Y/N breathes. Her voice is small, and it sounds defeated, tired. The elevator dings, signaling they're downstairs, but Y/N doesn't move, so Harry doesn't either. She seems to notice and lets out a huff before storming out of the confined space and pacing around the lobby.

"You said we had a green light! That was months ago, Marco! Did you even—" She growls, clutching at her phone so hard Harry is afraid she's going to break it. "You know what, never mind. Give me his number."

The Marco guy seems to say something that he really shouldn't have said, because with the way Y/N's face twists Harry swears he can see steam coming out of her ears

"I don't care that they're not answering, I'll make them answer. Give me their numbers and then go find them." She orders before ending the call. And although the thought really shouldn't be crossing his mind right now, Harry can't help but notice how attractive Y/N is when she's mad. He shakes off the thought, telling himself that's the last thing he should be paying attention to right now.

Y/N paces around one more time, cursing under her breath, before striding past Harry and pushing the elevator buttons like a maniac.

"What's going on?"

Y/N shakes her head. "N— nothing. Just a little hiccup that could've easily been prevented. I won't be long."

Harry raises a skeptical brow, but she doesn't dare to meet his eye. She's lying through her teeth.

"Y/N—"

"Harry, really, it's nothing. I'm taking care of it." She tries to convince him, but he notices the way her hands are slightly trembling. "I'm sorry I was unprofessional. You're my boss. It's my job to take your orders, not question them."

Wait, no.

That aching feeling fills his stomach. His entire body, for that matter. He doesn't want her to be a silent and compliant assistant. That's not why he hired her. He needs someone to push back, to joke around with. Shit— what has he done?

Harry finds himself speechless as she enters the elevator and pushes the button of the seventh floor; the office. His brain isn't fast enough to think of what to say before the doors shut and the elevator ascends.

His feet stay glued to the ground as he ponders, his mind reeling like a rollercoaster. Frustration fills his body to his every finger tip. Everything has gone wrong, and he has no idea how to make it better.

At least ten minutes must've gone by by the time that a concierge taps Harry on the shoulder to ask him if he's okay. Still a bit wary, he nods before excusing himself and leaving the building.

Everything is going wrong.

Leaning over the desk with her face buried between her arms, Y/N is unable to hold back the tears that glide over her cheeks.

First, her boss gets mad at her, and she has no idea why. Then, just when they seemed to be okay again, he changed his attitude up again. And what does she do instead of letting it go? She starts a fight. And now Marco drops a disastrous bomb in her lap that could entirely ruin the movie premiere on Sunday. And if that wasn't enough—and she really thinks it was—this sudden crisis caused her to cancel her date of tonight.

It wasn't anything special, really. Y/N had met Jamie a few weeks ago, and they went out last week. He was a nice guy, handsome too, and she thought he was perfect for a short lived affair. Besides, her vibrator just couldn't live up to her fantasies. She was human, she needed to get off every now and then too. It was like Y/N had this itch in need of scratching, one she hadn't been able to reach in what felt like years.

But that wasn't going to happen now. In fact, she was risking being fired if she didn't solve this problem as soon as possible.

Damn! She really thought she had kept it all together, despite the extreme business this year. She thought she'd done a good job.

But that was a lie, because if she had done a good job, Marco wouldn't have ever gotten into the position where an artist on the soundtrack could manipulate the contract they signed. Y/N had told Marco to make it airtight, already having been suspicious of the artists' integrity from the moment they became part of the soundtrack. She assumed that they would try something.

'Chain' was an up and coming band known for their indie sound, but Y/N would just describe them as two pricks. Not only had they been subtly demeaning to her when Harry met with them, barely acknowledging her existence, they were arrogant as well. They came in expecting a lot more money than Harry and the rest of the company were willing to give them. It was absurd that they expected such a big number, but their cocky attitude didn't fade throughout the meeting.

It was truly a favor to the director, why Harry worked so hard to compromise with Chain. The director had been so passionate about the movie, and he had really wanted the song. If one thing was important to Harry, it's that there went passion onto the projects he produced and invested in. So, he decided to help, and eventually managed to struck a deal with the singers. It was still way above the pay grade they should've got—in Y/N's opinion—but they agreed.

Having seen first hand how greedy those two were, she had told Marco—the guy who handled all the legal documents—to make that contract airtight. She demanded to look it over, but because of her busy schedule, she let Marco have another lawyer look at it before sending the contract.

And now, because of a lazy mistake Chain's lawyer found, they are demanding more money or they'll waive their rights to the music. Something which would be absolutely detrimental because the entire climax of the movie, the cinematography and timing are all tuned to the song.

If she doesn't find a way to solve this problem, this entire premiere could fall apart, and it would all be her fault. She gave the green light to Harry, who gave it to the director. It's all her fault. 

She should've fucking read that contract herself, then this would've never happened.

Between Harry being mad at her, the fact that she was in her luteal phase, and this sudden disaster, the tears began streaming down her face, and the soft crying only turned into full on sobs the more she tries to calm herself down.

She allows herself the mental breakdown, but when she begins to regain control of her breath again after a few minutes, Y/N decides that it's enough. She has a job to get done, and no one was going to swoop in and save her.

So, she starts making call after call, ringing everyone in the immediate vicinity of the two arrogant bastards. It's crucial she reaches them before the night is over. Only forty minutes have passed by the time she is on the seventh person, but it feels like an eternity nonetheless.

She flinches when, while trying to reach Chain's tour manager, the elevator door dings and a shadow nears. Her tense shoulders sink a little bit at the sight of Harry, glad it's not some creep. Her brows crease as she watches him walk towards her. He's carrying a couple of bags with... is that food? It sure smells like it.

When the call goes to voicemail—for the third time—Y/N puts down the phone and gets up from her seat, hurrying over to her boss and stopping him before he could reach her desk.

"What are you doing here?!" She asks, blocking his way. He lifts the bags, a subtle, apologetic smile on his face.

"I brought food—" He looks up at her, and his eyes darken as soon as he takes in her face. "Have you been crying?"

Y/N raises her hands to her face, quickly glancing at the ground while she wipes her cheeks before meeting his eyes again. Harry puts the bags down, and it feels like her heart skips a beat or two when his thumbs stroke the skin under both her eyes. He leaves his hand around her face, cupping her jaw while he stares at her with such a piercing pain in his eyes that it makes Y/N's eyes water altogether again.

"What's wrong?" His voice is soft, and the feel of his big, warm hands holding her is comforting her in a way she hasn't experienced in a quite some time. Y/N only focused on his chest, afraid that the welled up water in her eyes will spill out again the second she looks at her boss. She told herself the crying was over, so why wasn't she able to control herself?

A few seconds pass, and silence runs between the thick air that makes it nearly impossible to breathe normally. Then, Y/N feels the slight pressure of Harry's hands, inching her head upwards. Automatically, her gaze flicks to that of her boss, and when she sees the worry on his face, a tear escapes her eye. His thumb catches it before it has the chance to roll down all the way down her cheek.

"I messed up." She only says, closing her eyes in shame. Harry says nothing, only letting out a sigh as he continues to caress her cheek.

Suddenly, the phone rings. Y/N reluctantly backs away from Harry's touch, and runs over to her desk to pick up the phone.

"Hello?" She says, her voice laced with such desperation that she internally cringes at it.

"Y/N? It's Marco. I found them, they're at a studio just outside the city."

She hums, grabbing a pen. "Give me the address."

"No, I'm going. This is my mess, Y/N, I'm not going to let you clean it up." Marco croaks from the other side of the line, and Y/N feels his voice tug at her heartstrings.

"Marco, listen to me. This is as much my fault as it is yours. I should've read the damn thing and notice the mistake." She replies, leaning over her desk to grab her coat.

"Y/N, I'll take care of it, okay? I found a fault in their loophole, they're stuck. Let me handle this. You just go home and enjoy what's left of your evening I ruined—" Marco tells her. "Wait, didn't you have a date tonight? Oh my god, did I ruin your date?"

"I did... but it's alright. It probably wouldn't have worked out with him anyway." Y/N chuckled awkwardly and glanced towards Harry, who looked weirdly annoyed at what she said.

"I'm so sorry, I promise I'll make it up to you." Marco shares the desperate plea.

"You can make it up to me by giving me the address of the studio." Y/N tells him cheekily.

"Y/N..." he warns.

"What? I promise I'm going home. It's just so I know where you are." She lies. Y/N is a good liar, except in front of Harry. Having a tendency to get nervous, she always betrays herself. She's lucky that this is a phone call, otherwise Marco would've known she wasn't planning on going home at all.

Hesitantly, he gives her the address, which she immediately writes down on her hand.

"Okay, thank you Marco. Good luck." She says, hanging up the phone with a lot more confidence than ten minutes ago. She can feel Harry staring her down as she puts on her coat, clearly waiting for an explanation for this whiplash-like behavior.

"I really have to go."

Harry shrugs. "I'll give you a ride. You can explain everything to me on the way to your house."

Y/N shakes her head, walking towards her boss. "No, really, you don't have to."

"Yes I do." Harry argues.

"You really don't."

"Do you have a problem with me bringing you home, Y/N?" He asks as if he's dumb, as if he doesn't know she's secretly trying to go to that studio.

"No!" She is quick to protest.

"Or does it have anything to do with the address of that mysterious studio you've written on your hand?" He teases, and Y/N clenches her jaw in frustration.

"I just— I need to make sure it's handled." She sputters. Harry shrugs.

"From what I heard it's being handled just fine." He points out. "You've got to learn to let things go sometimes, Y/N."

She shakes her head, looking the floor. "I can't. Not with this."

Harry lowers his head, trying to get on the same eye-level as her and searching for her eyes. "Why not?"

"I told you; I messed up." Her voice quivers as she tells Harry the truth. "There was a mistake in the contract with Chain. Somehow they found a loophole, and now they want more money or they'll waive the rights to their song."

"What?!" Harry growls, exactly like Y/N anticipated he'd react. God, he's going to fire her any moment.

"It's my fault. It was a reference mistake I could've easily spotted if I had taken the time to revise it." She admits, feeling extremely shameful of her lazy actions.

"What are you talking about? This is the legal team's fault, they should've seen that damned mistake! It's not in your job description to revise a contract, it's not your responsibility. It's not your fault, Y/N." He explains. She sucks in a breath, his words hitting her harder than she expected. Heart aching, the one sentence rings in her head.

It's not your fault.

That couldn't be true, could it? She was responsible for this deal, and for Harry. She should've seen this coming, even though she couldn't have possibly known. Did she not always pride herself in having this sixth sense, in being ahead of everyone else? What was she without that? What was she if not the best at the one thing that made her special, that set her apart from the crowd. What was she worth without that invincibility?

"You revise every contract, don't you?"

Her eyes flick towards her boss. She doesn't say anything, but the answer is hidden in her pupils. And it seems Harry can read them like an open book. "How long have you been doing that?"

"Two years." Y/N stammers, her arms crossed as if it will keep her body from revealing whatever her mouth won't. Harry just lets out a breathy chuckle before pulling her into his arms, taking her into a sweet embrace. With his chin leaning on her head, Y/N takes the opportunity to bury her face in his chest, trying not to bask too much in the heavenly scent of his cologne.

"Remind me to give you a raise." He jokes in a soft whisper, earning a sniff of laughter from Y/N.

For a while it seems like everything that tore her down, including what went down between her and Harry, didn't exist anymore. There was just him and her, their embrace and a distant ticking clock, the only indicator of time passing. Yet it felt like the world stopped, or slowed down at least, being in Harry's arms like that. And suddenly, that itch that she hadn't been able to scratch in so long, it felt like it was soothed by a stroking hand instead, and in a way it fulfilled her. It just so happened to be a way she did not expect.

The initial shock at the realization—this puzzle piece that suddenly clicked—made Y/N back away. She clears her throat, fiddling with her hands.

"They're supposed to be at this studio right outside the city. It's only twenty minutes away by car. I just need to be sure." She announces. Harry grabs the bags of food he put down before placing his hand on her lower back and guiding the both of them back to the elevator.

"We'll take my car." He states, and although Y/N can tell by his tone that Harry expects there to be no talking back, but she just can't help herself.

"Harry, I told you I can take a cab." She suggests as they wait for the elevator door to open. Harry doesn't respond as he guides them both into the small space and pushes the button for the ground floor. When the door closes, he turns to her, looking down at her with such an intimidating stare that Y/N feels like she's shrinking.

"And I told you: we're taking my car." He says sternly, his low voice twisting her stomach in an interesting way. When Y/N goes to open her mouth again, Harry lays his finger on her lips. He hums in disapproval, shaking his head.

"I was being clear, right?" He asks rhetorically. His gaze sweeps over her mouth before settling on her eyes again. Not daring to speak another word, let alone breathe, Y/N only nods in response.

"Good." Harry responds, a cocky smirk framing his face as he strolls out of the elevator, leaving Y/N breathless and in a slight trance. Blinking a few times, she comes back to her sense and hurries after her boss.

Richard has always been a master at reading people, and this time is no exception. The second he began driving, he raised the partition, leaving Harry and Y/N with some privacy.

Harry really has a knack for hiring the right people.

The first few minutes of the car ride are silent, and Harry spends it observing Y/N as she picked at her nail beds, frantically looking at of the window as if it would make the car move faster. She has so much tension inside that little body of hers; she is clearly in need of a distraction.

"I think I'm jealous."

Y/N's head whips to him, brows raised at the sudden confession. Her body turns with her, knees now in Harry's direction as she leans back into the seat, getting comfortable as she lays close attention.

"Of me?" She asks, utterly confused. She seems very lost, not really connecting the dots. Harry doesn't blame her; that confession was quite out of the blue.

"Of whoever gets to take care of you."

Pure silence. Harry swears he could hear a pin drop. Y/N stares at him like a deer in headlights, probably having no idea what to say or do or think. She gulps.

"What?" Her voice is so soft that he almost doesn't hear her, but since all his focus is on her, he doesn't miss it. Letting out a breath, he leans forward, placing a hand on her thigh. His face inches closer and closer until their mouths are mere inches away from each other. Checking for her reaction with every small movement, he can't help but notice how she doesn't stray away from him. In fact, she leans in, causing their lips to brush against each other.

"The idea of another man touching you, having you, it makes my fucking blood boil." He says, voice hoarse. Her eyes frantically search every last inch of his face, looking for something she seemingly can't find. Perhaps she's attempting to find the usual playfulness that always accompanies any conversation that blurs that line between them. In that case, she could keep looking forever and ever, because he is dead serious. Fuck how it used to be and fuck whatever's right or wrong.

And most of all, fuck that line, because he's crossing it.

Harry closes the small gap between them, trying to suppress the moan that threatens to work up his throat at the sole feeling of her lips against his. What a fucking idiot he was for ever agreeing to forget about that Halloween night. Not that he ever truly did forget about it. Besides her obvious competencies, hiring Y/N was a way of keeping her where he seemed to like her best from the moment they met; close to him.

With that thought in mind, he wraps his hand around her face and pulls her closer. She complies, clicking her seatbelt free to move further towards Harry when he slips his tongue inside.

Their mouths move against each other like it's both the first time and the hundredth time they've done this. So familiar and yet it's like nothing he ever felt before. A sensation so different from three years ago, one so heavy and laced with a detail his brain can't quite seem to grasp. Deep down, he knows what it is, he just can't quite lay his finger on it.

But his body can, and it does, and so does Y/N's, because her grinding against him is exactly what he needs. His hand sneaks around her neck, lips curling into a smile at the familiarity of the curves of her neck and the identical moan that falls from her lips just as it did three years ago.

Harry groans when the car suddenly stops and Y/N falls forward a little bit, the friction against his trousers being a bit too much to bear at the moment. Slowly, the partition lowers, and without so much looking at them through the mirror, Richard speaks up.

"We've arrived."

Wrong. Harry clearly hasn't.

Before Harry can catch his breath, Y/N can get off his lap, and either one can even answer, the partition rises again. Immediately, Y/N throws her face into Harry's neck.

"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god." She wheezes out in pure, utter shame. Harry shakes his head, a faint grin on his face. He would have been laughing his ass off if he wasn't so painfully hard right now. Instead, he only pats Y/N's back, telling her it's fine. She groans and opens the car door.

"No it's not! God, I will never be able to look him in the eye again!" She says, punching the bridge of her nose. Harry shuts the door and grabs Y/N's waist, pulling her towards him. She stumbles into his chest. He lifts her face with his fingers, forcing her to look up at him.

"You're going to have to, because I don't want to fire him." He jokes, and Y/N bites her lip to keep her smile from growing too wide. Not wanting to give Harry the satisfaction that he made her laugh, she looks to the side, but her face expression falls quickly.

"This is not my apartment." She notes, looking at the huge building next to her. "This is yours."

Harry nods.

"I can't be at your apartment, I have to—" Y/N stops herself before she can say more. But Harry already knew what she was going to say. Playfully, he raises a brow.

"You have to... what?"

"To... I have to—"

"Sneak out to that studio?" He finishes her sentence, and her eyes widen. She tries to regain herself but her cheeks are flushed and there is nothing she can do anymore. He's got her. "Yeah, that's not going to happen."

With that, he places a hand on her lower back and guides her towards his building. She stumbles a bit, but eventually catches onto the pace. But her body language is apprehensive, looking back at the road where Richard is standing. Or well, was standing. Harry ordered him to drive away as soon as they got out of the car.

Still, she turns around in a quick motion, trying to get to a cab. Harry's arm catches her, however, and he pulls her back against his chest. Along with his other hand, he turns her around, catching sight of her big eyes boring into his.

"Don't try me." He speaks slowly, dipping his head down until he finds himself inches away from Y/N. "You know what happens if you try me."

His voice is lower than before, having flipped a switch now that her mouth has been on his. He got a taste for the first time in years, he wasn't going to let her get away now. Y/N's breath hitches, eyes flicking down to his mouth.

Knowing he's got her right where he wants her, Harry pulls back and strolls toward the entrance of his apartment building. Soon enough, he hears those heels behind him and he smirks.

It's silent when they step in the elevator, and for the first few seconds, as Harry leans agains't the wall and observes his secretary, it stays that way. She eyes him a couple of times, her ears getting redder.

"What?" She breathes out, looking down at her body like there must be something wrong if he's looking at her for so long. He simply shrugs.

"Nothing. Just admiring you."

At that, Y/N vigorously shakes her head and crosses her arms. A soft scoff leaves her mouth, one she didn't think Harry would hear, but he did. He takes a few steps towards Y/N, inching her against the wall.

"You have no idea how beautiful you are, do you?" He asks sincerely, searching for her eyes. When she finally looks up at him, the nervous smile on her face fades a bit.

Harry doesn't like that look on her face. Needing to fix it, he leans forward and plants his lips on hers again, grabbing her face and pulling her into him. It only takes a matter of seconds before her arms are wrapped around his neck and their bodies are impossibly close to each other again.

Tongues delving deeper into each other's mouth, Harry feels himself floating on some sort of feeling. Despite not being able to define it, he is absolutely positive that he doesn't ever want it to stop. And since kissing Y/N causes this specific feeling, the only feasible option is to never stop kissing her. It's the best plan he's had in ages.

It doesn't take long before the situation gets heated, much like it did before, and Harry's hands trail to Y/N's hips to pull her against him. Desperate for any sort of relief, Harry's hips automatically start to move, and Y/N immediately responds. His body feels like it's on fire, and he tries not to let out any sounds as his strained cock rubs against his tight pants.

Harry takes his lips off Y/N's mouth, peppering kisses to her jaw instead. Slowly, he works his way towards her ear, where he stops to whisper in her ear.

"I'm going to remind you how fucking beautiful you are." The hot breath that left his mouth had her shuddering against him, a slight whine escaping her lips. As he leaves sloppy kisses on Y/N's neck, Harry's free hand slowly travels under her shirt, finding her bra.

She gasps softly when his hand starts to massage her breast, the sensitivity of both spots leaving her hot and bothered under Harry. Fuck, she is so fucking stunning, how did she not see it herself?

Suddenly, the elevator stops, and the door opened. Taking a step back, Harry only winks at Y/N before he turns around and strolls out as if it's a casual Friday. As if he doesn't have his secretary, whom he left high and dry, trailing behind him like a lost puppy.

"Would you like something to drink?" He asks when they enter his home, Harry immediately going into the kitchen.

"Absinthe." Y/N breathes out, leaning over the kitchen island. Harry peeks inside his fridge.

"I only have white wine."

Y/N shrugs. "I'm sure it'll have the same effect if I just keep drinking."

Harry chuckles, grabbing the bottle of wine and placing it on the counter. He walks to a cabinet and takes two wine glasses out of it. Placing one in front of Y/N and the other in front of himself, he opens the bottle and starts pouring, not stopping until the glasses are halfway full. Y/N laughs at the ridiculously full wine glass that he pushes her way, but takes it gladly. He doesn't miss the way her breasts nearly spill out of her top as she leans forward a bit further than intended to in order to grab the glass.

"To the unexpected." She says it like it's a dare. Amused, Harry decides to entertain it, and nods his head.

"To the unexpected."

They raise the glasses before both taking a long sip. Y/N rests her arms on the table, giving a perfect view of her tits right in Harry's frame. She smirks when his eyes accidentally fall on it, and Harry's stomach swirls with excitement. She's trying to play.

"Crazy, how fast life can change, isn't it?" She asks rhetorically, and Harry just hums, waiting patiently for her to reveal what she's trying to do. "I mean, I got up today thinking I'd end the day in another man's bed."

There it is.

She's always been smart, and she knows how to push Harry's buttons. Though his fingers grip the kitchen counter tightly, so much that his knuckles turn white, Harry keeps the corners of his mouth lifted.

"And now you're here." He says, head tilting just a bit. She hums in agreement, taking another sip from her wine.

"Yeah, but just crazy to think that I went into the day thinking I'd hook up with someone else." She tells it so innocently, as if she's mostly talking to herself. Harry's jaw clenches as he stalks around the kitchen island and nears Y/N.

"But you're not, though." Harry notes, falling right into the trap. He knows what she's trying to do but he just can't help himself. He doesn't like the idea of her being with another man. He waits for her answer, hearing his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

"I know, but I could have—"

Before the sentence has entirely left Y/N's mouth, Harry's hand flies to her neck. The amused look on Y/N's face tells him enough, but he doesn't care.

"You're not. You're in my bed tonight, and any night after that as far as I'm concerned, so I don't want to hear another fucking word about it."

Her eyes twinkle with amusement as she stares up at him. "You really are jealous."

The corner of his mouth tilts upwards, "And you've gotten feisty over the years."

Y/N bites her bottom lip, humming in agreement to his observation. Harry lets out a soft chuckle, tightening the grip on her neck. Y/N gasps in surprise.

"But do you still like to be put in your place?" He asks, inching his face close to hers. The answer is written in her eyes, and yet Y/N doesn't respond. When it's clear that she won't anytime soon, Harry's free hand sneaks around the waist of her pants. She shivers at the touch.

"Well? Do you?" He repeats himself, and slowly but surely, Y/N nods her head. Harry lets out a disapproving noise. "That's not a proper answer."

Closing her eyes, Y/N lets out a deep breath. "Yes, I like to be put in my place."

"That's what I thought." Harry laughs, taking his hands off of her entirely. She frowns, but her eyes widen when he barks out a demand. "Take off your clothes."

He watches carefully as she follows his orders, and she clearly takes her time stripping down to her underwear. When she has, she looks to him for some sign of approval, but Harry just raises his brows. His hands are sunk into his pockets as Y/N lets out a little breath and takes off her bra and panties.

His eyes trail down her body, his cock hurting at the sight of her. God, she's beautiful. He feels like an absolute idiot for not having fought for her earlier, but he reminds himself that he can't change the past and that she is here now, stark naked in his kitchen. A grin spread across his face.

"Do you remember how you addressed me all those years ago?" He asks. It takes a few seconds before Y/N answers, but she gives him a firm nod.

"I called you sir."

Harry nods. "Rules haven't changed. Now, get on the counter."

Her eyes flick to the marble countertop, shock flashing through her eyes. "But Har—"

His right brow lifts ever so slightly. Catching the hint, Y/N stops herself before she can finish the sentence and hoists herself on to the cold countertop. It must not be very pleasant to lay your naked body on that freezing surface, but it was an uncomfortable temporary obstacle. The results would be great, and in about thirty seconds, she'd forget all about that cold touch against her skin.

Harry pulls out one of the bar stools and sat directly in front of Y/N. Spreading her legs apart, he catches sight of that perfect pussy he has been waiting three years to taste again. Like a starved man sat in front of a feast, the urge to dive right in is almost too strong to bear. But before he has her writhing under him, he wants to make her shiver.

"Can't believe it took us so long to get here." Harry hums, tracing his fingers up her thigh, carefully observing the way Y/N tries to control her breathing. Her fists are balled up into curls, attempting to send her concentration to anything else than Harry. He tries not to let his smugness show too much, but he has to say he likes seeing her struggle a bit. A bit of payback for trying to toy with him just now.

"You've always been stubborn." Y/N jokes, a gasp strangling out of her when Harry's fingers ghost over her clit. He chuckles, the tone of his voice so low that it could almost be considered evil.

"If I remember correctly, you're the one who wanted to forget about that Halloween night." He notes. Y/N hums.

"I also made the condition to act professionally, but we didn't do that either." Her eyes gaze into his, catching the fond smile with which he stares at her. A faint blush erupts on her cheeks.

"You drew the line." Harry retorted, and Y/N scoffed.

"You crossed it about a hundred times." She argues in response. He only hums, that cocky smirk on his face.

"I did, and consider this hundredth and first time to be the last, because I'm not getting behind that line again."

Y/N has never been so turned on her in her entire life. Harry’s words are the epitome of determination, and the way his fingers slip inside her so easily the second he finishes his sentence only solidifies that notion. The gasp that leaves her mouth is cut short and evolves into a low moan as Harry’s lips latch onto her clit.

Sensitive would be an understatement for her current state. She is aching, and the way Harry is ravishing her almost hurt. But any pain dwells in comparison to her desire she was overcome with at the situation she currently finds herself in. She is on Harry's kitchen counter, legs spread wide open and letting him do all the things that slipped into her dreams over the past three years.

Harry sucks in all the ways that made her squirm, moving his fingers with such ease that made it seem like he has fingered her a thousand times already. As if he knows her like the back of his hand, as if he knows all her secrets, even ones she doesn't know herself.

Y/N's hand buries itself in Harry's hair when he begins to kitten lick her clit, and she feels that inevitable climax inching closer and closer. She wonders how she had been able to keep herself composed for so long, because the high that creeps up on her feels like it was long overdue.

Unfortunately, the sensation comes to a grinding halt when Harry backs away from Y/N. Her head shoots up, and finds him leaning over her body, wearing boyish half-smile that is now glimmering with her juices.

Wrapping one arm around her waist and the other one under her legs, he picks her up bridal style. She holds onto his shoulders, burying her face into his neck as he carried her to his bedroom. When she begins unbuttoning his shirt, he throws her on his bed. She lets out a soft yelp, bouncing onto the bed.

"So greedy..." Harry tuts in disapproval, but Y/N doesn't quite care. She wants him, bad, and now that she's had a preview of what's to come she doesn't want to wait any longer. She needs him and she needs that orgasm.

She pulls him closer by his pants and starts to unbuckle his belt. "You're taking too long."

Y/N is about halfway done when Harry's firm hand wraps around her neck and pulls her closer to his face. Inching down, he growls: "You'll take what I give you."

"Then give me something." She spits back, and Harry's eyes turn five shades darker at her invitation to a challenge. He slowly leans back, Y/N watching his every movement in anticipation.

"On your stomach."

Y/N stomach swirls at the command, and she obeys as quick as she can. It stays silent for a little bit, and she awaits his further actions eagerly.

"Hands behind your back."

Again, she does what he says. Y/N doesn't dare to turn her head as she hears Harry walking around his room. When she feels a silky material around her wrists, she knows enough. He's tying her up.

Knowing better than to do otherwise, Y/N keeps her mouth shuts as Harry makes an impenetrable knot with his tie. She moves her wrists, assessing how tight it really is, and gets interrupted by a punishing slap on her ass. The sting remains for a couple of seconds, and she is sure there is now a red print the size of Harry's hand on her right cheek.

"Ass up." He barks out his final order, no doubt smirking as she changes her position, slightly struggling now that her arms are of no use.

Y/N bites her lip in anticipation when Harry's hand grabs onto her hips, steadying himself behind her. She slightly flinches forward when the tip of his cock teases her entrance, and attempts to speed up the process by leaning backwards a bit. She's rewarded with another slap on her ass.

But then Harry finally sinks in, and that dreadful itch that plagued Y/N for such a long time is finally scratched, over and over again as he begins to pound into her with long, slow strokes.

"Fucking hell..." Harry murmurs, his cock suctioning into Y/N's tight, clenching pussy. He is so big, and it bruises her in all the right ways.

"Oh baby... thaaat's it." He groans when Y/N begins to bounce back on his cock, aiming to get it even deeper inside of her. She is ruthless in her movements, groaning at the overwhelming sensations. When Harry gropes her ass— and his nails bite into her skin—she loses control.

Burying her face into the mattress, Y/N screams as she reaches her peak. The sound of Harry's moans at her pussy convulsing around his cock only strengthens her orgasm. Her mind goes entirely blank as the shattering release ripples through her like an earthquake. The only thing she can think of is Harry's name, and it's the only thing she cries out as the dizzying explosion settles all over her body.

"You really are desperate, aren't you?" Harry sneers as he pulls his cock out of Y/N, letting go of her hips. She nearly falls over, her tied up hands making it difficult to catch herself. This orgasm was so intense, she could feel the three years of pent up tension as it washed over her. Her cheeks are burning red and her teary eyes makes her vision somewhat blurry.

Y/N is thrown off when Harry suddenly turns her around and she finds herself lying on her back. The way he towers over her would have been intimidating had it not been extremely hot.

"Came on my cock so fast..." he mumbles cockily, corner of his mouth pulled up like the arrogant bastard he is. "Such a slut for it."

Y/N wants to give him some snappy comeback, but her brain is still fried from the orgasm and she's always liked to be degraded in bed, so she decides to only glare at Harry while he speaks. He catches it, and his grin only widens.

"You know it's true, baby." He tells her, bringing your legs over each of his shoulders. That deviant smirk is the last thing Y/N sees before her eyes roll into the back of her head at the feeling of Harry's cock stretching her out again.

He leans forward, almost folding her in two, and reaches deeper. He stays there for a few seconds—as if he is catching his breath—then slowly backs out of her before slamming right back in. Y/N lets out a screech that, if it hadn't been for the desperation laced in its tone, would've sounded like someone was trying to murder her.

Trying to keep her own moans at a minimum, Y/N closes her eyes and listens to the harsh slaps of Harry's skin against hers, and the groans that escape his mouth with each thrust. The strength behind each movement makes her clench around Harry, who in turn hisses her name as if it were a curse word. It only causes her to clench more. 

"Fuck, such a pretty little whore." Harry praises as he drives into her. Y/N can only whine, her tits bouncing uncontrollably at the impact of his motions. She must look fucking helpless. Opening her eyes, she catches the way Harry looks at her; like she's a dream. Like she's his dream.

"My pretty little whore." He growls, leaning back and holding one of her legs with his arm while the other reaches for her breasts.

"Yes..." Y/N breathes as he begins squeezing her breasts, getting lost in the sensations of him. Somehow it feels like Harry is everywhere. As if he has latched onto a part of her soul and she feels him coming to claim that every time his cock sinks into her.

"Such a tight fucking fit." He groans, taking her nipple between his fingers. "You should see how perfectly your pussy sucks in every inch of my cock..."

Y/N bites her lip as Harry talks, trying not too get too overwhelmed by the filthy things he's telling her as he plunges in and out of her. Her eyes catch the flex of his muscles that occur with every thrust, and she wonders how she got a man so perfect to fuck her stupid like this.

"Should record it... make a little video for just the two of us. What do you think?"

Oh my god.

"Don't you want to see how perfect we fit together?" He taunts, thrusting his hips harsher than before, hitting a spot that had been untouched for quite a while now. Y/N's face scrunches up.

"F—fuck! Yes, yes..." She responds when Harry stills inside of her to await an answer. He chuckles at the apparent hurry in her voice and reaches for—what Y/N assumes to be—his phone, on the bed. His motions are slow and soft, determined to keep Y/N satisfied at least a bit while he logs into his phone and searches for the camera app. She notices the start of his recording by the sudden change of pace and force of his movements.

His camera is pointed right at her pussy as he begins thrusting deep inside of her, and Y/N screams out Harry's name. The concentration on his face as he captures how she takes him proves too much to bear, and she shuts her eyes tightly, head flopping to the side.

She can hear his ragged breathing over all the other sounds that their bodies are making. The small grunts he makes in an effort not to moan too loudly is all she can focus on, and the tension in her belly grows exponentially with each vibrations of his voice that reaches her ears.

Harry slows his pace, putting more emphasis on the impact of his moves. It allows him to bring his free hand down to touch Y/N's clit. Her legs begin to shake the second he does.

"Are you gonna come again for me? I'm so close, baby. I can tell you are too." The softness in the delivery of his words have Y/N's ovaries rattle. She can only nod, a whine that was an attempt at a 'yes' falling from her rosy lips. Harry grins, his eyes flicking from his phone to her face. Everything feels so hazy, much like a daydream.

"Please don't stop." She squeals in such a high pitch that surprises even herself. Y/N had no idea she could go that high. Harry's bringing out an entirely new side of her.

"I'll never stop, baby." Harry rasps, pressing down on her clit in such a way that Y/N becomes cross-eyed for a second. Her nails grip into the bedsheets, the second release rippling through her like a hurricane. She never quite understood the word bliss, until now. This must be it; this feeling of... pure ecstasy.

Like a blank canvas splattered on with all the bright colors that exist in the world; fresh and exciting and psychedelic in a way. Impossible to define yet such a specific feeling. Y/N let all of it tingle from her head down to her toes, wanting to remember it forever.

The continuous pounding Y/N through her orgasm comes to a grinding halt when Harry reaches his own, pulling out just in time for his sperm to coat her puffy clit and swollen tits. His camera is focused on her frame, recording every spurt that paints her. She's the canvas, he's the colors, Y/N realizes. Harry is her definition of bliss.

The words shared between the two are scarce as Harry unties Y/N's hands, picks her up and carries her to the bathroom to clean her up. But the smiles on their faces says enough, both knowing what they feel is rare, and beautiful. Y/N assesses Harry's face, concluding that the soft edges of it makes him look like a proper angel.

When he's dressed her in one of his shirts, he takes her back to the bedroom, where he pulls her against his frame. Y/N wraps one leg around his torso, hugging him from the side with her head buried into his neck. The way his chest rises and lowers fills her with pure ease, and she leaves a few soft kisses in his neck as a silent thank you. Harry only hums in satisfaction, his arm only tightening around you, as if he's afraid you might let go.

"I'm never gonna let you go now." You tell him before you can even fully comprehend your words. Your heart starts racing, afraid that might've been too soon to say.

"Promise?"

Your racing heart is now melting as you turn your head and see Harry holding up his pinky. You are quick to interlock it with your own.

"Promise." You say with a smile.

General taglist: @mema10

[bettys-redwinesupernova]

THE PRANK THAT BACKFIRED (sort of?)

drew starkey x fem!reader

SUMMARY: reader and drew decide to play a prank on the obx cast for her youtube channel. they do the “asking to have another girl over” prank, which results in a very angry obx cast who are out to get drew😅

based on this ask !! i hope this is what you asked for @xoxosblogsblog !! i had so much fun writing this and it was ADORABLE, i hope you like it :)) <3

WARNINGS: pure tooth-rotting fluff, slight angst (not really), like one (?) curse word, insinuation of cheating (the prank), chase & rudy threaten to “throw hands” with drew lmao. (lmk if i missed anything!)

WORD COUNT: 1.25k

THIRD PERSON +

Y/N adjusted the camera, angling it perfectly to catch the cozy backdrop of the apartment she shared with Drew during her surprise visit to the set of Outer Banks season four.

The faint hum of laughter and chatter outside hinted at the cast heading out to grab food, giving her the perfect opportunity to set her plan into motion.

"Hey, guys!" she began with a bright smile, wiggling her fingers to the camera. "Welcome back to my channel. Today, I've got something hilarious planned. You've seen those TikTok pranks where someone asks if they can bring another girl over while their partner's friends or family are listening, right? Well, I'm doing it today—with Drew."

She smirked, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "I've got the cast in on this. Well, not really in on it—they think I'm at a friend's place for the night, so this is going to be pure gold. Let's see how much they love me and how far they'll go to defend me from Drew's, um... betrayal."

She turned the camera to Drew, who sat beside her on the couch, half-smiling, half-shaking his head.

"I can't believe I'm agreeing to this," Drew muttered, running a hand through his hair. "They're going to kill me."

"Kill us, you mean," Y/N teased, poking his side. "But it'll be worth it. Trust me."

"Uh-huh," Drew replied, arching a skeptical eyebrow. "When JD and Rudy show up with pitchforks, you're taking the blame."

Y/N laughed, her grin widening as she leaned into him. "Oh, come on. You know they love me too much to actually hurt me. You, on the other hand..."

Drew sighed dramatically but couldn't hide the small smile tugging at his lips.

A few minutes later, Y/N tucked herself behind the camera, keeping it trained on Drew. Drew pulled out his phone and dialed JD's number, putting the call on speaker. The phone rang twice before JD answered, his voice lively with the sounds of clinking plates and background chatter.

"Yo, Starkey!" JD greeted. "What's up, man?"

Drew exchanged a quick glance with Y/N before diving in. "Hey, would you guys mind if I invited someone over?"

The line went silent for a beat, then JD's confused voice came through. "Uh... sure? Who?"

"Just a friend," Drew said casually.

"Cool, yeah," JD replied, his tone nonchalant. In the background, Madelyn could be heard asking, "Who's he inviting over?"

"Oh, she's just someone I met recently," Drew added, making his voice as nonchalant as possible.

Madelyn's voice sharpened. "Wait, she? Did he say she?"

JD stammered for a moment, then said, "Uh, Drew, man, what are you talking about? You have Y/N—why are you inviting another girl over?"

"It's not that deep," Drew said smoothly, earning a wide-eyed stare from Y/N as she struggled to keep from bursting into laughter.

"Not that deep?" Madelyn's voice rose an octave. "Are you fucking insane? Y/N is literally the best thing that's ever happened to you. You're just going to, what, throw her away for some random girl?"

"Yeah, Drew, what the hell?" Rudy's voice chimed in. "Y/N's gonna find out, dude. She always finds out."

"She's not even here," Drew argued. "And I just want some alone time with this girl. Is that so bad?"

Madelyn's voice was nearly a shriek now. "YES, IT'S BAD! You're in a relationship, Drew! A really amazing one, with an incredible person who, by the way, loves you more than anything!"

"And we love her!" Carlacia added. "You're crazy if you think we're not calling her right now."

"Right?!" Chase's voice joined the chorus, sounding equally appalled. "Drew, what is wrong with you?"

JD sighed loudly. "Man, I'm so disappointed right now. Y/N's, like, the nicest, funniest person ever. She's practically family. I don't even know what to say to you."

Y/N clamped a hand over her mouth, tears forming in her eyes from trying not to laugh. Drew, ever the actor, kept his tone neutral but shot her a playful glare.

"You guys are overreacting," Drew said, feigning exasperation. "I mean, Y/N doesn't have to know, right?"

The collective gasp from the group was loud enough to make Y/N choke on her laughter.

Madison started a rant so fierce it almost made Drew break. "First of all, how dare you? Second of all, Y/N deserves so much better than this! She's gorgeous, sweet, funny—literally the whole package! And you're just going to throw that away? For what?!"

"I can't believe you right now," Rudy chimed in. "If you're serious about this, I'm calling her. Like, right now."

"No, don't—" Drew began, but Y/N couldn't hold it in anymore.

Her laughter burst out like a dam breaking, echoing through the room. Drew immediately broke character, laughing along as he waved his hands at Y/N’s camera.

"Wait, wait!" Y/N called out, coming into view of her camera. "Guys, relax! It's a prank!"

There was a stunned silence on the other end of the line, followed by a cacophony of voices.

"Are you serious?!" Madelyn exclaimed. "You scared the crap out of us!"

"You both are the worst," JD groaned.

Rudy's laugh boomed through the speaker. "I was about to knock some sense into you, man."

Chase chimed in with mock indignation. "I was ready to drive back and throw hands, Drew!"

Y/N giggled, holding her stomach as she leaned against Drew. "I'm so sorry, but I couldn't resist! I saw it on TikTok and knew you guys would freak out. And you did not disappoint."

Madelyn groaned dramatically. "You two are so lucky we love you."

JD sighed. "I'm not speaking to you for a week."

"Okay, that's fair," Drew said with a grin.

Eventually, after more playful scolding and laughter, the group hung up, leaving Drew and Y/N alone again. Y/N turned off the camera, still giggling as she leaned back against the couch.

"That was amazing," she said, wiping tears from her eyes.

Drew shook his head, his expression somewhere between amusement and exasperation. "You're lucky they love you. If it were just me, they'd probably disown me."

Y/N smiled, sliding closer to him. "Well, can you blame them? I mean, look at me. I'm kind of a big deal."

He laughed, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "You really are. They adore you, you know that? It's one of the things I love most about us—how easily you fit into my world."

Her teasing smile softened as she gazed up at him. "It means a lot to me, too. They're like family. And so are you."

Drew leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. "You're everything to me, Y/N. I hope you know that."

Her heart melted as she cupped his cheek, her thumb brushing against his jawline. "I do. And you're everything to me, too."

They stayed like that for a moment, wrapped up in each other. The laughter, the teasing, the chaos—it all melted away, leaving just the two of them in their shared little world.

"You think they'll forgive us?" Drew asked after a moment.

Y/N smirked. "Oh, they'll forgive me. You, on the other hand..."

Drew groaned, burying his face in her shoulder as she laughed.

"Totally worth it," she whispered, pressing a kiss to his temple.

betty’s notes ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚

this was so so adorable and so much fun to write !! i hope you all enjoyed, and please please please like and reblog, it means the world when you do <3

my asks are still open so please don’t hesitate to send any in !! i’m in the mood to write some angst, hurt/comfort if you have any requests for drew or rage <3

[kaiser1ns]

#. URGENT NONSENSE HOTLINE

featuring 𝗯𝗹𝘂𝗲 𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗸 𝘅 𝗳𝗲𝗺!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 ıllı. itoshi sae, michael kaiser, oliver aiku, itoshi rin, shidou ryusei

fluff + slight suggestive. calling your cop boyfriend while he's in the middle of work, and he thinks it's super important, only for you to ask him the most ridiculous and random questions.

characters aged up to 21 and above. rin and shidou are fathers.

ITOSHI SAE

The police radio crackled in the background as Sae was sitting in his squad car, a rare moment of calm during his patrol. His phone buzzed, and the screen lit up with your name. It was unusual for you to call during his shift, so naturally, his heart skipped a beat hoping nothing happened to you.

He immediately answered, his tone calm. Your boyfriend was concerned more than anything, and if something was wrong, God forbid what was going to happen to the person who dared to hurt you. “What is it? Are you okay?”  

You, completely oblivious to his worries, immediately started talking cheerfully and giggling “Sae! Do you think dinosaurs should still exist? Wouldn’t it be awesome if they came back? Imagine us walking a T-Rex like a dog!”  

Sae blinked, deadpan. There was a long, heavy silence on the other end. You could almost hear the gears grinding in his head as he tried to process what you just said.  

“...Are you serious?” he finally asked, his voice dangerously calm. Oh, no. You're obsessed with dinosaurs again, and that wasn't good…at all.

“Of course I’m serious! Think about how cool it would be—like, riding a Triceratops to work or flying with a Pterodactyl!” you babbled on, completely oblivious to his growing annoyance.  

You couldn't see but your boyfriend rolled his eyes as he rubbed his temple, leaning back in his seat. His sharp tongue couldn’t be contained any longer.  

“You know they made Jurassic Park for that reason, right? And spoiler alert: it didn’t end well.”  

“But that’s just a movie!” you argued. “We could make it work this time! Think of all the science we have now!”  

“You called me—while I’m working—to ask about dinosaurs,” Sae interrupted, his tone flat. “Dinosaurs. You’re aware I have actual, real-life problems to deal with… Like thefts and, you know, crime?”  

“...So is that a no on the dinosaur pets?” you teased, voice now full of sadness and disappointment.

He sighed, muttering under his breath in frustration but unable to help the small, begrudging smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re lucky I love you. Now hang up before I block your number.”  

As the call ended, he shook his head, muttering to himself, “Dinosaurs. Unbelievable.” Still, the thought of you having fun with what you will call your "pet" lingered in his mind for the rest of his shift—and he hated how it made him go to the nearest store to buy you a dinosaur plushie.

MICHAEL KAISER

Kaiser was in the middle of gearing up for an undercover mission, his shirt tossed over the back of a chair as he adjusted the strap of his tactical vest. When his phone buzzed with your name on the screen, he hesitated for just a moment before answering. Worry flickered in his eyes—it wasn’t often you called during his work hours unless it was important.

"Mein Schatz, what’s wrong?" he asked immediately, his voice laced with concern. 

You, however, had other plans. “My love, if I hypothetically steal something, would you be the one to handcuff me?”

There was a silence as an answer when he blinked, momentarily thrown off by the absurdity of the question. A smirk began to spread across his face as he leaned back in his chair, half-naked and amused. “Engel, you’ve already stolen something very valuable.”

Your eyes widened on the other end of the line. You stopped twirling your hair, your voice suddenly tinged with worry as though you'd accidentally committed grand theft without realizing it. “I… I did? What did I steal?” 

Kaiser chuckled, the kind of low, teasing laugh that made your cheeks heat up even through the phone. “Yeah, you already stole my heart.”

Your indignant sputtering was music to his ears. He leaned forward, propping his elbow on the table and grinning like the cocky devil he was. “And didn’t we test those handcuffs enough already?" he added, his smirk growing. "Remember last night? You were so curious if they were strong enough to hold you—"

“Goodbye, baby! Good luck with your work!” you interrupted, your voice high-pitched and flustered. 

Kaiser laughed out loud as you hung up, shaking his head in pure delight. Tucking his phone into his pocket, he muttered to himself, “You’re too cute, mein Liebling. Too cute.” With that, he pulled on his shirt, ready to finish work and show you what happens to those who steal and don't admit it.

OLIVER AIKU

Oliver Aiku, a tall, well-built figure with a teasing smirk and hundreds of charms, was leaning against the desk in the bustling precinct. Talking with his partner Sendou, they were deep in conversation about the latest case—nothing too serious, just the usual for the two of them.

The Captain’s voice echoed across the room, pulling him from the moment. "Aiku! You've got a call!"

Oliver rolled his eyes, not exactly thrilled to be disturbed right now in the middle of his break, but he stood up anyway, still chuckling at whatever Sendou had just said about the girl he was trying to woo over. He knew exactly who was calling. A sly smile crept across his face as he picked up the phone.

"Hey, babe. Everything okay?" he said in his usual teasing tone, his eyes never leaving Sendou’s curious gaze.

"Oliver! There's a giant spider on the wall!" Your voice came through the phone and you were more than afraid and before he could even process the words, there was a loud screech from your side of the line. "AH!"

He couldn’t help but smirk. "Girl problems, you know..." he muttered under his breath, shrugging it off, but Sendou was already looking at him with a raised eyebrow. "What? What’s going on?" his partner asked, clearly intrigued by the other’s business like always.

The tall man leaned back against the desk, casually placing the phone on his shoulder. "It’s my girlfriend, you know? She’s having a bit of a crisis over a spider or something. It's all good, no need to panic."

He could hear you, being out of breath, obviously running away from the spider. "Oliver! It’s huge! What do I do?!" He couldn't help but laugh. It wasn’t that he didn’t care—he did, but come on, it was just a spider, you have seen bigger things.

"Doll," he said in a smooth, teasing voice, his grin widening. "Calm down. It's just a tiny lil' spider. I’m sure it’s probably scared of you."

He heard you scream again in the background, and he could already picture you manically pacing around, maybe already booking a plane ticket. “Just grab a slipper or something, take it down like the badass I know you are."

"I’M NOT GOING NEAR IT!" you shouted back, your voice full of distress. Oliver snickered, turning to Sendou, who was still waiting for an answer. "Listen to that. She’s on a whole new level of dramatic. Gotta love her."

He leaned into the phone, his tone turning low and flirtatious. "But, don’t worry, baby, when I get home, I’ll take care of that spider... and you, too."

ITOSHI RIN

It was supposed to be a quiet, ordinary day for one of the top detectives in the department. His desk was a mess of paperwork, and he was deep in the grind—cross-referencing statements, signing reports, and filling out forms. He hated the tedious parts of the job, but he was used to it. Nothing could disturb his focus; nothing but—

Vibration.

He glanced at his phone. Your name flashed on the screen. His first instinct was to ignore it, but a nagging thought held him back. You never called during work unless something was wrong. Still, with a sigh, he answered.

“Is it normal for Mommy to have blood on her stomach? Is my little brother a monster?”

Rin froze. His first reaction was to feel a pang of panic. Blood? His mind raced as he pictured the worst possible scenarios. He knew that voice—your child was watching too many horror movies again, getting himself all worked up.

“Calm down, okay? Where’s your mother?” Rin asked, trying not to sound too angry or demanding with asking questions, he knew how the suspects got away.

“She was in the kitchen and now she has red all over her stomach…” the child explained, sounding more frantic with each passing second.

Rin’s heart skipped a beat as he stood up from his desk, knocking papers to the floor. This can’t be happening, you were in danger and your child sounded more than scared. He needed to be back home immediately. “Stay where you are, do not move,” he ordered, his voice low and commanding. Turned to his boss, not waiting for a response. “I need to leave. Now.”

Without waiting for permission, he bolted out the door.

His pulse was racing as he sped home, each second dragging on longer than the last. His thoughts were consumed with worry for you and the baby, a fear deeper than any threat he faced in his career. When he burst through the door and rushed to the kitchen, his breath hitched. He saw you—sleeping on the counter, exhausted, a slight stain of red near your stomach. His eyes widened. Was she hurt?

But there was no blood. No danger. Just the remnants of a cake you had been baking, and the food coloring had created the illusion of blood. You’d passed out from exhaustion, nothing more. Your husband sighed in relief, but he heard a small voice behind him.

“Is Mommy alive?”

Rin turned to find your child, wide-eyed and still nervous. The detective gently shook you awake, his hand soft and careful to avoid disturbing the baby to pop out any minute. You blinked groggily, confusion was written all over your face, but then— “The cake!” you exclaimed, ignoring the love of your life entirely. Of course, your priorities had always been… unique.

"Yeah, the cake," he muttered under his breath, trying to keep a straight face as he helped you sit up, ready to take the blame for your child's next internet ban with the horror media.

SHIDOU RYUSEI

Blasting music in the police car, sirens wailing, Shidou Ryusei chased down some random robbers, caught them, and hauled them to the station. He was a man of contradictions—a protector of the law who lived for thrills. Sure, he’d had a rough past and even served time as a teen, but hey, life’s full of surprises. One thing was certain, though: not everyone could claim you as their wife, his beautiful partner who was currently calling him for the sixth time.

“Pick up the damn phon—” Your annoyed voice hit his ears as he answered. Meanwhile, he was busy munching on candy he’d swiped from the twins earlier. “What’s up, babe?”

“Shidou Ryusei, are you out of your mind?” Uh-oh, here it came. Normally, your calls were filled with anecdotes about your day, theories about the universe, or updates about the twins’ shenanigans. This, however, sounded serious.

“Hello, my beautiful, amazing, angelic wife~” he drawled, mouth still full. He could practically see your angry, adorable expression through the phone.

“I’ll show you what IS amazing... Are you crazy?!”

“Always. Why even ask?” he teased.

“Why did you took the kids from kindergarten, witht he police car while blasting Gangnam style?” Oh, that. Well, you asked him to pick them up since you were running late, “What’s the problem? Elaborate, doll,”

“The problem?” you huffed through the line, voice rising as he heard someone laughing in the background, probably your kids enjoying your reactions as much as your husband did—some genes are pretty strong. “You traumatized every kid at the kindergarten! The teacher called me, Ryusei! The teacher! She said she’s never seen a police escort used so... recklessly!”

He was still chewing the candy he so kindly borrowed, only half-listening. “Reckless? Nah, that’s called style, babe. They’ll remember it forever. They should thank me for making their day cool.”

“Style?!” you screeched, and he almost felt bad. “Blasting Gangnam Style, sirens wailing, and you had the audacity to throw candy out the window like some... cop Santa?!”

Now he did laugh, the sound loud enough to echo around the block. Some of the people nearby on the street gave him curious looks, but he waved them off. “What? It’s called multitasking. Besides, the twins loved it. They told me I’m their hero. How can I say no to my kids, huh? Their words, not mine, by the way.”

You groaned and for a second, he thought you might hang up. “You’re insufferable. Absolutely insufferable. And stop eating the kids’ candy!”

Caught mid-chew, Shidou smirked. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I swear, Ryusei, if you don—”

“Love you, babe!” he interrupted, his tone cheerful. “And the kids love me too. Don’t forget that part. Now, I gotta go, official police business calls. You know, saving the world, keeping our streets cool.”

“Ryusei—!”

Click.

He hung up, a chuckle escaping as he leaned forward, unwrapping another candy. Moments like these reminded him how much he adored you, his firecracker of a wife, and the twins' choice for sweet treats.

©2024 kaiser1ns do not copy, repost or modify my work

[pnutbutter-n-j-elyy]

When they call you clingy, so you distance yourself | Hyung Line Pt. 2

Warnings: Cursing

Pt1, Pt3 Maknaeline

(xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx)

BANGCHAN|

Chris groaned and put his head into his hands. He stared at the the screen in front of him.

8:28

He had decided to make today an early morning so he could call it an early night, but he wasn't even able to work on what he had actually intended to do because a trainee's mistake. Although he was heated in the moment he had apologized when he had run into the frightened guy in the canteen. It was an honest mistake when laptops looked exactly the same.

He had also realized that he was heated in the moment when you had come to visit him.

His fingers itched to text you an apology but he knew this was something that he needed to apologize for in person. So he shut his laptop and tucked it into his bag and decided to head home rather than starting a new project.

It was eating at his consciousness, the way he brushed you off so easily earlier just because of stress that had nothing to do with you. He reached over the couch in his studio to flick off the light.

A soft ruffling of fabric startled him slightly and he looked down to see your black coat draped over the couch of the same color.

"Its freezing." He mumbled grabbing it and quickly heading out of the building.

I was such a dick. She was so distraught she walked home in this weather without a coat.

Chris drove over to your apartment and parked haphazardly on the street. It wasn't the safest neighborhood, and a small part of him was worried about having something happen to his car, but he couldn't focus on that when he needed to focus on fixing things with you.

He pulled out his keys and found the small silver spare to your apartment.

"Baby?" Chris called out. He slipped off his shoes and he walked from the foyer into your kitchen, his black socks slipping a little on your freshly swept floors.

"Y/N?" Chris called out, flipping the light on in the kitchen. The box of trash bags was sitting on the counter and he placed them back under the sink. "Baby?"

Something was off. Chris felt it in his bones. He tried to steady his heart. Maybe you were asleep? If it wasn't to him, you tended to turn to your bed for comfort when you were sad.

He reached for your door handle out of habit of strolling into the guys room but paused to knock.

"Love?" He called out. He knocked for another minute or two, before turning the handle softly in case you were sleeping. "Baby, I don't know if your asleep but I'm coming in okay?"

Your room was empty, and the fairy lights you always kept on were off.

He flipped on the light and he felt his heart sink to his feet.

He immediately rushed out of your room and started looking through the cabinets and drawers and nooks and crannys of every other space.

Your apartment was bare minus the essentials.

In your guest room you had boxes neatly stacked in various places.

Chris felt tears crawl at his throat.

"Baby?" He tried calling out again. "Y/N this isn't funny! Say something!" He cried out.

He fumbled to grab his phone from his pocket.

His fingers shook as he called you.

The number you have dialed cannot be reached.

"No," He mumbled.

The number you have dialed cannot be reached.

The number you have dialed cannot be reached.

"No," Chris mumbled. "No," He said again.

He felt his heart jump through his throat and he couldn't breathe.

His hands were shaking as he dialed up another number.

"Oi, Chris you coming home soon-"

"Fe-Felix." He choked out. He couldn't even continue without hyperventilating. "Fe-Felix I-I can't breathe. I-I can't-"

"I'm coming to you alright? I have your location I'll be there okay? Okay just try and calm down okay? I'll be there soon." Chris could hear the jingling of keys and the slamming of the door and Minho's voice in the background as Felix panted running to the car. "Stay on the phone Channie-hyung okay, I'll be right there."

"I-I can't breathe." He cried out.

"It'll be okay, I'll be right there hyung." Felix slammed his fist down on his car horn and yelled a string of profanities as another car blared their horn in the distance as well.

By the time Felix had arrived at your house Chris was an absolute mess.

Felix was instantly able to tell what was wrong with Chan when he saw the boxes and Chan desperately trying to unpack them.

"Hey-hey Chris calm down." Felix said as he grabbed onto his hyung's shoulders.

"S-She's leaving me." He cried out. "Felix, she's leaving me. She can't leave me. My heart -my heart can't take it. I don't want-want her to leave m-me."

Felix didn't know what to do as he watched his best friend completely shatter in front of him.

"Hyung I'm sure she is-"

"I-I called her clingy. I told her to leave me alone. I don't want to be alone." He whimpered. "I didn't mean it Felix. I didn't m-mean it." He whimpered his voice cracking. "I-I was stressed and-and I yelled- I called her ob-obsess- Felix, she can't leave me. I don't want to be alone."

Felix pulled out his phone and dialed your number. "Hyung calm down I'm sure she's just angry at the moment, it'll blow over. It'll blow over." He repeated as if convincing himself as well. He chewed on the edge of his thumbnail as your phone rang. Chris was collapsed on his and Felix pet his hair.

The number you have dialed cannot be reached.

Felix looked at the broken man in front of him and swallowed.

"It'll be fine. Y/N wouldn't break up with you over something like that, right?"

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

MINHO|

"Do you really think it was necessary to yell at her?" Changbin asked as the guys were walking through the market. You had opted not to join and rather hang out with some of the girls from TWICE who were also in Paris for the same event the Kids had came for. The only problem was you had opted to do that for the entire week. You all were flying home tomorrow and Minho hadn't seen more than a glimpse of you other than a few pictures the girls had posted on their fake accounts, and the few pictures you had posted on your private account.

"Why would it not be necessary?" Minho asked.

"Because you're pissed at something that wasn't even her fault." The shorter male said and he picked up a random little trinket to look at, it was a little heavy so he used it as a makeshift dumbell for a second.

"Ya, she quite literally ruined my entire plan."

Changbin looked at Minho like he had grown a second head. "How the hell was she supposed to know you were trying to propose to her?!"

Minho pursed his lips and turned away and started walking.

Changbin moved his tiny legs to catch up with the cat eyed member.

Felix crossed paths with them and joined the conversation.

"Minho-Hyung you've been miserable all week. Just swallow your pride and apologize."

"I have nothing to apologize fo-"

"Ya! No offense Hyung but you're being a fucking idiot!" Felix said. The two Hyungs of Felix recoiled and looked at the sunshiny Aussie. "Sorry for my tone Hyung but it's true. All she wanted to do was spend time with you because she loves you. And to her it seems like you got upset because you didn't to spend time with you. And you got upset with her because you planned a super elaborate and flamboyant proposal because you love her and you weren't able to execute it. So basically, you are both pissed at each other because you love each other more than anything in this world. So tell me how that makes sense at all?"

Changbin nodded. "He's not wrong at all you're kind of an idiot."

Minho sighed and pouted.

"Which means you need to be the one to apologize because Y/N-ie actually has reason to be mad."

Minho's pout became even more noticeable.

Ugh...apologizing.

Felix seemed to read his elder's mind.

"Its either apologize or ruin your relationship. While it is super easy to replan a propsal, it sure as hell won't be able to replan your future if she walks out on you."

Minho felt that hit his heart hard, but still wanted to be stubborn. "What do you mean easy to replan a proposal? I spent months planning the one I intended to do."

Changbin rolled his eyes. "Ya! Y/N might be your girlfriend but you seem to forget she was all of our friend first. And I sure as hell know she would not care how you proposed to her. Even if you just did it the traditional and plain way of getting down on one knee and saying 'Y/N...will you marry me?" Changbin said mimicking Minho's voice.

Felix shook his head. "No it'd be more like 'Y/N marry me. You have no choice."

"No- 'Y/N, my cats need a mom. You are now their mom.'"

"'Y/N, our wedding is next Friday. Don't be late. Wear white." The happy boy mimicked with a deadpan face.

Changbin and Felix's antics were the thing that made Minho laugh all week. And the levity he felt now was what he felt with you always. And that made the absence of you hit him even harder.

"Can we go back to the hotel? I want- no I need to apologize." He said suddenly.

Changbin sputtered. "Never thought I'd hear that come out of your mouth ever."

Minho playfully shoved Changbin into Felix as they headed back in the direction of the hotel.

"So how do you think you'll propos-"

"Minho-ssi!" The guys stopped and they noticed Chaeyoung running towards them.

Minho felt his heart dip for a second. "What is it?"

"I-I went to get Y/N-ie for a girls night out but she wasn't in her room so I figured maybe she just stepped out to the convenience store with Tzuyu or Momo but she wasn't with them when they came back and Tzuyu said the last time she saw her was this morning after we had brunch." Chaeyoung tried to steady her voice. "And I called her but my calls aren't going throu-"

Minho didn't give Chaeyoung time to finish before he started running.

He didn't know where he was going, he didn't even really know where to find you.

All he knew is that he had to.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

CHANGBIN|

"Y/N." Changbin said. "Jagiya!" You ignored Changbin as you walked into your apartment.

He followed ensuite and was pouting. "Jagiya please talk to me. It's been three weeks."

"Mmmm. Nah. I don't feel like being clingy today." You said as you set your purse down and headed towards your bedroom.

"C'mon please? It was a stupid argument. I'm sorry. I was just upset."

"Hmm. And I'm upset right now too." You said as you started digging through your closest. You pulled out a cute yet sleek dress.

The same dress you had worn on your first date with Changbin oh so long ago.

"Babe?" Changbin asked as he saw you rummage through things on your vanity.

"Red or Pink?" You asked allowed. "Or I guess the question is should I do a matte red or a glossy red?" You turned to Changbin and gave an innocent look at him. "I don't know which one makes me look better."

"Stop that! Thats not funny. At all." Changbin said as he followed you into the bathroom. He stayed planted in the same spot even as you changed, shutting his eyes respectfully until you finished changing.

"Where are you going? Why are you getting dressed up."

You pulled your hair out of the braided updo you had it in and let it fall over your shoulders in a beautiful mix of loose curls and evem looser waves.

Changbin couldn't help but admire just how beautiful you looked right now. Matter of fact you always looked beautiful, but Changbin couldn't help but stare. Since this was the longest he had seen you in the past three weeks.

And seeing you get ready and dolled up worried him. It sparked a jealousy in him that he found himself all too familiar with these past few weeks. It was partly the reason he had snapped at you in the first place.

He had thought it was just a stupid argument but right now it seemed like it was so much more than that.

And it was slowly killing him. Had he really hurt you that bad?

"Jagiya where are you going?"

You ignored Changbin as you touched up your makeup slightly, wiping off the clear gloss you had and favoring a glossy red lip instead. You grabbed your favorite perfume - and Changbin's favorite on you - and sprayed it delicately over yourself.

You looked at your watch and looked up at Changbin. "I have to go I'm meeting someone at five."

You grabbed your purse and Changbin grabbed your wrist.

"W-What do you mean you're meeting someone?" You snatched your wrist away from him gently and made your way towards your car.

"W-Wait Y/N it's not a date is it? You're not going on a date? Wait please tell me you aren't."

"Changbin I have to go. It would be a bad first impression if I was late."

"Can you please at least tell me where you are going?"

You huffed. "I'm going to that one coffee shop next to the karaoke bar? The one we always used to go to when you had first asked me out." You said as you were strapping on a pair of heels.

Changbin felt like his world was collapsing.

"No. We aren't breaking up you're not allowed to do that."

You looked at Changbin with a confused - what the fuck are you on - type look.

"Changbin you realize people have the free will to do whatever they want right? Thats like me telling you you're not allowed to go to the gym anymore."

"You're not breaking up with me Y/N." He said his voice starting to waver. "You can't."

"Yup, Bin." You said as you opened the door and walked to your car. "Lock the door behind you, would ya?" You called out over your shoulder.

The muscular man quickly locked your door and came to the drivers side.

"Y/N," He said tapping on your window.

"Changbin can you make this quick? Like I said being late is a bad first impression."

"Who cares about first impressions! Y/N you can't date someone else!" He cries. "It was an argument! Are you really breaking up with me over this-"

"Damn Changbin I'm no-" Your phones started to ring and you answered it.

Changbin pouted at you as you spoke. Trying his best to listen to the conversation.

"Hello..." Why'd she say hello like that? So nicely... "Yes, I'm on my way right now just leaving my house..." She's already on the stage of letting him know her whereabouts? "Haha no no of course not...yeah....haha!" What could he possibly be saying to make her laugh that much? Only I can make her laugh like that...well I guess Jisung too but mainly me! "Uh I'll just get an iced vanilla latte with all my modifications- just ask Jiwon she'll know...." They have mutuals? "Yeah I'll be there soon....Yep! Can't wait to meet you either...mkay bye!"

Changbin felt his heart constrict as he watched you hang up and start your car.

You gave Changbin a small wave and pulled off, your tires screeching a little as you drove.

He quickly went to follow you. You wouldn't leave him. He wouldn't let you. Because you meant the world to him.

And without his world he would be nothing.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

HYUNJIN|

It had been a few days since Hyunjin had felt like he had spent time with you.

Because while you had been in his presence physically he felt like you had something on your mind.

You weren't all up on him like you usually were. And he missed that. He also missed you asking him if he liked your outfits. He missed the little twirl you would do asking if you looked okay; he missed being able to look at you lovingly while you did so; he missed being able to wait a little bit before he could comment how striking you looked; that little pause in time just to assure that he would be the one who could see you in that specific outfit longer than anyone else you would run into or hang out with, even if it was mere seconds more.

The way every part of you took up every aspect of his life was something he was so used to that he longed for it when he couldn't have it.

And for the past eleven days he longed for it.

So bad.

He missed you.

"Do you think I did something wrong?" Hyunjin asked Jisung as they sat down enjoying a cup of coffee together.

"I'm assuming so because she's treating me just fine. We actually just went to the movies the other day. Some random guy tried to hit on her and she made a comment about his hairline and how it showed his age and that shut him down real quick. It was actually fucking hilarious the way-"

"Did she say anything about me upsetting her?" Hyunjin asked, interuppting Jisung's tangent about his trip with the most loved girl of the band.

"Mm...now that I think about it, she made a comment about some other idol. I forget who she was talking about but I remembered her saying you were talking to them because she was just standing there waiting for you to finish and thats why she decided to drink that one drink. Because she didn't want to...how did she put it...look pathetic? Yeah, I think thats what she said. And she said it was no use because she looked pathetic throwing up all over Bangchan." He took a sip of his coffee. "I actually thought it was funny because Chan was saying he was trying to find an excuse to not have to wear that one suit jacket anymore because it was-"

"Jisung you're getting off topic." Hyunjin sighed. "Did she seem upset when she said that?"

Jisung shook his head. "I wouldn't say she seemed upset when she was talking about finding a use for her hands. I think she looked...off afterwards though. Especially whenever your name came up in ocnversation." He looked at Hyunjin pointedly. "But that wasn't that often. She may be your girlfriend but she is my soulmate so we have our own issues to discuss." He said taking another sip of his coffee. "Like all the drama in Hybe right now. Did you see- wait I'm getting off topic."

Hyunjin frowned. "So it was something I did..." He mumbled.

Jisung sniffed once. "Yeah probably." He said scratching his ear. "I can ask her if you'd like me to."

"No I thinks it okay, I'll find time to talk to her."

"Well they say there is no better time than the present because look who just walked in." The chubby cheeked boy nodded his head somewhere behind Hyunjin.

He turned around and saw you walking in with Felix. You walked up to the counter but didn't notice Hyunjin or Jisung sitting there.

Felix greeted the barista and ordered himself a drink while you looked at the menu.

Hyunjin felt the tiniest - the most miniscule pang of jealousy but it was quickly washed away because he knew that you only had eyes for him. You guys hadn't celebrated your first anniversary yet - it was in four days -but he knew just how much you loved him and he loved you.

And just that - he knew how in love you were with each other.

And thats why it hurt him so much to think he had hurt you.

Felix finished ordering and turned to you. Hyunjin had expected you to tell him your order and for Felix to relay it back to the barista but instead you spoke in Korean - hesitantly - but still with an immense amount of effort and obvious intermediate skill.

Felix corrected you on a couple of words, but after a few motivational words from the barista - words you obviously understood - you shined a bright smile and laughed.

"Y/N doesn't speak Korean." Hyunjin turned to Jisung, and the small quokka like boy pouted slightly. "Jisung."

"I walked in on Y/N-ie and Felix-" He blurted out. "God, I've been keeping that secret so long." He let out a breath and looked at Hyunjin's shocked face.

"Walked...in...?"

Jisung put a hand to his forehead. "Sorry I didn't finish my thought. I meant that I like...walked in on them while he was giving her secret korean lessons." He said wiggling his eyebrows.

"Jisung you're not helping my paranoia."

"I was wiggling my eyebrows because of the reason. She said she wanted to learn Korean so when it came time to meet your family she would be able to communicate well with them. It seems like she's actually pretty damn good at it too. Shes a fast learner according to Felix."

Hyunjin groaned. "She's so fucking cute but of all people in our groups she decided to get lessons from Lix? Did she never watch the survival show." He chuckled.

"Yeah...I guess that means I can tell you the actual reason she's upset with you now right?" Jisung said.

Hyunjin's head shot up and he looked at the younger boy expectantly.

"She overheard you calling her clingy. With the idol and his girlfriend..." He looked down and his voice dropped a little. "Its been eating at her a lot. Especially the girl's comment about foreigners and stuff. She was a total bitch for saying that because now it's been making her rethink everything. Because she seems to be convinced that it would be best for your reputation and your future if she ended things with you."

Hyunjin felt his throat constrict slightly. "S-she didn't mean that. She doesn't mean that. She can't."

Jisung hmmed in acknowledgment. "Hyung...she has it rough you know? The pedestal people in our industry put you on - and even in other industries and other countries -is the pedestal you're put on by the same people she consistently is surrounded by when accompanying you. The same people who write all those hateful comments about her on your posts and send even more hateful comments to her private account."

Hyunjin's eyes widened, and his fingers twitched slightly. "What comments? She hasn't told me about any...hate...comments..."

Jisung sighed. "She doesn't want to worry you. And I think she believes those comments too...she can't think of anything else to believe."

Hyunjin felt a knot place itself in his throat to stay as he walked you watch out the coffee shop with Felix trailing you. The thought of your insecurities bothered him immensely. The thought of you thinking you weren't worthy of him when it was the complete opposite; when it was him who wasn't worthy of you. He wished you could see yourself the way he saw you.

And he wished you believed him when he said all the things said.

Believe me when I call you beautiful. When I say I love you...

And if you don't want to in me...

Believe in us.

[igorluvr]

‘LOVE AND LATTES

PAIRING: kang dae-ho x fem!reader

SYNOPSIS: during the games, dae-ho promised to take you on a proper first date. now that you had both successfully made it out, he was going to keep his promise

CONTENT: fluff, literally the tiniest bit of angst, kinda corny, trauma, kissing on the first date smh, reader is implied to be black

AUTHORS NOTE: tryna get a lot of fics out for u guys bcs almost 400 likes on my first ??? omg yall r so sweet i swearrr, tysmm !!! ngl this might be kinda bad bcs im too tired to read over it …

word count: [2.5k]

IT’S been around 3 days since you got out of those hellish games, and you still can’t seem to process it. There was so much death, you felt guilty for taking the money, but it was your only chance at having a way out.

After surviving and splitting the money with a good handful of people, you found yourself dropped off in a dark alleyway. With only a large duffel bag at your side, you felt lost, unsure of where to go.

Eventually, you made your way to a bus station and caught a ride back to your apartment. It took a while to adjust to being in the real world again, a world where a gun wasn’t being held up to your head every hour of the day.

You remembered how you met the sweetest boy there. Kang Dae-ho. He was everything you could’ve asked for. The perfect man, met at a perfectly terrible time. Your mind flashed back to the end of mingle game.

‘I swear, when we get out of here I’m gonna take you on a real date. No guards, no games, just us two and the future ahead of us, okay?’ Dae-ho promised, cupping your face gently in his hands.

‘I love you with all of my heart, and I wanna see you when this is all over. We can move in with eachother and spend everyday in eachothers arms.’ He rambled with tears in his eyes, ‘I can’t lose you.’

Now in the present day, you wished you’d spend more time with him. You thought back to the last day in the games, when you wrote your number on his hand, hoping it wouldn’t be wiped off by the guards before he got home so you could live out the future you planned.

As the days passed, you lost hope in being able to reunite with your lover. Memories of him flashed through your mind. “Fuck, Dae-ho.” you whispered, “If only I had one more day with you..” and as if on cue, you heard your phone ring.

You stared for a couple seconds, confused as to who it could be. ‘It wouldn’t be Dae-ho, would it?’ With an ounce of hope left in your mind, you hurried and clicked the green answer button.

Silence lingered, then you heard a voice that made your heart explode.

“Hello?” Dae-ho’s wavering voice sounded “Is this you?”

You jumped up in joy, feeling a huge smile stretch across your face.

“Oh my God, Dae-ho!! It’s actually you!!” You exclaimed. “I missed you so much I thought we’d never talk again.”

A relieved sigh came from the other line, followed by a slight laugh. “I missed you more. How have you been? Where are you? Do you want me to come over?” he bombarded

“Okay woah, I can tell you missed me. I’m doing good, well better than I was a couple days ago, I’m at my house, and yes, I would love for you to come” You answered

The line went quiet for a moment, making you wonder if you’d lost the connection. Just as concern started to creep in, Dae-ho spoke again “Do you remember that promise I made before we got out?”

Of course you remember, his words have been playing on repeat in your mind like a record. Your heart skipped a beat as you thought of it actually coming true. You muttered a quick ‘mhm’ for him to continue.

“Tomorrow, meet me at the cafe down the street from that big market. I don’t know where you stay, so if it’s too far tell me and I’ll call you an uber.” he planned, “Dress up, even though I know you’ll look amazing in anything” You felt the butterflies in your stomach form as he carried on about what’ll happen the next day.

As the conversation came to a close and you got ready for bed, you found yourself thinking of any possible scenario that could happen tomorrow, good and bad.

‘What if my hair doesn’t cooperate?’

‘What if he doesn’t like how I look anymore?’

‘What if he’s setting me up?’

All these unlikely events start to run through your mind and it caused you to be overwhelmed with everything happening. When drifting off to sleep, you hope that everything turns out right.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅

You woke up to a constant ‘ding’ blaring through your room every 10 seconds. Immediately, you pressed the power button on your phone thinking maybe you’d accidentally set an alarm. When it didn’t subside after this, you groggily opened your phone to locate the noise.

There were about 15 notifications from Dae-ho, them all texting you as if you’d died in your sleep or something.

A pool of ‘are you awake?’ and ‘are you okay?’ flooded on your lock screen. Not wanting him to worry any further, you decided to text him back

‘goodmorninggg, i’m up now sorry 😭 im okay, how are you?’ You typed, half asleep.

Immediately, your message was read and the bubbles on the left side of the screen appeared.

‘I’m okay. Why do you sleep so late? You scared me.’ the message read. You hadn’t even realized the time. ‘2:26pm’ the clock read. You always had a bad habit of sleeping in but it had gotten unusually bad after getting back from the games.

You quickly apologized in your message, explaining your situation to which he swiftly understood. As the conversation progressed, you discussed your date. You were the type of person that needed to know every detail before doing something, especially something like this.

The both of you decided to meet there at 7pm, to give you time to get ready, and to dress up—but not too much. To be honest, you weren’t sure if you guys had the same definition of too much but you decided to put it aside for now.

Immediately after you guys finished discussing the details, you rushed to get ready. Even though you had 4 hours, it didn’t seem like nearly enough time to see him.

The closet was your first thought, since you basically lived by the rule of getting dressed first, doing hair, then putting on makeup. You scanned your closet for anything that would impress Dae-ho.

It took about 30 minutes alone to pick out an outfit. You decided on a long black dress you bought for your halloween costume that you never got the chance to wear, due to the pickup for the games occurring the same day. You picked out jewelry and a coat to go with it, since it was the beginning of winter.

After getting dressed, you gathered all your makeup supplies and rushed to the bathroom. Doing your makeup took longer than you wanted it to, but you wanted everything to be perfect since this was the first time you’d see him outside of life-or-death situations.

Every wing of eyeliner had to be just right, your lip gloss needed just the right amount of shine, everything had to reflect how much you cared.

The hair was the part you’d been dreading. You didn’t know if it was the detangling, or getting your part straight, but it gave you a headache just thinking about it.

After stalling for about 20 minutes, you finally built up the strength to start on your hair. Pinterest was your best friend for situations like this. You quickly opened the board labeled “hairstyles” and scrolled through them to find the perfect one.

You’d found this beautiful blown-out hairstyle that would look amazing with your outfit and makeup. Since you knew it would take a long time, you silently braced yourself, this wouldn’t be an easy task. You grabbed the blow dryer, flat iron, heat protectant, and got to work.

In about 2 hours, you had finally finished at 6:50pm. The cafe was about 7 minutes away from you, so you grabbed your stuff and walked out of the door.

The drive there was the worst part. Your stomach was doing somersaults. Even though you’d seen eachother at your literal worsts, it still felt so scary. With all these anxieties flashing through your mind, you managed to push them to the back and keep a confident facade.

As you pulled up, you sent a quick text stating your arrival. You fidgeted with the ends of your dress absentmindedly, spacing out and hoping for the best.

The ding of your phone sent shivers down your spine as a text popped up reading ‘Perfect. Come inside and turn to the left, I’m here.’

You felt like throwing up as you walked up to the entrance of the café. The strong smell of caffeine and pastries hit your nose as you searched for Dae-ho in the warm lights.

Turning left as he instructed, you were met with his beaming face, looking like he’d seen the most beautiful sunrise. His eyes widened in awe, and for a moment, he seemed frozen. The corners of his mouth curled up into an infectious smile, and you felt a rush of warmth, knowing that in this moment, you had completely captivated him.

Almost immediately, he jumped up and gave you an engulfing hug. You didn’t know if it was because you were used to the smell of blood being around him, but he smelled astonishingly good. It was like the best mixture of his natural scent and a very expensive cologne.

As he pulled back slightly, you noticed a beautiful bouquet of flowers in his hands—delicate white lilies mixed with soft pink roses. “These are for you,” he said, a hint of nervousness in his voice. “I thought it was only right for our first date.”

His hair was down to his neck, loose and messy, quite different from the bun you were used to seeing him in during the games. The collar of his shirt was casually unbuttoned, too. He looked effortlessly flawless.

“You look… wow. You’re so beautiful,” Dae-ho complimented, sending electric shocks through your veins. A rush of shyness met your face—he really thought of you like that?

“It’s so good to see you,” you said, your cheeks flushed with embarrassment and delight. “You look amazing too. I mean, I always thought you were handsome, but just… wow.” You took the bouquet from him, inhaling the sweet fragrance of the flowers.

His laughter danced through the air, a sound that brought you so much peace and clarity. “I’m just glad I could pull myself together after… well, everything.” His smile faded a bit, and you felt the silent weight of shared trauma hovering between you.

“Let’s not think about that tonight ,” you suggested softly, taking a seat across from him. “We deserve a night where those horrible games are the last of our worries.”

“Agreed,” he said, leaning forward, his gaze intensifying. “Tonight is about us, and starting fresh,together.”

As you scanned the cafe, adorned with twinkling fairy lights and the faint piano covers playing in the background,you felt the tension from earlier gradually melt away. You could see other people laughing, having the time of their lives. It felt surreal to be part of such a normal scene after everything you had both endured.

The waitress came up to your table and you both ordered drinks; he went for a dark roast coffee while you chose for a sweet vanilla latte. “It’s nice to be able to actually enjoy these little things.” you ranted, “After everything, I never even thought we’d get here.”

Dae-ho's eyes sparkled with that familiar warmth. “I’ve thought about this moment every day since I got back,” he admitted. “Dreamt about sitting across from you in a place that feels safe, where we can just be us.”

That sentiment made your heart swell. You immersed yourself in his beautiful sunkissed eyes. “What do you want for us, Dae-ho?” You asked, knowing that his answer could make or break you.

He hesitated for a moment, his expression solemn. “I want to build a life with you, whatever that looks like. It could be road trips everyday and always having new experiences together, or a cozy apartment with a beautiful family and no worries. I want us to share everything, the good, the bad—everything.”

The sincerity behind his words wrapped around your heart like a warm, familiar blanket. “I want that too,” you said softly, placing your hand over his. The connection was electric, sending sweet shivers up your body.

As you sipped your drinks, Dae-ho leaned in closer, a serious look in his eyes. “You know, I’ve thought about you every single day since we got out. I really missed you.”

“Really? I missed you too,” you replied, voice full of veracity. “It’s been hard without you.”

He took a long pause, as if he was searching for the right words. “I never realized how much I wanted someone like you in my life. Just knowing you were out there somewhere gave me hope.”

You felt your heart pang at his words, you spent all your life searching for a love like this, it felt so good to finally have it. “It was the same for me too. Every time I felt like giving up I had to remind myself of us, and our future.”

A soft smile grew on his face. “I knew we’d find our way back to each other. I just didn’t know how much it would mean to finally be here, like this.”

“Me either,” you said softly. “I was nervous about tonight. I worried that maybe everything would feel different.” You thought back to earlier and how stupid you were for thinking he would see you differently. This is genuinely all you could've asked for.

Dae-ho shook his head with his eyebrows fixed in a furrow. “I was nervous too, but being with you feels right. I could really see us living a perfect life someday”

Your heart swelled with warmth. With him, you felt like you can just be yourself without any fear. He was genuinely your safe space.

“I promise we’ll stay connected. No matter how hard things get, we’ll keep fighting for each other.” You swore, knowing how your past relationships ended and wanting to break the cycle.

“Thank you, really. It means the world to me,” Dae-ho said sincerely, his eyes meeting yours. “I just want us to have a future, no matter how hard it'll be.”

“Yeah, me too,” you replied, feeling a sense of calm settle over you. “It’s comforting to have someone you know will be there for you, even on the darker days.”

His smile deepened, and for a moment, everything else faded. Just the two of you were in the room—focused on your shared promise. Nothing else mattered in this moment, you were ready to finally create a new beginning.

Silence in the air was broken as he finally spoke up, “I want to build a life where we support each other through any and everything." he grinned. “Even the small moments matter. Like cooking together and trying not to burn the kitchen down.”

You chuckled softly, picturing you both in the kitchen attempting to cook and leaving something in the oven too long. “I can definitely see that happening.”

“And if we accidentally set the place on fire, at least I’ll have an excuse to scoop you up and look all heroic while I rescue you.” he joked, his expression growing more playful

Laughter erupts from you and your eyes sprinkle with joy, causing Dae-ho to lean in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You know, I really missed your laugh. It makes everything feel so much brighter.”

“Really?” you asked, feeling warmth spread through your chest, “I missed yours too, it’s cute.”

The atmosphere felt light, almost euphoric, as you both relaxed into the comfort of eachother's presence. “Believe it or not, I was really so nervous for tonight,” Dae-ho admitted, his voice softening as he brushes his hair back behind his ear. “I thought I’d forget how to talk to you.”

“Trust me,” you said, voice tender, “I was nervous too. But I realized that after everything, who else could understand us like this?”

“Exactly,” He said before taking a sip of his coffee. “I feel like I can be myself around you, like I’ve never been able to with anyone else. It’s so freeing.”

“Freedom and love. Isn’t that what life’s really all about?” you said, your voice filled with hope and longing. You felt a warmth in your heart as you spoke, realizing that these two things were what you truly cherished.

As the conversation flowed, you exchanged stories, laughter, and memories—you shared dreams and fears, and slowly the nervousness slowly melted away.

“I can’t believe we made it out,” he said, his voice stern. “I can’t stop thinking about the others we lost… what they would’ve did if they made it out too.”

A brief silence enveloped the moment, both of you remembering the friends that didn’t make it, the faces of people who had shared brutal experiences with you.

“I think they’d want us to live, like really live,” you said firmly, squeezing his hand gently. “To make the most of us getting out, we owe it to them.” Dae-ho silently nodded, the thick atmosphere slowly leaving.

As the evening progressed, you lost track of time, so caught up in the warmth of shared smiles and nervous laughter. You could hardly believe this was the same man who stepped up and took initiative at every rough point during the games, willing to sacrifice himself for everyone's safety.

The night ended slowly as Dae-ho walked you outside to your car. The stars twinkled like tiny beacons in the dark sky above. “It feels different tonight, doesn’t it?” you said, glancing up at the stars. “Yeah, it really does,” he replied, his voice soft but full of warmth.

As you strolled along, flowers in hand, you both shared stories from before you met, your voices mixing with the soft hum of the night. Every smile and nervous chuckle made you feel a little lighter. You realized how much you valued this moment, this time together, away from the chaos and pain that had once consumed you both.

You exchanged glances, and you both understood something unspoken between you. “I never thought I could feel this way again,” you said, a hint of vulnerability in your voice. Dae-ho stepped closer, his gaze steady. “Neither did I. But I’m glad we’re here together.”

Finally, you paused beneath a big, ancient tree. Its branches stretched out like arms, swallowing you both in its shadow. Dae-ho turned to you, his eyes beaming in the starlight. His stare locked onto yours, and he took a step closer, face inches from yours.

"I wish this could last forever baby, I love you." he whispered, breath caressing your skin. Then, without another word, he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a soft, gentle kiss. You felt a spark of connection, and your heart skipped a beat as you kissed him back, the warmth of his lips sending shivers down your spine. The kiss deepened, and everything else faded away, leaving only the two of you, lost in the sweetness of the moment.

As the kiss lingered, time itself seemed to stand still, the world around you fading into a beautiful blur. When you finally pulled away, his eyes searched yours, a mix of desperation and love radiating from him. "Whatever happens, I'll always be here" he said softly, his hand still cradling your face. You smiled, knowing that no matter where life took you, this memory would be a cherished part of your story, a promise of what could be.

[writersdrug]

Just thinking bout how bartender!simon would react to to someone leaving their number with a tip for the reader. Just imagine he’s going through the tips at the end of the night and sees a ripped piece of paper with a lil note and number scrawled on it clearly meant for her👀

You must not have seen it - otherwise, you would have pranced over to the bar and gloated about yet another phone number. This one catches him off guard since you hadn't announced it.

It's alright, though. You and Ghost had worked out a system for cock-sure customers like this one. It acted as a coping mechanism for Simon, letting his frustration towards your universal attractiveness out - you thought it was just a fun way to cock block them, and assumed Simon thought the same.

At the end of your shift, you sit at the bar, Simon leaning over it and his phone between the two of you. He texts the number with a general "hi, it's me from the bar :)". He lets you send a few lines to the guy - you atart off simple, slowly sending more and more off-the-rails comments, like "What kind of car do you have? I had to sell mine so the police wouldn't trace me back to the crime." Or "I'm actually under a contract here. I owe the bartender a favor for getting rid of my ex-husband. I can't quit until I'm sixty."

After you've had your fun, and the bar begins to wind down for the night, you head home and leave the rest of the conversation in his hands. He scrolls through what you've said so far, chuckling at the strangeness in your creativity. He then sends his own series of texts. "If you treat me nice, I can show you where I hide the bodies." "Oh, I can't eat at Sevvy's anymore - I got banned after the incident." "Did you know that it's relatively easy to kill someone by breaking their nose? Well, that one guy was easy. Maybe everyone's different."

It's not too long after that when his messages stop going out, and a notification generates on his screen, saying "this number has blocked you." Simon considers it a success.

In the office upstairs, all of the receipts with mobile numbers scribbled on them are pinned to the corkboard by the monitors. Price gives it a disapproving look every time he sees it, but he only becomes impressed with how quickly they begin to take up space on the board. Every Saturday afternoon, before the pub opens, you and Soap go up there and choose a victim at random. He enters the number into several spam websites, like job recruiters or the farmers almanac. Goes on something like "Roommate Finder" and replies to a bunch of postings with the number.

When Price decides to comment on it, Soap gives him a shrug. "Should ne'er have left 'is contact information in a public area."

[nereidprinc3ss]

do you believe me now? | 4

in which spencer reid and inexperienced fem!reader are interrupted at the most inopportune of times. he calls you on the first night of his case. dirty talk turns into a hard conversation. we get a glimpse into spencer's past, and we finally learn why he's so hesitant to sleep with you.

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18+ (smut) warnings/tags: dirty talk, phone sex/mutual masturbation, softdom!spence, obligatory he talks u through it, lots of graphic discussions of sex, established relationship, angst (sorrryyy!) a/n: so remember how i said you'd need the bonus chapter to fully appreciate/understand this part? i was wrong!! it will come in handy probably in the next part tho:) also idk how these parts keep getting so long im sorry! anyway, i love you all so bad. thank you for bearing w/ my craziness. PLEASE let me know your thoughts on this part!! i adore hearing from you!! kisses

(also special thank you to @fliesforeyes who convinced me phone sex w/ spence could be done!! i will link his phone sex blurb here :)) thank u binx!!

“Three million six hundred eighty four thousand three hundred thirty two times fourteen million seven hundred sixty one thousand nine hundred seventy one.”

You’ve lost count of how many stupid math questions you’ve asked your human calculator boyfriend, just to see if he can actually do them. Spencer is silent for a second, and you think you’ve finally stumped him. 

“That one is complicated.”

You sit bolt upright in his bed, looking down at him and pointing an accusatory finger. His brows raise at the manic look in your eye. 

“You don’t know.”

“I do know. I meant it would be hard to explain if you aren’t a math person.”

“Bullshit!” You scoff, “you don’t know!”

“It would display on a calculator as five-point-three-eight-eight-E-thirteen. It’s a really big number.”

“Oh, really big, huh?” you mumble, searching for your phone blindly in the sheets and scrambling to open the calculator app. “Um… what numbers did I say?”

Spencer repeats them back to you and you press the equals sign. 

You look at it. 

And then you set your phone down. 

“I was right, huh?” he smiles up at you, probably reveling in your pouty wrongness. 

Too proud to admit it, you collapse on top of him, burying your face in his shoulder. 

“I don’t like this game anymore. What the fuck even is an e? Why are we doing algebra?”

Spencer laughs, brushing your hair aside. 

“The e stands for exponent. It’s to the power of ten.”

“Ever heard of a rhetorical question?”

“Yes, I have.”

It’s hard not to snort even at his dumbest jokes. 

“You’re annoying. Let’s do something else.”

You roll over onto your back again, letting your head flop over to look at Spencer, whose hair is exactly the right amount of messy after a long day, falling in impossibly soft waves over the perfect lines and contours of his face. Despite lounging, he’s still in his suit from work—he’d left Quantico and immediately picked you up. There were no solid plans for the evening, so after both of you pretended that you wanted to go out for a while, you ended up back at his apartment. 

He looks good. Almost too good. 

“Something like what?” he smiles lazily, reaching over and tracing his fingers over your cheek. 

“Something… naked?”

His grin widens and he shakes his head. 

“Me naked or you naked?”

Pretending to think about it, you roll your bottom lip between your teeth. 

“Mm… why not both?”

“Hm. Why do I feel like I know where this is going?”

The mattress sinks underneath your elbow as you prop yourself up, dropping your head over Spencer’s to kiss him. 

“Because you’re so smart, and you think it’s a great idea.”

He entertains your kiss for a moment. Just a moment.

“You sound sure of yourself.”

“Because I am!” You finally give in to your impulses, tangling your fingers in his hair and looking at him meaningfully. “It doesn’t make any sense for us to have not had sex. I don’t care about any of your weird, cryptic moral reasoning.”

He grabs your wrist carefully. 

“It is not moral,” he scoffs. “We haven’t even talked about it yet.”

“Really? Because I feel like we’ve talked about it a lot.” 

He begins to reply, but you realize you don’t want to get into a debate over whether you’ve technically talked about it yet. “I don’t even care! If that’s all that’s standing in your way, then let’s talk about it. Right now.”

Spencer sighs, his eyes darting between yours as he reaches up to cradle your cheek. 

“Fine. But I have things to say you’re not going to like.”

“So business as usual?”

He rolls his eyes. You allow yourself a tiny self-satisfied smirk, forever relishing in his poorly-hidden soft spot for your constant teasing. Spencer ignores this. Which is probably for the best. 

“I know you probably won’t see it this way, but—sex is different than everything else we’ve done so far. It can be really fun, obviously it feels good, it facilitates deeper feelings of connection—that’s all true. Which is why, in my opinion, it’s incredibly important that you be selective with who you sleep with. Because it’s so easy to do something you regret, and sex is vulnerable. It should always be with someone you trust and—and… care about.”

A pink flush stains his cheeks like watercolor as he stumbles over the last few words. It makes your heart flutter against the confines of your chest.

Maybe best not to think about the absence versus presence of certain four-letter words and what they may or may not mean. You’ll move on to more pressing matters and pretend like it doesn’t ache just a little in your whole body. 

You cover his hand with your own. 

“Are you going to break up with me anytime soon?”

Spencer’s eyes widen, filling with genuine horror and confusion. 

“What? No!”

“Are you going to cheat on me?”

“Absolutely not, I—”

“Then I’m not going to regret it. Issue resolved. Moving on.”

“Honey, I just want you to be 100% sure that I’m what you want.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, flopping onto your back once more. “I have begged you to sleep with me on multiple occasions. We have been dating for months and I liked you even longer before that. I think about it literally every time I see you. I don’t know how to be any surer.”

It’s quiet for a moment as you study the imaginary pattern on the ceiling. The rebuttal you’d been anticipating doesn’t come—instead, the mattress shifts next to you. Spencer enters your field of vision, now leaning over you with a little smile on his face that gives you butterflies. 

“Every time?”

“…yes, every time,” you agree, voice considerably thinner than it had been a moment ago. Spencer glances at your lips as he speaks. 

“Interesting. And what is it that you think about exactly?”

You groan again, attempting to roll facedown, but he pins your shoulder to the bed. The way he’s sweetly kissing down your cheek and jaw is infuriating because you know it’s a false pretense. 

“Ugh, I don’t know! Don’t make me answer that!”

“You said if talking about it was all that was standing in my way, we would talk about it. Now I want to talk about it. Come on,” he says, voice low and cloying against your throat as he attempts to tease the answer out of you. “Tell me what you think about when you think about us having sex.”

You let out a shaky breath at the feeling of his lips skimming your neck, hating how easily he can reduce you to this. 

“I… I always wonder what it will feel like. Sometimes I wonder if it will hurt.”

Spencer sighs, interrogation by way of seduction momentarily forgotten. You silently curse yourself for saying something so un-sexy. 

“It might, sweetheart. That’s one of the reasons we’ve held back. I… really don’t want to hurt you. I don’t even know if I can.”

You grab his face in both hands, forcing him to look at you with more confidence than you feel. 

“Sometimes I worry about it, too. But I like you a lot more than it scares me. I still want to.”

He kisses your palm. 

“You’ll be okay. It doesn’t hurt for everyone, and even if it does, you’re resilient.”

“Exactly. So you have to get over yourself.”

Spencer laughs like he wasn’t expecting to, eyes sparkling as he regards you.  

“Yeah. Yeah, maybe I do.”

He’s smiling again as he leans down and kisses you—a slow, lingering thing which tastes like spearmint as you part your lips for him. 

“Please?” you whisper against him after a long moment. He hums, keeps kissing you. 

“What is it that you think you want? You don’t even know what you’re asking for.”

“Tell me,” you beg, chasing his lips. “Tell me what you’re going to do with me. We can talk about it. This is talking about it.”

Spencer exhales deeply, wedging a thigh between yours. Immediately you clamp around it, trying not to grind against him too overtly. 

“You want to know what I’d do to you?”

“Yes—” you paw at his jacket. Surprisingly, he doesn’t stop you from pushing it off. Your heart pounds. 

“Well… we both know how anxious you get,” he muses, pressing his lips so delicately to your fluttering pulse-point in emphasis, and then back to your mouth. His thigh pushes harder against you to supplant the absence of his lips as he speaks, though he kisses you sporadically and between sentences. “You’re hard to get out of your head when you’re nervous, you know that? I watch it happen. One minute you’re with me, and then you start overthinking, and getting self-conscious. The only thing that seems to relax you is letting me touch you—so first I would touch you like I’ve touched you before. I’d make sure you know how pretty you are and how good you deserve to feel.” You whimper inadvertently at his words, arching into him and grinding against his leg as he pauses to kiss the sensitive soft spot below your jaw. “You’re going to need to be really ready to let me in. Do you know what I mean by that?”

As he asks, he pushes his thigh against you harder. Your body responds immediately, arching into him and seeking more friction. When you squeak, he takes it as a no. 

“I mean I need you relaxed and wet. You’ll excuse my crude language.”

You pull at his tie, breathing heavier now and so turned on it’s almost painful. 

“What are you gonna do after that?”

“What else is there to do but fuck you after that?” he breathes. “You want me to tell you how I’d fuck you?”

Something about it makes you whine salaciously. You’ve heard him curse—you’ve even heard him talk about fucking you. But it feels more real now; when it’s low in your ear and you’re covertly undressing him and he’s pushing your shirt over your stomach promisingly. 

“Yes, please.” 

He hums against your jaw, nipping and brushing his lips over the skin as he considers. Leaves you waiting. 

“I would have to take my time with you. You’ll be overwhelmed. I know you think you won’t, but you will. I’m going to have to be so, so careful with you, angel. It’s going to drive me insane. But it will feel good for you.”

“Why careful? I don’t want that.”

He chuckles. A chill runs down your spine. 

“Yeah, you do. You’re going to want me to be careful when I’m—” he pauses, pressing his thumb to your bare lower tummy and dragging up to a spot below your belly button. He presses down lightly again. “Right here. Approximately.”

The surface of the sun has nothing on the temperature of your skin in this moment, as you writhe underneath him in both arousal and embarrassment. Mostly, burning need. You feel almost sick with it. 

“Please don’t make me wait anymore. Just do it, please, Spencer. I need it to be you, I don’t want it to be anyone else. I promise I’m ready.”

It’s silent for a moment. Your heart quickens. You sense his walls wearing away, his instinct to keep you intact for god knows what reason crumbling. He’s finally going to give you what you’ve been begging for. 

Spencer opens his mouth, eyes glimmering—

And then his phone rings. 

You both freeze—he melts dejectedly before you do, more accustomed to an ill-timed phone call and realizing the finality it can present. 

He’s breathing heavily against your neck, as if maybe whoever it is will just hang up. But the phone keeps ringing. 

“I’m sorry.”

Your stomach sinks as he sits up, grabbing his phone from the side table and rubbing circles on your inner thigh as he answers.

“This is Reid,” he says, lackluster. 

If you wanted, you could hear what Penelope is saying—but you don’t bother listening. It’s going to be a case. Spencer is about to leave. The details are his problem. 

“Okay. I’ll be there in an hour.”

He hangs up, tossing the phone onto the mattress and not speaking for a moment, just continuing to rub your leg apologetically. Watching you almost mournfully—taking in your disheveled hair, your likely blown-out pupils, the shirt pushed almost over your chest. 

“I have to go right now,” he finally manages with a heavy sigh, gently pulling your shirt back into place. 

You sit up, shedding all the hopes that had been building for the evening, and try to sound chipper—though all you feel is bitter disappointment that goes deeper than you understand. 

“I know. Go ahead, I can get a cab home.”

He frowns, running his hand over the back of your hair. 

“I don’t love the idea of you standing on the sidewalk waiting for a car in this part of town so late. Do you just want to stay here for the night and go home tomorrow?”

You force a smile. Great. So you’ll be spending the night in his bed after all—just without him. 

“Sure. Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

Neither of you are feeling particularly grateful. 

Soon you’re walking him to his own door. Both of you come to a stop in front. 

“I’m sorry,” he sighs again. 

“Spencer, it’s fine. It’s your job. You don’t need to apologize. You were very clear about this part when we started dating.”

“I know, but… it’s easier in theory than in practice.”

You smile. If Spencer is a reflection of you, it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. His hair is still messy from your fingers running through it and he’s missing his tie. You hope all his coworkers see and feel bad about taking him away from you. 

But it’s not their fault. You just want someone to blame. 

Instead you mould yourself to his body, wrapping around him like you belong there. He returns your embrace, pressing his lips into the crook of your shoulder and rubbing your back in that way he always does with you. 

In that moment, your affection for him becomes so profound it’s like a chemical reaction—everywhere he touches burns and you love him so fucking much it aches in every inch of your body the way your muscles do when you have a bad fever. Love is the most terrible of afflictions, you realize. It is a fever dream. It’s every fiber of your being screaming to tell him how you feel, to beg him on your knees not to go because you love him like a child loves a parent or a bee loves honeysuckle or the ocean loves the horizon. Pared down to your most basic components, the barest version of yourself, you require him. Your soul needs his soul. 

“Spencer?”

“Hm?” 

It’s nothing more than an absentminded hum against your skin. 

“I…”

Should you be looking him in the eye when you say this? Should you say it right before he has to leave? Just because you say it doesn’t change the fact that he’s about to be gone for several long days. Maybe this is a terrible time to admit something that suddenly feels so true and so consequential. 

He senses your internal conflict, pulling back despite your resistance and holding your face between his hands. 

“You what?” He murmurs, soft eyes bouncing back and forth between your own. Fuck—you feel so observed, now. Like he can read your mind. 

“I forget.”

FUUUUUUCK. 

Spencer blinks. Processes. You watch the disbelief crystallizing over his eyes like ice freezing over a lake. 

He knows. 

He knows you didn’t forget, and he probably knows what you were going to say, and he’s going to tell himself he was wrong to spare your dignity. 

Everything hurts when he kisses you. You wonder what regret tastes like. 

“Well, let me know if you remember.”

It’s too gentle and at the same time he can’t hide the edge with all the tenderness in the world. You nod as if in a trance, already looking forward to dissociating as you lie in bed and stare at the dark ceiling.

Two small goodbyes are exchanged, slightly stifled now, as if shared between drunk strangers who have sobered up and are mutually embarrassed about how candidly they’d interacted before. 

You close the door behind him, doing up all the locks, and meticulously flick every light switch in the apartment off before climbing into his bed—though you don’t really feel like you deserve to be there anymore.

But perhaps this is all an overreaction. It’s not like you owe it to him to say I love you, or anything—it was bad timing, anyway. And why can’t he say it? In fact, why hasn’t he said it? 

Maybe you have it all wrong. 

Maybe he doesn’t feel that way about you. 

You fall asleep before you allow these questions to make you sick. 

24 hours go by. 

24 hours go by and you really had meant to leave his apartment—it was just that you woke up late, and your phone was dead so you couldn’t call a car, so you charged it while you made breakfast, and then you ate, and then you decided to take a shower and wash your clothes, and then it was two in the afternoon and you hadn’t left yet and you decided to walk to the store and replenish the groceries you’d used up. 

Maybe you got a bit distracted looking at flowers and other beautiful things at the market and by the time you got home it was 5:00, so you decided to wait until seven to skip rush hour. And then eight, just to be sure. 

Before you know it, it’s midnight, and you’re dozing off in his bed again (teeth cleaned with the brush you’d bought at the store—maybe this whole situation hadn’t been entirely unwitting on your part.)

Throughout the day, you tried to let all your anxiety about the previous night melt away. If it’s something that needs to be addressed, Spencer will address it. Everything will work out in the end. That thought is how you’re able to doze off. 

You’re almost asleep when your phone lights up and begins buzzing on the side table. You wince as your eyes open, not adjusting well to the harsh bright display and unable to discern who’s even calling you at this hour. Stupidly, probably because you’re half asleep, you answer without checking. 

“Hello?”

Your voice is groggy, quiet with sleep. 

“Shit, did I wake you?”

“Spence?” you whisper, stomach flipping at the sound of his voice on the other line. You feel caught, still sleeping in his bed. 

“… yeah,” he chuckles. “Did you not check who was calling before you picked up?”

“I was asleep,” you pout. “Kinda.”

“Okay. Go back to sleep, honey. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

You sit bolt upright, phone balanced between tense fingers and speaking directly into the microphone. 

“No! No, I’m awake. What’s up? Why did you call?”

A longer stretch of silence—you’re too sleepy to comprehend what it might mean, though never too sleepy to worry about it. With a pang of pain, you recall your strange goodbye, the words you hadn’t said. 

“I just needed to hear your voice,” he sighs. You frown, staring at nothing in particular in the pitch black room. 

“Oh. Is everything okay?”

“As much as it can be.”

“Right.”

More quiet. You chew on the inside of your cheek, stricken with a sudden feeling of awkwardness that you haven’t had with Spencer in a while. 

“I’m sorry… I don’t really know what to say.”

“That’s okay,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice which makes you feel a bit better, “why don’t you tell me about your day? Or you can absolutely go back to sleep, if you’re too tired.”

“Don’t ask me about my day,” you whisper, flopping down on the bed once more. Shame seeps into your voice. He laughs. 

“What? Why?”

“Because if I tell you you’re going to think I’m super weird and you’re going to break up with me.”

Laughter tapers off into gentler tones. 

“I already think you’re super weird. It’s actually one of your most attractive qualities.”

Blood rushes to your cheeks. 

“But it’s like… borderline crazy.”

Immediately, he replies, “for better or worse, I also frequently find myself attracted to crazy.”

“Thank you for calling me crazy and super weird,” you grumble. 

“I also called you attractive twice. Tell me.”

When his tone takes on that easy, assertive quality, and it’s sort of raspy and low because it’s late and he’s been talking all day, and you can hear the lazy smile on his face—you imagine him laying on his hotel bed, arm slung over his eyes in the dark as he grins into the microphone—you have a very difficult time saying no. 

“Fine. Guess where I am right now.”

“Um, I would hope you’re in bed?”

You smile to yourself, basking in the victory of successfully throwing him off his game even slightly. 

“Guess whose bed.”

Silence. 

“What an interesting question.” That cocky smile, the low drawling is back, and you chew on your lip, ignoring the shiver that runs down your spine. “If it’s not mine or yours, we’re going to have issues.”

“But if it is yours? You’re not going to call the police on me?”

“Why would I call the police? To tell them there’s a pretty girl in my bed and I don’t want her there?”

“To tell them your psychopathic girlfriend broke into your apartment and might be holding hostages there.”

Spencer laughs; a brittle, drawn out thing, flat and quiet as the desert.

“If you were a psychopath, calling the cops would be a waste of time. I would handle you myself.” The idea of being handled has your thighs clenching. “But—yeah, don’t invite anyone else in.” More humor finds its way into his voice, momentarily relieving some tension that had sneakily begun to build. “Having people in my space makes me anxious.”

“But not me?” Your whisper is half flirtatious, half insecure. Spencer’s reply is soft, as if he’s picking up on this from hundreds of miles away.

“No, not you. You are always the exception.”

“Good,” you say, cheeks aching as you half-bury your warm face into his pillow. “Because I made myself really comfortable. You have a nice shower, by the way.”

Spencer groans. 

“You’re killing me.”

“What? What did I do!”

“Don’t talk to me about my bed and my shower. I might start to think you’re intentionally being a brat.”

“You asked me about my day! I’m just telling you what I did!”

But you’re also intentional teasing him for sure.  After a pause, he sighs in defeat. 

“You’re right. I did do that. Tell me what else happened.”

“Well,” you begin, all too eager, “I had to put my clothes in the dryer after I got out, so I borrowed some of yours. But then they were way comfier than mine, so after I went to the store I put them back on, and—”

“Okay.”

“Okay what?” you frown. 

“Tell me what this is.”

“I—I don’t know what you mean.”

Lying to a profiler is usually pointless. 

“I’m not stupid, sweetheart. Tell me why you keep talking about my shower and my bed and my clothes.”

Caught red-handed. Your skin heats up. 

“I don’t know. I miss you.”

He hums in a way that blurs the line between sympathetic and patronizing. Even through the phone you can feel the bass of it in your bones.  It changes the frequency you’re vibrating at. It’s hypnotic. 

“But that’s not really why you’re being intentionally provocative, is it?”

“No,” you admit quietly. “I’m still upset you had to go last night.”

“So you’re frustrated and you’re taking it out on me?”

Your brow furrows. Well, when he puts it like that…

“I’m not taking anything out on you.”

“I think you are. And I don’t appreciate that, because I’m on your side, honey. Do you think I prefer being in a hotel bed by myself or being in my bed with you?”

Somehow, he makes you feel like a scolded child. But he makes it appealing in ways you don’t understand. 

“Your bed with me,” you murmur, skin prickling with the coldness of his absence even as you curl under the blanket. 

“Right. So why don’t you tell me what I can do for you right now, instead of punishing me for things that are beyond my control?”

“I wasn’t punishing you,” you mutter. 

“No? You weren’t intentionally talking about using my shower and sleeping in my bed and putting on my clothes so that I’d have to think about what I can’t have right now?”

“I—”

“Believe me when I tell you I have been thinking about what I can’t have, all day. Your efforts are entirely redundant and you can’t say anything about yourself that is even close to as dirty as the frankly disrespectful thoughts I’ve been having about you for seventeen hours.”

The lack of air is making you so dizzy your vision goes gray at the edges. 

“What… what thoughts?”

“None that you need to concern yourself with.”

“You can’t just say something like that and then not tell me!” you insist. He’s obviously giving you a taste of your own medicine and it’s fair but it doesn’t mean you have to like it. 

“I can do whatever I want,” Spencer corrects cooly in a way that pisses you off beyond belief because he’s right. It triggers some adolescent immaturity within you—a desire to get back at him, so to speak. He wants intentionally provocative? He can have it. 

“Fine. Then so can I. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it even if I could.”

“Spencer,” you warn. “If you don’t tell me what you were thinking I’m gonna—” you look around the room for ammo. “I’m gonna look through your nightstand!”

“Go ahead. I’ll warn you, it’s not very interesting.”

���Sounds like what someone who has something hide would say,” you mumble, crawling across the mattress through tangled sheets and using your phone flashlight to open the drawer. 

Spencer is patient and silent as you take in its contents—a small blue leather-bound notebook (full of what looks like Russian), a fountain pen, a glasses case, various kinds of vitamins, and—

“Spencer Reid,” you say, dragging out his name and pretending nothing is fluttering in your stomach, “what are these?”

“I don’t know. I can’t see what you’re referring to.”

“Take a wild guess.”

“Oh, I have one. But I’d like to hear you say it.”

You realize you may have gotten yourself in deeper than you meant to by going through his stuff. Well—they don’t say karma is a bitch for nothing. 

“What are you doing with a box of condoms?” 

He chuckles and you feel it in your whole body, warm as you stretch across his mattress and eye the box like it might jump out at you. 

“Those are years old. I’ve used three since I bought them.”

“Don’t tell me that,” you whine. “I don’t wanna think about all the other women you’ve seduced.”

“You wanted them to be for you, huh?” 

You flush. Honestly you hadn’t even thought about that. 

“I… I don’t know. I kind of just assumed…”

It’s silent for a second and you frown, realizing you hadn’t even considered protection when you’d imagined sleeping with him before. 

“You assumed what, honey?” he asks, voice soft. 

“It’s dumb. I can’t tell you.”

“You can tell me anything. I’m not going to think it’s dumb, I promise.”

You chew on your lip, letting your eyes unfocus on the box as you muster the courage to be honest. 

“Whenever I imagined it… we didn’t… use anything.”

The words make you cringe even as you’re saying them. So does the quiet that follows. 

“When you imagine us sleeping together, we don’t use a condom?”

“Ah!” The phone drops to the mattress as you cover your ears and roll onto your side, curling into yourself once more. “You didn’t have to say it! You make me sound so weird!”

“It’s not weird,” he laughs, because he can probably imagine exactly what you just did, “I just wanted to make sure I was understanding you. That said… we would definitely use protection.”

“Do we have to?”

The quiet words take even you by surprise—and they seem to stun Spencer as well. Several false starts are punctuated by a sigh as he gathers his thoughts. 

“We really should, baby. That’s the kind of thing we need to take seriously.”

“But you’re… you’re good, right?”

Thankfully he picks up on your meaning. 

“I am. I wouldn’t touch you if I weren’t.”

“And I’m good. So...”

“Hm. And has anyone ever explained to you where babies come from?”

You groan in frustration. 

“Spencer, I’m being serious! There are ways to negate that.”

“Honey,” he murmurs, “I understand that. But it would be irresponsible of me to say yes. We can talk about it in the future, but—”

“I’m telling you it’s already dealt with. The chances of an accidental pregnancy are slim to none.”

The new information hangs in the air for a moment until Spencer speaks—to your surprise, his voice is low and humorous. 

“That is… good to know. But even so—I’m setting a dangerous precedent if I always let you get exactly what you want.”

“Is it such a bad thing that I just wanna—I wanna know what it feels like? You don’t want that?”

“That’s not what I said. I want to know exactly what you feel like. I’m just hesitant to give in so quickly because it makes me look weak.”

You laugh breathlessly, caught between being turned on by the first part of his sentence and amused by the sarcastic second half. Your thighs clench and your hand absentmindedly wanders between them. 

“You know what I was thinking about?” you ask. Spencer hums curiously. “I was thinking about when you let me, um… when you let me touch you how you touch me.” He hums again, but you can hear the amused curve of a smile in it now.

“When you had your mouth all full of me and you looked so pretty?”

“When I—yeah,” you agree, too caught up to deny his compliment as your fingers brush your most sensitive spot through clothing. “And  how you got me all messy after. And I was wondering what it would feel like… inside me.”

He sucks in a breath. Your legs brush against each other and you twist slightly as you pretend like you’re not touching yourself just a little bit. 

“You want me to come inside you?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, brain short-circuiting at the way those words sound in his voice. 

—

On the other side of the line, Spencer isn’t doing a fantastic job of thinking clearly either. His dick is half-hard already and it’s only getting worse with each little noise you make that you don’t seem to realize you’re making. 

“Really? That would be very messy, baby. I’m surprised that’s what you want.”

“But I really want it,” you breathe. He’s not even looking as he slips his hand under the waistband of his pajamas and palms himself, his other hand rubbing tiredly over his face as his phone rests on his chest. This was not how he intended for this call to go, believe it or not—but he’s here now. 

“Yeah? Is that why you’re touching yourself right now?”

You go silent—which is more or less exactly the reaction Spencer had been expecting. Patiently he waits for you to deny it, in three, two—

“’M not.”

Now, he could explain how he knows that’s a lie. How your breathing pattern changed, and your voice got softer and airier, and how you started speaking with smaller words in fragmented sentences. But he doesn’t feel like explaining any of that. 

“I know that’s not true,” he murmurs. “You know what? It wasn’t fair to get you all worked up last night and then leave. I don’t want you frustrated, honey. I want you to do whatever you need to do.”

You make a little gasping noise, and Spencer can imagine the way your back would arch when you did it. His own hips buck slightly as his dick twitches under his fingers. 

“Where are you touching?”

“Um—over my clothes.”

Cute. 

“Go under them for me. Tell me how it feels when you’re touching yourself like that.”

It takes a moment, in which all he hears is the rustling of fabric, until you’re whispering, “feels… it feels good. I wish you were here.”

He inhales, freeing his cock and squeezing the base. 

“I know. Just listen to my voice, pretty. I’m right here.”

Spencer allows himself a few slow tugs as he imagines what’s happening in his bed. You make a squeaking noise, like a held-back moan, and his eyes screw shut. 

“I need them inside,” you whine, and he knows you’re referring to his fingers—the ones currently stroking his own leaking cock. 

“You can use your own, just give yourself a minute first. Remember what I said about needing to be ready?”

“I am ready—” judging by the surprised chirp you interrupt yourself with, you’ve proven yourself right. What surprises Spencer is the weak sound of disappointment you make next. “Spence, it doesn’t feel the same.”

“We’re different sizes, honey. Your hands aren’t as big as mine. But you can still make it feel good.” 

He almost says, 90% of the nerves in the vaginal canal are located in the lower third—in other words, within approximately 2.36 inches from the opening, which you can most certainly reach—but he refrains. He’s not sure if that’s good dirty talk. 

“You have a really sensitive spot about three inches up, right in front. It’s going to feel a little different than the rest of you when you touch it. I want you to try and find it for me, okay?”

“Okay,” you breathe, ever-eager to please even from a great distance. There’s a quiet moment. “I can’t—I don’t think I can r—oh,”

The moan is so pretty Spencer can’t help speeding up the motion of his hand, hissing slightly as his fingers brush against the angry tip with every pump. 

“Did you find it?”

“Yeah,” you whine, a weak, high-pitched thing. “Oh my god.”

“Be gentle,” he warns with some effort as his own hips jump slightly. “You’re really sensitive there. If you’re not careful you’ll make yourself sore.”

“I don’t care—holy shit—” the way your voice rises and tightens to a squeak at the end has Spencer moaning as he fucks his fist. A black hole forms and warps time, turning every minute into a second and every second into an infinity until he has no idea how much time is going by. He drags his thumb over the tip, smearing precum over his cock and whining as his jaw drops at the feeling. “Oh my god, Spencer,” in that same strained, high voice. “’M gonna—ah!”

He gets the general sentiment. 

“What, baby? You’re gonna make yourself come all over your fingers? Is that what you wanted to tell me?”

“Mhm!”

“Yeah, I bet you are. It feels good, huh?”

“Yes,” you cry. 

“See? You don’t need my fingers to feel good. Mine barely fit, you know that? I have to hold your fucking hips down whenever I put my fingers in you because you can’t stop squirming. I don’t know how you think you’re going to take my cock.”

“Spencer!” 

He knows. 

“Come, baby. Let me hear you.”

The delicate sounds you make as you bring yourself to orgasm tip him over the edge of his own—grunting as he comes all over his fist. 

“Jesus,” he strains under his breath, the word dragging out into two long syllables as his hips buck involuntarily and cum drips down his knuckles. He’s lightheaded and he’s created a mess and it all happened so quickly. “Fuck,” he breathes, a rasping chuckle as he reaches for the towel he’d dropped on the bed after his shower earlier. “You conscious over there?”

“I’m conscious,” you slur, breathing heavily. “I’ve never had an orgasm by myself before.”

“Are you proud of yourself?” Spencer smiles, wiping his hand off and making sure he’s otherwise clean. “You should be. I am.”

He’s barely kidding. 

“I’ll be proud when I can do it without your help,” you tease. 

“But I’ll always want to help you with that.” His already warm face flushes further as he goes over what he’d said. “Sorry I was so vulgar.”

You laugh. He blushes even more. 

“Are you? I think you secretly love being vulgar.”

“I don’t know why! I have no idea where it comes from. I would never speak that way in any other context. I should probably work on that. Sometimes I look back on the things I say and I’m genuinely appalled.”

“Well, don’t stop on my account. Personally I enjoy it.”

“Yeah, I think I’m corrupting you. You probably shouldn’t enjoy it.”

The truth of it weighs heavy on his mind, but he’s pretty sure his voice alone doesn’t betray that and you can’t sense it through the phone. 

“Oh, my god. Do not do that falling on your sword shit. I like being corrupted by you. If you stop I’ll be very upset.”

“Well god forbid you get upset,” he teases gently. Idly he wonders if the reason he’s suddenly feeling so depressed is because his cortisol levels were already high from the case, and then he jarred his system with an orgasm, spiking his dopamine and ultimately causing it to plummet without the oxytocin release that post-coital physical contact would usually provide. 

Or if it was something else. It could also be something else. 

For the millionth time, he wishes he was with you. Part of him also wants to go to sleep. But mostly he wishes he was with you. 

—

A comfortable silence settles over the conversation. In the ditch between words, you’re mapping constellations in the texture of Spencer’s ceiling. If you squeeze your eyes almost shut, you can imagine it really is the night sky. You can imagine he���s really here. 

You think about what he said—his apparently mindless vulgarity. Did it mean anything? Or was he just rambling to get you off?

“Spencer?” you murmur. 

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you a question?”

He sounds earnest, perhaps a little tired, as he replies, “always,” through the little metal rectangle on your chest. He likes me and my questions are important to him, you repeat to yourself silently as you work up the strength. 

“If Penelope hadn’t called, last night… were you going to have sex with me?” 

Your lip tastes like his toothpaste as you chew it. Spencer sucks in a breath of air like he’s about to speak—and lets it fizzle out like foam on a carbonated drink. 

“I don’t know,” he finally admits, lamely. “That wasn’t my plan, but you can be extremely convincing when you want to be.”

“But why can’t it be your plan?” It’s an almost whine, pouty and childish—but the next words are quiet and pained. “Is it something I’m doing wrong?”

“No, no! It’s not you. You’re perfect. It’s—it’s complicated. It’s a me thing.”

Such trite words—such a ubiquitous, simple excuse sounds almost comical from his mouth when you know he’s capable of all the eloquence in the world. It’s not you, it’s me. It’s ridiculous. 

“Okay. Let me simplify this for you,” you begin with an uncharacteristic assertiveness that surprises even you. “I want to have sex with you. Either we are going to have sex or we’re not. So your future branches in two diverging paths. In one, we have sex, and then we keep having sex. In the other we never have sex ever. If you want to ever have the privilege of fucking me, then we just have to do it. Otherwise it simply will never happen. And I’m not eternally patient, Reid.”

Go me, you think, slightly breathless from your monologue. 

“Watch your mouth,” he says dryly. Something about the chastisement makes your stomach flip and your whole body tingle. “When you talk to me you call me Spencer. I will also accept Doctor Reid.” You wrestle down a smile, refusing to let him change the subject. A delayed sigh from him sobers up the conversation. “You know what I want. I’ve been very clear with you about that. But…”

“But…?”

Another sigh. A deeper, shuddering sigh, like his breath is searching for balance. Like Spencer is in a precarious position for which he was unprepared. 

“But—but to be completely honest… I worry that you’ll regret choosing me. And I know virginity is a social construct and I’m not implying that your worth will somehow be diminished if we have sex but regardless of my views on virginity as a construct, having sex for the first time can be weird and scary and it’s incredibly intimate and I don’t want you to regret your first time like I regret mine because you chose the wrong person.”

The words come at you so rapid-fire it takes you a moment to process them. And aside from all the ways you want to reassure him that you will not regret choosing him—that you could never, ever regret anything about him—one thing stands out. 

“You regret your first time?” 

Something between a scoff and a sigh travels through the line. You can tell he’s not annoyed at you for asking so much as he’s flustered himself with all his own words as he occasionally does. 

“Yeah. Yes. Sometimes I do. The person—she didn’t… like me as much as I liked her. And I was really, really in love with her, and she knew that and she knew she wasn’t in love with me—or maybe she was, I don’t know—but my point is, when one person likes the other more than the other person like them, things get complicated. And however you feel about me—that’s fine. It’s fine. I don’t want you to feel bad if we don’t feel exactly the same way about each other. I understand that this is newer for you, it’s different, I—I just don’t want us to do something we can’t undo because I don’t want to relive that. And I’m not saying it will never happen but I just don’t want you to make this choice when… when right now, I think we’re in different places emotionally. Regardless of that, I want you to choose the right person. I don’t want you to choose me and then find out that we feel differently after we sleep together and leave you feeling like you signed up for something you didn’t understand. I’m sorry. Maybe telling you this is selfish. But I’ve been thinking about it and trying to ignore it and I think I just have to be completely honest.”

Your ears ring like Spencer just fired a blank right into the microphone. Like you just got backhanded across the face and now you have the world’s worst case of whiplash. 

Every finger is numb and your blood is so cold it feels blue as it slithers thick through your veins. 

What you want to do is scream. What you want to do is go back to last night and stop yourself from almost telling him I love you, slap yourself and keep your cards a little closer to your chest. Because now he knows, and he doesn’t feel the same. 

You want to scream bloody murder. 

But when you try, when you unhinge your jaw and part your chapped lips and expect a bellow to come hurdling up the corridor of your throat with so much force it rattles your bones, all that falls out is a small, “oh.”

Maybe that’s worse. 

Spencer doesn’t reply. You hate yourself for feeling obliged to fill the silence. 

“I didn’t realize you…”

I didn’t realize that you don’t love me back. 

I didn’t realize I like you more than you like me. 

I didn’t realize you’d tell me to masturbate in your fucking bed and then drop this not even five minutes later. 

If Spencer Reid was able to talk to you over the phone with the same amount of affection and familiarity as always, like everything was still okay, knowing you love him and he doesn’t love you the whole time, he is not who you thought he was. 

“I’m sorry,” he lamely says again, like it could ever help. 

More silence. Now you can’t bring yourself to speak, so Spencer does. 

“I realize how awkward this is. I really didn’t mean to put you in this position. Especially not over the phone when I—god, I’m stupid. I’m sorry. But can we—can we talk about this in person when I get back? Please?”

Is that what grownups do? Is the proper etiquette for him to take you out to dinner and explain why he’s not in love with you? Is he going to break up with you?

What does one even wear to a breakup date?

“Okay,” you whisper. Your eyes sting, your everything stings, like you’ve been wrapped in a shroud of briar. Sheets that were soft a moment ago feel like sandpaper on open wounds. You feel like an open wound. 

Spencer sighs. It’s a sound of relief that confuses and hurts you even more. 

“Okay. I—okay. Thank you. Um—I’ll let you go back to sleep, now.”

“Okay,” you repeat—as if any of this were okay. But you can’t keep being that stupid girl who feels it all so much harder, who loves easily and begs to be loved in return, too naive to assume that someone who treats her so kindly might not reciprocate her feelings. It has to be okay, because if it’s not, you’re silly and dramatic and you’re just proving him right. 

“Goodnight,” Spencer whispers, and you can’t help but feeling that it’s the last time you’ll ever hear those words from his mouth while you’re in his bed. And he’s not even fucking here.

So you pull the blanket a little higher. You let your tears stain his pillow because they’ll be invisible by the morning. It will be like they were never here. Like you were never here. 

“Goodnight.”

-

part five