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clockwayswrites · 5 months ago

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A Hill to Die On, ch3

masterpost CW crude talk and suggestive themes Some of this isn't much read through and I know some parts are clunky, but I've had a migraine for a week and a half now. Please no concrit/editing. It will get a good edit before it's final version for Ao3!

Text turned out to be fine. Good even. Danny was busy a lot, so Tim (and Caroline) often had to wait between small strings of communication, but that made it sort of special when they did hear back. It turned out that Danny not only worked as a mechanic at a custom shop, was working on his own bike, but also went to school to get his mechanical engineering degree at Gotham U (with summer gen ed course done at one of the cheaper community colleges).

Tim hadn’t been brave enough to suggest they meet up on campus, in case someone recognized him, but he did tell Danny he went to Gotham U also. He was glad that Danny didn’t push them to meet up there either. Maybe he was just too busy.

As busy as he was, something Danny seemed to love doing was to send photos, all sorts of photos. He sent selfies, sure, but also pictures of the sunsets. Any cute animals he saw (which apparently included the campus crows he was befriending) and his cooking attempts. Pictures of the bikes and cars he worked on as well as his own beast.

Tim hadn’t been able to help but wonder if Danny would let Alvin bend him over the Frankenstein of a bike that Danny was building and fuck him.

They hadn’t gotten around to talking about the things that Danny liked and if being on that end of an encounter was one of them. They really hadn’t talked about anything sexual other than one night when Tim hadn’t been able to sleep (like too many nights) and Danny had called him. Tim had almost fumbled the phone when it started ringing.

Instead of trying to suggest all the usual things like warm milk or relaxing from the toe tips up, Danny had talked Tim through finger himself. Danny’s low words and firm instructions—including making Tim wait—were a contrast to Tim’s own begging that Danny insisted he wanted to hear.

Tim had been almost asleep by the time there was the bitten back moan of Danny coming too.

While Tim could think of a hundred ways to start the conversation, none of them seemed the right way to explain that it wasn’t just ‘Lin’ and Caroline, but also Alvin. And what Alvin wanted was to fuck Danny until he was begging and then fuck him all over again. (And maybe again.) It felt like being dishonest with Danny and that ate at Tim, especially as they started to see each other in person again.

Danny reached out across the table and laid his hand down, palm up.

It was such a little thing, but the simple consideration warmed Tim. Danny was letting Tim choose if he wanted to hold Danny’s hand right then. When Caroline and Danny had been out on a date, Danny had just wrapped his fingers loosely up in hers time and time again. But with Tim, Danny acted differently. Danny acted like he got it.

Tim reached out and traced his fingers over the lines of Danny’s palm.

“What’s bothering you?”

Tim glanced up across the table. “Hum?”

“Somethings bothering you,” Danny said, more a repeat than a clarification, though he wasn’t wrong. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Tim bought himself some time by taking a long sip of his drink. He knitted his fingers with Danny’s.

“So, Caroline and I… we’re…”

How did Tim talk about any of this? He hadn’t before, not to anyone. His caped friends and family just thought of Caroline and Alvin as covers. Out of the capes… he didn’t think they thought about Caroline and Alvin at all. Why would they? Tim wasn’t exactly the most gender normal so if he was a little more fem or masc why would they catch on that it was less about Tim and more about… well, someone else?

“Dissociative Disorder, right?” Danny asked after a long silence. “Which I know, I really hate the word disorder in that. Caroline isn’t some disorder, she’s an important part of you. But it’s not exactly standard DID because you keep some memories when you’re her, right? Sorry, my sister is a psychologist so I did a little looking into things.”

“I, yes,” Tim agreed with a blink. That sounded like what he’d found in his research too. He knew he should bring this up to his therapist, but, well, he had wanted more information first. It helped him feel more settled. (He felt anything but settled right then.) “I guess because I do remember, I didn’t always think of her as… separate as I’ve been realizing she is.”

“Okay,” Danny said patiently. “Is there anything you need me to do differently now that you have? Or anything I can do to make either of you more comfortable?”

Tim couldn’t help but smile as he shook his head. “No, you’ve been really great, with both of us.”

Danny nodded, what little of his own tension there had been from the conversation practically evaporated from his shoulders.

Tim looked down at their hands. “It’s just… it’s because of that. You’ve been so great with both Caroline and me that I feel horrible that—it’s just… there’s one more? And I don’t know if that’s going to be too much for you entirely. Because I would totally understand, this is a lot already without dealing with Alvin too and—”

“Hey, Lin, take a breath for me, darlin’,” Danny urged with a soft squeeze of their hands. “It’s okay, I’m still right here.”

Tim took a breath and then a few more for good measure.

“What you’re saying is that there’s Lin, Caroline, and also Alvin?”

Tim nodded.

“Okay. Okay… does… do you know what Alvin thinks of this? Of me? Is he okay with it?”

Tim buried his now bright red face in his free hand. “Yes.”

“Um, I’ll take that as not bad—”

“He wants to jump your bones. Very emphatically. Repeatedly,” Tim mumbled into his palm.

Danny was silent for a long moment until he started to laugh. “Ancients, okay, I’m sorry just, oh boy. That’s—” Danny tried to breathe around his laughter. “—am I like catnip to all three of you? What do you all see in me?”

Tim watched Danny’s laughter fade with at first shock and then fondness. “Because of this. I tell you that there’s a third and the first thing you worry about is if he’s okay with you.”

“Well, yeah,” Danny says, as if it really should be that simple. “I don’t want to break up with you or Caroline because Alvin hates me.”

What a wonderful, ridiculous man.

“Then you’d be… okay to meet him sometime? Or text with him?”

“Of course. I can’t promise he and I will have what we have or Caroline and I have, not when I don’t know the guy, but I think considering how I feel about you two the chance is there. And if even not, him and I should get to know each other, right?”

“Right,” Tim said, finally able to smile. “I’ll make sure he has your number. And I guess for the last thing… my real name is Tim. And… and to be honest I was a little wary of telling you my legal name that morning, in case things went badly. But I’m also trying to figure… myself out I guess. And Lin maybe fits? It’s got a bit of Caroline and Alvin in it. But I don’t know if that’s right either, maybe it’s just trying to rely on them too much. I don’t really know a lot, I guess.”

Danny just shrugged with a little smile. “Who really does? What do you want to be called today, sweetheart, Lin or Tim?”

Tim took a moment to actually think about that and ignore his blush at being called ‘sweetheart’. He didn’t know what the right answer was, but maybe that just meant he needed more data. “Let’s… let’s try Tim today.”

“Tim,” Danny said with a grin. He seemed to just be able to take everything with a grin; it was amazing. “So, do I want to know why you sent me a picture of a turkey this morning?”

“I was paying you back for all the animal photos you send me. He’s my little brother’s.”

Danny tilted his head. “Your brother… has a turkey?”

“Yep.”

“Huh.”

Tim shrugged. “He’s weird. And I don’t mean like, normal weird in a nerdy way or very awkward. He’s just weird weird. One of those weird things is his pets.”

“Huh,” Danny said again. “What’s a pet turkey even like?”

“Loud and mean. But he does like to show off for pictures, so I figured I’d send you one. I was home, well, not where I live home, but you know what I mean—” Danny nodded to Tim’s words. “—to drop something off before I headed this way.”

They both leaned back as their food arrived and thanked the server. Silence settled over them as they got distracted by food. Tim took a large bite of his pokerito, chewing and swallowing before he made himself ask, “Do you have any siblings?”

He was bad at it, but he was really trying to get to know Danny properly. (And without just looking him up.)

(Or stalking.)

“An older sister and kinda a little sister? Which sound weird I guess but…”

“No, I get weird families, trust me. Like, I’m not related to any of mine,” Tim said.

Danny smiled gratefully at the easy acceptance, as if Tim wouldn’t after everything that Danny accepted about him. “They are. And, well, so are my sisters, but I love them. I don’t get to see them too much anymore. My oldest sister is out in Washington, the state not the city, and the younger travels a lot. She’s basically nomadic. She’s never been anywhere longer than a year. I like traveling some, but I don’t think I could ever do that. What about you, have you always lived in the Gotham area?”

“Basically. I did some study aboard—” in fighting, but whatever, “—but Gotham has aways been home. The city is basically in my blood at this point.”

“And knowing Gotham, some of your blood is in it too,” Danny quipped.

Tim gave an undignified little snort took another bite of his food to avoid saying anything snarky back. More of his blood was in the streets and buildings of Gotham than Danny would ever know or understand. “You’re from the Midwest somewhere, right?”

Danny gave one of his crooked little smiles that Tim was so fond of. “Is my accent still that obvious?”

“No, not really,” Tim assured him. “Picking out accents is just something that I’m good at. I mean, sure most people wouldn’t think you’re from here, but mostly you just sound ambiguously American."

“I guess I’ll take what I can,” Danny said. “But yeah I grew up in the great state of misery.”

Tim covered a laugh with a sip of his drink. “Missouri can’t have been that bad.”

“Naw, there were good parts—mostly my friends—but I’m glad to be gone. There was enough that I didn’t like or that made bad memories,” Danny said with a little shrug and smile.

“And Gotham’s treating you well?”

“You know, it is,” Danny said. “I’ve got an interesting job, my own place, school is going, and it lead me to you.”

“I mean, well, it lead you to Caroline,” Tim mumbled as he tried valiantly not to blush. By the way Danny grinned, the smile just slightly smug, Tim figured he had failed pretty badly.

“And I got a two for one deal out of it.” Danny paused and then continued. “At least a two for one deal. Maybe a three for one. Where else can someone get that sort of luck?”

This time, Tim couldn’t even try to hide his laughter. “That how you see it?”

Danny grinned back. “Yep, but in a totally not crude way. I just think that I’m pretty lucky.”

“I don’t know, in Gotham being messed up like this might put me one bad day from becoming a rogue.”

“Hey, no, you’re not messed up,” Danny said firmly, all of his humor disappearing. “You and Caroline and Alvin might be different, but you are not messed up. There’s nothing wrong with you.”

Tim glanced up at Danny from under his bangs. “Even though I’m not sure who I really am?”

“Even then. I think that most people don’t know who they are yet in college. You’re just taking it to the extreme.”

That made Tim laugh: the sort of laughter that threatened to turn into tears and leave Tim’s stomach aching. It had been a really long time since he’d laughed like that.

“If you ask anyone of the people who know me best, they’d tell you I tend to take everything to the extreme.”

“I know that too, I’ve slept with you,” Danny said with a wolfish smile that made Tim flush.

“That does not count as knowing,” Tim defended.

Danny just smiled wider and gave a little shrug. “Well, then that’s why we go on dates. I’ll know you well enough before long.”

“I hope you don’t come to regret that.” Tim hoped he sounded more teasing than worried.

By the way that Danny’s expression softened sadly Tim guessed he didn’t manage.

“Not going to pretend we’re a sure thing. We don’t know each other well enough to claim that,” Danny said. “But I try not to regret things in life, it just leads to a lot of being miserable about the past that you can’t change. If we don’t work out, that won’t have stopped me from enjoying the time that we have had. That won’t make me regret it.”

Tim blinked. “I think you might be smarter than a lot of people I know.”

Danny laughed and shook his head. “I don’t think that’s true. I’ve just learned a lot about life early on, whether I wanted to or not. I might as well get something out of it.”

“That sounds like the same thing as being wise to me,” Tim said. He felt almost defensive about Danny thinking poorly of himself like that.

“Well, thanks darling,” Danny mumbled with a blush and a duck of his head.

Tim took that as basically a win and went back to eating happily. He might not be able to do as much for Danny as Danny was doing for them, but he could at least try and let Danny know how great he was. Plus Danny’s blush was cute.

“Look a little like a murder den,” Tim commented as Danny lead them down the few steps to a basement apartment door. His words didn’t stop him though. If it was a murder den, he could handle it.

“It’s not a murder den,” Danny said. Clear amusement laced his words.

“Basement, dark street, no sign, blacked out windows… murder den.”

“Gotham rent prices, the street light is just out, you missed the sign, there’s a reason. Not a murder den.”

Tim frowned (just a little). “I don’t miss things.”

“I was kissing you.”

“Okay,” Tim said after a long pause, “maybe I miss some things.”

“I’m a good distraction,” Danny said smugly. He held open the door for them and stepped back.

It was almost like a portal into another world, one full of neon lights, electronic noises, and the most wonderfully hideous carpet that Tim had ever seen.

“An arcade?”

“An arcade,” Danny said and followed Tim inside. “It pretty much spans some machines from the heyday of arcades through the nineties and just into the early aughts with this ancient DDR pad over in the back.”

“It smells like dirty quarters, popcorn, and machine oil in here.”

“Yep.”

“It’s perfect.”

A pleased grin broke out across Danny’s features. He pulled out a ten out from his wallet and held it out towards Tim. “Then let’s get some quarters and start playing. I bet that I can kick your ass at Primal Rage.”

Tim snatched the bill with a smirk. “Maybe, but you have no chance against me in street fighter.”

“Get your quarters then and we’ll see, won’t we?”

The jostled each other as they both ran a ten through the change machine and collected the change in the slightly battered novelty cups that were stacked next to it. The clang of the quarters were soothing, in a weirdly disharmonious way, as they made an exploratory circuit of the arcaded and pointed out games that they might want to play later. The place did have a pretty nice variety, for all that the cabinets and machines were basically crammed side by side in the arcade.

They did end up at the Primal Rage machine first, where Tim proceeded to have his character brutally eviscerate by Danny’s raptor character.

“Wow.”

“We had this machine back where I grew up. My friend Tucker and I used to play it all the time,” Danny explained with a proud little smirk as he switched to the weird snake necked dinosaur.

Tim, giving up on dino kind, selected the ape. “Was little Danny a nerd?”

“Complete nerd,” Danny said. “Played video games, fascinated with NASA, two mad scientist parents; I was truly the bottom of the food chain. The jocks and popular kids sure let me know it too.”

“Bullies?” Tim asked sympathetically.

“Specifically one. Looking back I actually think that he had some toxic shit going on with his dad, masculinity, and probably his sexuality.”

“That doesn’t mean how he acted was alright,” Tim said. His character flew across the screen, trailing blood.

“Nope. But I can at least see a why. Besides, it was basically a life time ago now,” Danny said calmly while his win flashed up on screen. “I’m happy where I ended up.”

Tim leaned over to press a kiss to Danny’s cheek. “Good. Now come let’s go play Street Fighter so I can kick your ass as Chun-Li.”

Danny pretended to swoon, hands over his heart. “Ah, to have my ass kicked by a hot woman.”

“I don’t need to hear about your and Caroline’s sex life,” Tim said with a fake shudder that earned him a bark of laughter from Danny.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’m happy to have my ass kicked by a cute guy too.”

“You better be,” Tim said. “I think I’m morally obligated to take you to a gym on a date now.”

Danny pulled Tim into his arms, pressed Tim back against an arcade cabinet. “Hot, sweaty, pinned under you… I’m not going to complain.”

“Bet not,” Tim said with a quick peck to Danny’s lips. “But games now. It you get enough tickets to get me that hideous, knock-off Robin plushy I’ll blow you in the bathroom.

It was to watch Danny’s eyes dilate at the suggestion. He abandoned pinning Tim to tug them along. “Well, come on. After you kick my ass in Street Fighter, you’ll get to see a true master at skee ball.”

“Oh this I have to see.”

“Damn right you do,” Danny said with a wink and a blown kiss.

Tim found himself laughing yet again that day, and so glad for the man who kept making it happen.

#dp x dc #danny/tim #brain dead ship #dead tired ship #a hill to die on

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redflagshipwriter · 1 year ago

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batmom Cass progress post

(masterpost)

Far Too Young: Cassandra Wayne, Teen Mother Debutante?

Danny cringed away from the headline on the newspaper sitting on the coffee table. “I am so sorry,” he said miserably. Someone must have reported on that first day in the city. Why'd they sit on the story for so long? That was the only time he'd been in public with Cass. So far, he'd only left Wayne Manor with Damian and Alfred to volunteer at the animal shelter.

Cass blinked up at him, from her perch on the back of the sofa. “Don't be,” she said. “It's fine. They will always talk.” Her face twitched into condescension. “It means nothing.”

He wrung his hands because it really did look like something. She hadn't given him the article and he wasn't quite bold enough to request to read it. But it couldn't be nice. Even the headline was judgmental.

“It would probably be for the best if we made a statement.” Grandfather Bat said out of nowhere.

Danny startled and jumped straight up. The chair creaked unhappily when he landed back on it.

“Brucedad,” Cass complained.

He huffed and held his hands up. “Sorry, sweetheart. Didn't mean to startle anyone.”

Danny hunched a little more into his hoodie. Well. Tucker’s hoodie. It was way too big for Danny, especially after the weight he'd lost. But it was weirdly comforting. He fiddled with the sleeves.

“Cass, could we talk about it in my office?” Bruce said. His tone was calm and even. Danny sort of suspected it was for his benefit. “Danny, Damian is looking for you.”

“Oh, for real?” Danny let his heels drop off the chair, onto the carpet. “Yeah, okay. Where's he at?”

Danny found his 13 year old uncle out in the barn with his cow. Danny hopped the wooden gate to go inside and sneezed at the dust in the air from dried hay.

“Danny,” Damian acknowledged. He was brushing Batcow. “I hope that you are well this morning.”

Danny made that weird white person smile-grimace where only his lips moved. “Good morning,” he said, instead of either lying or being a bummer. “Are we going to the shelter today?”

Damian didn't pause. “Unfortunately, I have been told that it will not fit in Pennyworth’s schedule today,” he said primly. He dragged another long, precise stroke down Batcow’s fur, exactly lining up with his last stroke. Danny eyed his sure, confident motions. “Instead, I wondered if you would join me in a project in the barn. Have you any experience with wood working?”

“Nope.” Danny drifted a little closer. “Do you?”

“No.” Damian dropped to a crouch to take care of Batcow's hooves. “It is of no importance. We can overcome.”

“Hell yeah, Uncle D,” Danny agreed genially. Why not? He shoved his hands in his pockets. “What are we making?”

“Storage shelving, for materials intended for art therapy.” Damian made one final brisk movement and rose in a smooth motion. He hung up the tools and brushed his hands off. Danny followed Damian as he started to leave.

“Art therapy?” Danny echoed curiously. “That's neat. For ….you?” He ventured.

‘It’s for me,’ Danny thought wryly. ‘This 13 year old takes his responsibility as my Uncle seriously. He'll say it's for him, but want me there, and-’

“Of course not,” Damian scoffed. “It is for Jerry and Batcow. They have unresolved traumas.” He pulled the door shut behind them. “We will require lumber from the storage unit, as well as an assortment of power tools. I am disallowed from using them without the presence of someone who is taller than 5 feet, or older than 20.”

“That is awfully specific.” Danny eyed Damian suspiciously. “I'm not going to get in any trouble for this, right?” He followed even as Damian picked up the pace a little as they crossed the huge green lawn towards a shed.

“Tt.” Damian tapped in a code at lightning speed and then hefted open the door. “No. You will be fine.” He said flatly. He stalked into the dark space. Danny followed and sneezed at the dusty interior. “Can you lift 50 pounds?”

Danny sniggered. “Yeah, easily,” he said with confidence.

Damian hummed in the back of his throat. “Good. You shall be the beast of burden.”

That was such a wild thing to say that Danny blinked twice while processing it. Beast of burden?!? Who said that?

“... I'm not sure I like that,” Danny teased. “Have you heard that I'm the baby?” He gestured at himself. Weedy as he was, he was still noticeably larger than Damian.

“You should be proud,” Damian said in a dry tone. “to be such an accomplished baby. Here.” He pointed at a bundle of lumber. “I require this.”

Danny was a burdened beast back and forth between the shed and the barn for three trips to assemble everything that Damian thought they would need. The preteen oversaw it all with perfect aplomb, dark eyes glittering as his plan started to come together.

There was a learning curve.

“That's why they say to measure twice and cut once, huh,” Danny observed. He pursed his lips at the board that was only about half an inch too short for their purpose. They couldn't like, glue or nail on a slight extension, could they?

“We shall throw this in the woods so that no one discovers our failure.” Damian lifted one side of the poorly cut plank and dragged it to the back of the barn into an unused stall. It dragged a line through the loose straw cushioning the floor.

“He's so little,’ Danny thought hysterically. He could not laugh at Damian. He absolutely could not. The little guy took himself so seriously. Danny was actually shaking with the effort not to laugh or coo.

Damian seemed to have no idea. “For the moment I will store it out of sight here.” He let the plank fall to the ground from an inch or so and then shut the stall door. Danny watched with his head cocked to the side and a hand pressed over his lips to hide his grin.

“We have two more excess planks.” Damian went back to business.

#dp x dc #dc x dp #red mama bat

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deardaichi · 1 month ago

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for @tansypansydandy <3 | event masterpost

you told tsukishima he was going to burn. he shrugged, said he’d be fine. you handed him sunscreen. he said, “later.” he never meant later.

now he’s stretched out on the edge of your bed, shirtless, skin still flushed from the sun. he’s trying not to wince when his back brushes the sheets, but it’s obvious in the way his jaw stays tight.

you’re sitting beside him with a bottle of aloe vera gel between your hands, warming it up before touching him. he watches you do it like it’s an experiment he doesn’t totally trust.

“you could’ve just let me burn,” he says flatly.

“i could’ve let you drink two strawberry mojitos back to back without saying anything, too,” you say, squeezing gel onto your palm. “but i care about your survival.”

he scoffs under his breath. “you drank yours faster than i did.”

“yeah, because i wasn’t pretending i didn’t like it.”

you press your hand against his back. he flinches.

“cold,” he mutters.

“good.”

the gel spreads slowly, and his skin is too hot under it. you keep your touch gentle, smoothing it along the line of his spine, over the worst of it across his shoulders. he doesn’t speak after that, just breathes in quiet, shallow rhythm while you work.

you remember how he looked earlier — sitting in the sun like it was a dare, hair still wet from the water, sipping your drink because he ran out of his. said it was “too sweet” and drank the whole thing anyway.

you press a little softer now, fingers moving in slow strokes. he exhales, low.

“you didn’t have to do this,” he says finally.

you shrug, even though he can’t see it. “you wouldn’t ask.”

he’s quiet for a while.

then: “...thank you.”

you rest your hand lightly between his shoulders, leave it there.

“next time, wear sunscreen.”

he hums. maybe it’s agreement. maybe it’s not. but he doesn’t move away. and neither do you.

©everything here is written with care — please don’t repost, copy, or alter my work without permission.

#deardaichi 𖦹₊⊹#event: pomi's wave bar 𖦹₊⊹#haikyuu ˚｡𖦹 #tsukishima x reader #tsukishima kei #haikyuu tsukishima #tsukishima fluff #tsukki #haikyuu #haikyū!!#hq fanfic #haikyuu tsukki #hq tsukki #tsukki x reader #tsukkishima kei #tsukishima x you #tsukishima kei x reader #tsukishima kei x you

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spaceistheplaceart · 4 months ago

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Body Swap - The Exorcism Part Three

WOW IT HAS BEEN A WHILE! but im glad to be posting this again :) hope y'all are as excited to see it again as I am to make it again!

masterpost

(Please Reblog! Leave a comment in the tags! They make me very happy :)

SUMMARIZED ID: Reigen sees the spirits in the living room, unintentionally zapping them with his powers. He's shocked for a moment, then recovers and threatens them as he typically does. Mob reflects on how it's scary that he can't see the spirits. His percentage goes up to 60%. Reigen does a special move, but it makes a huge explosion. As the dust clears, Reigen looks shocked.

FULL ID:

Page One:

Reigen looks suspiciously at the corner of the room where he just heard a whooshing noise. Then he gasps, getting into a defensive stance and backing up against Mob. His powers flare up, shown as gradients with hexagonal marks and crisscross lines around his head and hands. He addresses the spirits angrily: "I know you're there! come out, evil spirits!". Mob turns around with a surprised expression, looking down at Reigen. The next two panels show Mob staring blankly at Reigen, then looking around nervously. On the far wall, the wallpaper is suddenly ripped into two long claw-like lines. Reigen points to it, his finger extending slightly out of the panel. "There!" he shouts.

Page Two:

From Reigen's extended finger a large bolt of psychic energy is blasted out to the wall. It's shown as a white explosive burst of energy with the word "zap!" on the trail, and "crack!" when it hits the wall. The energy from the blast blows back Mob and Reigen's hair. Both of them shut their eyes. Mob covers his face with his forearms. Psychic energy is shown around Reigen's head and hand. The next panel shows them still in their defensive positions, but now Reigen is lowering his finger and his energy is fading. They both look up, Mob with slight surprise and Reigen pulling his hands to his chest, mouth drawn in a fine line and eyes wide. The wall is shown, now more banged up and sizzling with smoke coming off of it. Reigen stares up at the damage, eyes wide. "Wow, that was..." he says, then trails off and looks to the side nervously/awkwardly, his hair is messy and he has a sweat drop on his cheek. He then gets into a pose with his arms up and fingers outstretched, he says: "That was only a small taste of what I can do! So just make it easy on yourselves and come out!" Immediately, he flinches and backs up into Mob's front as there is a wooshing effect that heads towards him. His powers flare up. Mob looks down at Reigen, eyebrows raised. "Master?" He asks. "Are you seeing something?"

Page Three:

From a high camera angle, we see Reigen still in his defensive position, looking at thin air from Mob's perspective. His speech bubble reads: "..." Mob still looks down at Reigen, brows drawn slightly together now. He thinks to himself: "Not being able to see what's making master so alert... is actually..." A close up shot of his eyes, a worry line under one of them with the background dark. "King of scary..." Mob's percentage raises to 60%. The next panel shows Reigen again at the center, with Mob being in the background up to his slightly parted mouth, his eyes no longer shown. Reigen lowers his hands a bit and says: "So, that's your plan, huh? Well,..." He flips back the side of his PJ shirt and reaches into his pocket, there is a pouch of salt inside. His powers flare as he exclaims "You won't get the chance!" He claps his salt-covered palms together and the effect showing his powers gets darker and more prominent around his hands and head. He glares, hands still together and says: "I'm going to send you back to the Ozone Layer."

Page Four:

Salt splashes down onto his sneakers before Reigen executes his special move. The next panel is highly detailed with motion lines and shading, similar to the "special move" drawings in the Mob Psycho anime. Reigen is doing a roundhouse kick, one hand in a fist and another splayed out with an intense open-mouthed expression. His kick is shown in an arch with salt spraying in it's wake. Bolts of lightning decorate the background, splaying out alongside dark action lines from his face. The words "PSYCHIC ROUNDHOUSE" are at the bottom of the panel. The text box reads: "This is one of Reigen's special moves, where he dribbles salt on his shoes then sprays it at his opponents with a powerful roundhouse kick; now with the aid of his student's psychic abilities." The next panel shows a massive explosion. Clouds of dust obscure Reigen in the next three panels, getting lesser as the panels progress. Reigen coughs, hand up to his mouth and eyes shut. Then he slowly lowers his hand and coughs a little more as he peeks open one eye. In the final panel, he gasps and both of his eyes go wide, mouth agape, and hair blowing back from his face due to his power's flaring up once again.

END ID.

#mob psycho 100 #mp100 #mp100 body swap #reigen arataka #shigeo kageyama #comic #op art #can you believe its been over a year since the last one? wow.#mp100 comic

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bloodstainedsapphic · 23 days ago

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chapter one: assigned and annoyed.

masterpost here. summary: you might be the family screw-up, but this time it’s their mistakes putting you in danger. now you’re stuck with a tightly wound bodyguard who doesn’t flinch when you bite. 2k wc. warnings: brimming with angst and attitude. family conflict. hot women. no nsfw yet.

my favorite songs here: rebel girl by bikini kill because ofc and i want candy by bow wow wow <3

The rays of an early summer sun peek through your sheer curtains and drape over your sheets, stirring you awake. Rubbing your eyes hard enough to see stars, you’re not exactly thrilled. Much too early for your liking. Still not fully with it, you at least register that the warmth, paired with faint outdoor sounds, isn’t the worst way to start the day.

Outstretched like a cat, you reach for your phone for a morning doom scroll. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll get one morning to pretend you still have a normal life in suburbia—

Bang bang bang.

Here we fucking go.

Like clockwork, she snuffs you out, pounding on your bedroom door at the crack of dawn like, ohmygodgimmefiveminutes.

"Ellie," you snap, yanking the door open with enough ferocity to tear it from its hinges. You plant a hand on your hip, eyebrow raised to pierce the ceiling. You fully commit to the most abrasive stance possible, as Ellie, clad in tactical black—your unwelcome shadow's uniform—stares at you with agate green eyes.

She just stands there, menacingly, hands loosely clasped in front of her, eyeballing your flimsy, disheveled pjs and bedhead like you were a walking crime scene. You catch a flicker of a judgmental half-smirk on her face, one she wouldn't reveal unless she wanted you to see it. You could swear that sometimes she revels in the torment.

"What, did you just come over to judge me?"

"Nah, you look fine. Look’s not exactly bulletproof, but…" Ellie drawls with a slight shrug, bottom lip jutting out as she plays off the smugness over successfully ruffling your feathers.

"Just checking in. You're dragging your feet."

Your response is slamming the door in her face.

"Get your lazy ass moving. Out the door in ten," Ellie calls after you, sharp and no-nonsense.

You huff, now intentionally taking your time pulling together an outfit and meticulously layering on your mascara, hoping to rack up at least a 12-minute wait just to irk her.

You can't remember the last time you felt this pissed.

Not just a little miffed, no. Full-on livid. Blood boiling, forehead creasing, balled-fists shaking at the sky—though maybe less so at the sky. Maybe your own folks.

Your family—your god-for-fucking-saken family—had gotten themselves tangled in deep, unquestionably illegal trouble, and no matter how much you pleaded, screamed, or threw tantrums, they stayed tight-lipped about the sordid details. Hell, you wouldn't even have been made privy that something was wrong if you hadn’t caught on to the phone calls growing more hush-hush, or the sudden influx of security systems being installed around the house. Maybe the biggest red flag? The cops were stopping by regularly, and for once, it wasn’t to scold you. Just a thought.

From what you managed to squeeze out of them—the bare minimum, out of necessity—they had apparently crossed someone with real power. Someone with real influence, more strings to pull, and the kind of cold-heartedness that wouldn't flinch at a little bloodshed if it meant sending a message.

Your folks had wronged them in some irredeemable way. And now, that family had decided yours needed to be put back in line.

Who was the easiest target?

The daughter, of course. The live wire. The hot-headed wild child who never learned when to shut up.

Yep. You were the one paying the price for their ineptitude.

You'd built a bit of a reputation in your community, dubbed as having a flair for "reckless behavior," passed around in social circles as prime gossip fodder. You never quite understood the controversy. In your eyes, you did plenty to keep up appearances: flashing hollow smiles at events to represent the family, staying polite (enough) in the meetings you were allowed to sit in, always trying to look somewhat presentable.

Apparently, that wasn't enough to offset some of your more... as your mother so kindly put it, "disgraceful behavior."

So fucking what.

So what if you told your mom's brunch friends that their husbands were cheating? Or taught your classmates how to climb down ivy trellises to party in houses up for sale the night before showings?

You didn't hold back from calling people out for being capitalist shills or sellouts, no matter who they were—even if that sometimes meant showing up to protests with picket signs outside your dad's business partner's buildings. That’s on them for helping fund the degree that radicalized you to begin with.

Okay… maybe getting cuffed on the hood of a cop car in front of your parents' house while shitfaced was a bit much.

But still, you were living a little. The flashing lights and sirens? Overkill.

Your family wasn't the most famous, nor the wealthiest. Just well-connected enough to keep a steady footing in town—well, until now.

They'd stuck their hands into honeypots they had no business meddling in, trying to flex what little sway they had like it meant a damn thing, as if they played bigger roles than they did.

Sure, you had some assets and certain luxuries that most could only dream of, but that's where the reach ended. And their incompetence finally caught up with them. They bit off more than they could chew and put everything at risk: the wealth, the reputation, the standing they'd spent years building.

And your safety. Just great.

Now, they were scraping together whatever funds they could spare without going under, all to secure your protection.

A bodyguard.

And not just one who checked in from time to time. No—they moved them in, offering the spare room across from yours. It was now unofficially their home base until this fiasco subsided.

You loathed the entire setup. Instead of building your own life, you were stuck in your childhood bedroom, monitored 24/7 and sacrificing your privacy because your screw-ups supposedly made you the family liability, even though they were the ones causing this mess. Dealt the shittiest hand imaginable.

Most people picture a bodyguard as a tank of a human. Burly, ex-military, head reflective enough that you could borrow it to touch up your makeup.

What you got was so much worse.

Ellie Williams.

Small in stature, slight in build, looked nothing like anyone's idea of a bodyguard.

"Don't worry. She's got a lot more to offer than what she may look like on the surface," her representing agency encouraged. "She's one of the best we've got."

Her background could be immaculate, but none of that mattered to you. She was here to intrude on every aspect of your life, and that alone was downright infuriating.

Ellie stayed married to the grind of her work. She did her job—usually too well, which is code for being an absolute tightass. Zero patience for your theatrics, toeing of boundaries, and flagrant defiance to orders. When you raised the issue of her adamance on rule-following to your family, you were met with rebuttals, them waving it off and going as far as to joke that it was a two-in-one deal.

"She keeps you safe and helps you get your act together? Color me impressed," they'd say, like it was supposed to reassure.

"You're an adult. Act like it," they'd tack on, patronizingly rubbing salt into the wound.

How degrading. And rich, coming from the very people whose carelessness got you, their beloved daughter, into a threatening situation that called for a full-time watchdog in the first place.

This, naturally, only made you want to raise hell even more.

Another thing about Ellie: the way she carried herself, there was no mistaking it. That choppy auburn mullet, tattoos spilling past her rolled-up sleeves no matter how much she tried to conceal them for "professionalism.” Short, neat nails, and assertive, calloused hands.

Not that you were looking. Not like that.

It wasn’t your fault that it was so glaringly obvious: Ellie couldn’t shine brighter through the proverbial glass closet if she tried. They had essentially handed you a pint-sized butch protector.

Every action she took made your gaydar scream. Some assuredness was a job requirement, but an extra umf made Ellie belong in this setting. Not your home—no, definitely not your home—but this line of work.

All of this, the enrage over the situation itself, the way Ellie just existed at all, it stirred up an urge to push her buttons, test her restraint just to see what would happen. Some teensy part of you wanted to discover what might make that professional facade topple in a salacious way. But those thoughts stayed locked away, reserved for late-night daydreams far from reality and hidden like a secret diary shoved deep beneath your bed.

Ellie became a constant obstacle, barricading you from your routines the instant she spotted even the most minor crack. Any opening that someone with malicious intent could take advantage of, she stopped you in your tracks and redirected you to safety. You made sure to dish out hefty doses of attitude at every step, weaponizing your disdain so Ellie would know just how much she upset and uprooted your life.

Ellie took every metaphorical punch of your feistiness readily. Never flinching. Like she had been specifically trained to handle a brat. Every eye roll, exaggerated huff, and snide remark muttered under your breath ricocheted off her like it was nothing. Your seething, white-hot fury didn't burn her in the slightest. Which was the most aggravating of all.

And to Ellie: God, you were a piece of fucking work. Ellie’s cool, strict stoicism flared beneath thin layers when you tried her patience at every possible corner. She found you to be the most asinine and pesky case she had ever been assigned, leading the competition by a mile. Not to mention your penchant for self-sabotage and inability to reel in any of your chaos, and how you practically ran headfirst into every danger sign. Ellie was a stickler, as the job required, but you had her diligent in a way that veered on paranoid. Hell, she suspected you’d seduce- or fist fight- the devil if it presented itself without a second thought. Audacious to a fault.

Yet, she never showed it—maintaining a blank face, barking stern warnings, and steady “get backs” to keep you moving in the correct, safe directions. It was satisfying to see how mad you'd get when none of your provocations broke her will. To admit that might be uncouth, but you wore every emotion on your sleeve.

There was a reason Ellie had been handed a gig like this so quickly in her career, especially being only two years your senior. She was damn good at it. Every doubt cast her way was swiftly shot down, showcasing her dedication and skill until she was regularly assigned to high-priority clients.

All the way up to this supposed honor. A career win.

And what did she land with? You. Oh, brother.

Ellie understood your frustration. This wasn't just some everyday problem. You were actively being hunted. Without speaking poorly of your family—her employers, after all—she did pity how you ended up here. But still, when you hurled insults at her like she was the one placing a target on your back? Maybe doubling down on her rigidity once in a while did manage to brighten Ellie’s day.

Thirteen minutes passed. Ellie had the toe of her military-grade boot set against the bottom step of the stairs, ready to keep you on schedule when your bedroom door finally opened. You made your way down, passing her without so much as a glance, prissily darting to the kitchen to grab a fruit for the road. Ellie clipped on and adjusted her carabiner—predictably—and let the moment slide.

You grabbed your wallet and stepped out the front door, met with a sun that felt much more stabby than it had when you first woke up. Ellie followed close behind, shutting it and triple-checking the deadbolt.

She figured you'd already be impatiently tapping your foot by the passenger side of her truck. But instead, you stood at the edge of the lawn, scrolling through your phone, fingers absentmindedly fidgeting with your necklace. Almost like you were waiting for her, though you’d never say it aloud.

Or maybe Ellie was just deluding herself.

Ellie took the small win regardless and followed you, already bracing for how many eye rolls she’d endure before the day was through.

#ellie williams #ellie williams au #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams x you #ellie x reader #the last of us #the last of us 2 #ellie the last of us #ellie tlou2 #tlou2 #tlou fanfiction #lesbian #lesbian pride #wlw post #wlw fanfic #bodyguard!ellie #vigilant - ellie williams #bloodstainedsapphic writings

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preciouslandmermaid · 13 days ago

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quiet fury in your head [xii]

Dream of the Endless x AFAB!Reader!Goddess

Note: it's finally complete xoxxox thank you to everyone who has been on this journey. it was hard to find the motivation to finish this considering what we now know about NG, but leaving the fic incomplete bothered me. (especially since 80% of it was literally done) tagging @sapphireonline cuz they asked so nicely to be tagged :). Also, my fics on ao3 are for registered users only due to AI scraping.

No use of Y/N. See part 1 for all the tags tbh.

Warnings: mature content/smut (ft. mirror!sex, light choking, p-in-v, f!oral receiving, two devoted immortal beings finally matching each other's freak)

Rating: 18+ ll This is the final chapter

(Read on AO3) || (masterpost for other chapters)

His heart aches with grief at the sight of his realm, his palace, his beautiful Dreaming. But another ache wells up inside him. An old longing. Something he’s carried with him for centuries. A pain that he could not—would not—release. His Queen of Nightmares is here. You are mere moments away.

His long strides carry him up the crumbling staircase. There is so much work to be done. So, so much. How can he justify going to you first? The scent of jasmine lingers through the dusty, mote-filled air. He has to see you. That’s all it is. He cannot work – he cannot rest – he cannot fix the Dreaming without you. His hands tremble as he reaches for the doorknob of your room. The room he made for you. Everything. All of it. Every piece painstakingly chosen to match your aesthetic, your charm, and personality.

You returned as promised. You were powerless to change anything, and yet you cared for the Dreaming, and visited him at Fawney Rig. It didn’t matter that the Burgess found a method to ward you. You had remained. You didn’t need to share a prison with him, to trap yourself alongside him, speaking of your triumphs and woes. Yet, you did.

It’s proof that the depth of his feelings for you are reciprocated. This isn’t one-sided yearning. This isn’t the tragedy of two star-crossed lovers. Your fate was to be undone by him. Well, Fate didn’t account for his feelings, did it? He loved you and he would bring you back each time. You would not go into that void of nothingness without him. He wouldn’t allow it.

You belong to him.

And he belongs to you.

The simplicity of it all threatens to break his heart from his chest. The door swings inward. You’re sitting on the bed. Your bed. You’re wearing your clothes – the ones he made for you. You are radiant. Resplendent. Morpheus’ mouth goes dry.

“Morpheus.” His name is a sweet, crooning hymn falling from your lips. “You took your time, didn’t you?” Your mouth lifts into a teasing slant.

He crosses the room in quick, urgent strides before falling on his knees, and wrapping his hands around the back of your calves. He tilts his face up to meet yours.

He breathes, “I have kept you waiting, haven’t I?”

“You have.” You cradle his jaw before slipping your fingers through his fine hair. He stares into the wild expanse of your eyes. He savors the line of your nose and adores the curve of your mouth. He licks his lips. There is so much to do. His realm needs him. But, he needs you. He knows Desire would be laughing at him if they were here.

He asks, “Are you seeking an apology?”

He feels your muscles trembling under his palms and long fingers. He slides his hands higher, guiding them beneath the bend of your knees, and urging your legs to separate.

“I prefer action to words, Dream Lord.” You part your legs and Morpheus wordlessly nudges forward until his chest is braced by your knees. He remains supplicant, face tilted towards yours, yet not crossing the final barrier between you. That is your choice to make. He will reach for you, but it’s your decision to take his hand.

You tilt forward and your breath tickles his mouth and your eyes threaten to swallow him whole and return him to stardust.

He wouldn’t mind. Oblivion by your side is better than an eternity without you.

Your lips meet. A slow, gentle glide as you acclimate yourself. It has been too long. His aching has transformed into ravenous hunger. Yet he won’t let it consume him or dictate his next motion. You deserve to be worshiped. He deserves to savor you. He won’t let anything, or anyone, separate you again. Not his siblings. Not charlatan magicians. Not fate. Nothing.

You make a sweet, keening noise and Morpheus rises from his knelt position, his hands coming to rest at your hips, as he guides you backward onto the black, silk sheets surrounded by curtains that drip with fractal starlight.

“I cannot tell you how long I have wanted this,” Dream says as his mouth brushes across your cheekbones, the bridge of your nose, and to the middle of your forehead. A lingering, yet all-too brief caress of his soft lips to your skin.

“How I’ve wanted to taste you, and hear you, and feel you…” Each word is torn from his throat, abrasive with lust, as his pale hands push aside the fabric of your skirt. The Dreaming is weak – you know this – yet you can feel Dream’s touch through the silk sheets. He is around you. Every piece of him is here. What delight. What bliss. He kisses the top of your head and nuzzles the space behind your ear before his gentle, non-urgent mouth finds the side of your neck.

Your throat constricts and a surge – not unlike the swelling ocean that churned beneath the emerald cliffs of your home – builds within you. You shut your eyes to enjoy the sensation of his creative hands kneading your thighs. His warm, plush lips suckle along your pulse before the scrape of his chin cuts against your collarbone.

“You waited,” he says, his voice is filled with awe and his breath is tickling your cheek. “You could’ve run, and made a life for yourself outside the Dreaming, but you chose to stay.”

You open your eyes to gaze into his face. “I did.”

There is no use mincing words. You chose to stay. You chose him. His mouth collides with yours, firm and urgent and desperate to taste. His tongue teases your lower lip before slipping, delving, savoring. You arch against him, practically purring with contentment as your hands blindly shove his woolly coat from his shoulders. Dream obliges and your hands greedily sleek over the cut lines of his abdomen and sculpted, narrow shoulders. Your mouths separated with a soft, wet gasp, before he kisses you once more, and unlacing the front bodice of your dress. His tongue is sweeping and stroking over yours as his lips caress and mold over your own. The kiss tastes of sunrises over cold deserts. A blazing red light bleeding across sleepy sand dunes. A humid rain forest, dew evaporating on verdant leaves, as creatures scuttle and crawl through the thick underbrush. The wind chimes sing. The drumbeats match your heart.

He deepens the kiss and your experience multiplies tenfold. You feel gravity splitting at the seams as a black hole ruptures. You feel cold, wet dirt shaping the curvature of your spine. A hundred thousand orange-winged butterflies burst from the ancient canopies and follow the wind.

You press your chest forward into his hands. An eagerness floods your veins. “Touch me,” you gasp, “I don’t think I can bear another second.”

His lips tilt into a soft, subdued smile and his dark eyes gleam with amusement.

“I am yours,” he says while tugging the final fastening free.

“You’re insufferable,” you claim, your face hot and your skin aware of each brief, passing touch as his knuckles bump into the tops of your breasts. You know his power isn’t what it used to be, but you also know that he could vanish your clothing with a snap of his fingers. He’s choosing to torment you and stoke the wild fires of your lust and longing. As if you have not waited centuries to be in his arms and merge your souls.

Dream’s thumb flicks over one of your nipples.

“Is that so?” His touch is electrifying. For a moment, the stars dancing in the curtains surrounding your bed glow brighter. The silky sheets beneath your spine hum with warmth.

“I don’t want to be teased.” You catch his wrist and yank his hand to your mouth. “It’s not fair to tease me, you know. It’s unwise, even. I am a Goddess.”

You kiss his thumb before dragging your tongue along the side and pulling the digit into your mouth. Dream’s face goes fraught with tension. You suckle around his thumb with your eyes locked onto his. His grip tightens around your waist. Good. He deserves to know how it feels – how unfair it all was.

Dream’s thumb leaves your mouth and a trail of saliva follows and dribbles onto your chest.

“They took you from me.” You cannot keep the snarl from your voice. “It almost made me hate them.”

“And do you?” Dream asks as he presses his index and middle finger against your lower lip. You part your lips and gently shake your head while his fingers carefully push past your teeth. You admire your sweet Dream Lord’s hungry expression as your tongue laves over his fingers, lips puckered over his knuckles, your breath leaving your nostrils in faint, excited puffs.

There is something sweetly intoxicating to know that you, above all creatures, can make Morpheus look at you with such hunger and delight and adoration. He had knelt before you like the offerings of Old. You would gladly spill blood for him, you would gladly die for him, but more than that – you would live for him.

He rewards your attention with a sweet, chaste kiss upon your breastbone before he finally – finally – peppers kisses along your breasts. His mouth suctions over one of your nipples, carefully lolling his tongue over the peaked bud, and your cunt clenches and flutters as little sparks travel from your chest down your spine. He pulls his wet fingers from your mouth and slithers his hand between your legs. You blink. Your dress is gone and you release a low hum of approval.

Dream’s fingers glide over your sickened, swollen clit. You jolt, spine arching, before your open mouth is covered with his and he greedily swallows each and every moan like they are made for him. Oh, Morpheus. You suckle over his tongue. The kiss is blinding, white-blue glaciers floating within cerulean seas. A Scarlet Macaw soaring over a winding, brown river. A charm made of small bones and tiny bells rattling and clinking over a raging bonfire.

You mutter with your hands tangled within his mess of hair. “You should remove your clothes.”

Morpheus grunts and the warm puff of air tickles your lips. “Do you plan to order me about all evening?”

You roll your eyes, but the effect is somewhat ruined when Morpheus’ index finger slides smoothly into your waiting cunt and you gasp, your legs twitching.

He says, “I don’t want to rush.”

He kisses his way down your stomach and lingers at every inch of skin. You force yourself to be patient. A few additional seconds, the grains of sand within the hourglass, are nothing compared to the eons you waited for him. Morpheus closes his lips around your clit, sucking, and flicking his tongue against it. Your abdomen clenches repeatedly with each quick, precise motion as two of his fingers rhythmically plunge within you.

“Oh—” it’s a choked and desperate sound, and your neck aches as your head thrashes backward onto the lavish, soft pillows. You reach one hand between your legs, blindly grasping for his narrow, pale shoulder, or the mop of dark, wild hair on top his head. Something to hold on to as magma drags through your veins and sends spark after spark through your body.

Morpheus captures your hand with his free one and twines your fingers together. You pry your eyes open to see him; devouring and savoring and worshiping you. He lifts his eyes to meet yours. They are dark, and fathomless, and wicked, and beautiful. He curls his fingers, as if beckoning you to come into his waiting mouth, and a low, appreciative groan vibrates through him. The grains of sand fall and you shatter – shatter – shatter – and scream his name.

You twist away from him, and it’s like a game, a theater show, the way your bodies move in tandem together.

You say, “I am a black panther. Sleek, playful, yellow-eyed, and clawed.” You rake your nails down his bare chest, admiring the sinewy strength of him, the dexterous flex of his muscles as your index finger swirls over his nipple.

Morpheus’ chin tilts up. He replies, “I am a python. Strong, unyielding, and patient.” His long, beautiful fingers wrap around your throat. Your body shudders as your pulse dances against his fingers and a rush of blood fills your skull.

“I am the mist. Impossible to grasp. Ethereal. Leading men and creatures astray.” You slip from him, a teasing and appreciative tilt to your lips.

But Morpheus is as clever as he is creative and you are unable to remain free from his grasp for long.

“I am the dawn. Light and warmth, burning away the chill, and covering the plants in dew,” he says, capturing you from behind and pulling your hips towards his and sliding his hard cock between your legs. His engorged tip slides against your clit and the slow, slick friction of it makes your eyes roll back into your skull.

“I am passion,” you choke out, “crazed, deep, inspiring poets and artists to act, even lost in ardor.” You arch your back, tilting yourself in such a way so that the head of his cock just barely enters you. Morpheus groans and you wish you could see his expression.

“I am devotion.” His cock pushes deeper. You gasp and your fingers clench around the sheets. “Waiting for your summons with bated breath, and offering a Kingdom of Dreams and Nightmares.” He sheathes himself fully within you. For a moment, you remain as such; his hands on your hips, your ass snug against his abdomen, his cock filling you to the brim and your walls shivering and pulsing around him.

“You deserve to see yourself,” he mutters with a slow stroke of his thumbs against your hips. You feel the slight pull of his power within the Dreaming and suddenly there’s a large, mirror facing the bed. You stare at your haggard reflection. You meet his eyes, beseeching and pleading, and who could’ve ever dreamed a Herald of Doom would crumble at the sight of her lover? He stares back at you. The moment suspends in sweat and starlight.

You whisper the word, “please.”

“Anything,” he whispers back, “for you.”

Morpheus molds your hips in his hands and guides you back and forth, his thrust slow and measured. Your gaze flicks up to the mirror where you can see his lean, pale body flexing, his jaw unhinged, his eyes dark and demanding. You release a low, choked sound, and submit to the pleasure that he’s offering. Your elbows brace onto the mattress and you arch your spine, allowing him the leverage, and Morpheus’ grin flashes white in the mirror’s reflection.

“Will you come again for me?” he asks, his voice ragged and torn.

“If you wish it,” you reply, hands twisted in the silky sheets.

“I do.” He bows his spine over yours and peppers sweet kisses along your shoulders as his cock pulses into your slick, wet heat. The tension coils in your lower stomach at every thrust, every brush of his knuckles across your skin, every kiss that he drops along your back, your shoulder, the side of your neck.

He brings you to the very edge, until you’re gasping and ready to leap from the cliff, and when you come – you cry out his name in an act of offering. For you, you think, shuddering and convulsing around his cock, this pleasure is yours.

Morpheus groans from above you and buries his face into the side of your neck as you quiver beneath him.

“Do you miss it?” He asks, hand skimming the space between your shoulder blades and down to the slip of silken sheets pooled around your hips.

“I cannot remember it as it was.” You admit sorrowfully. “When I close my eyes, I only see its end. Its destruction.”

“Do you recall your sisters?”

You frown. “In fragments.” You roll onto your side and Dream’s large, warm hand settles on your stomach. “I am not…I am not her anymore. Or the part of me that was her is…quieter, somehow…and perhaps that will change. Perhaps I will – I will remember them more clearly over time or perhaps the opposite will occur. I do not know. All I do know is that your devotion returned me to life...and for that – I am grateful.”

Dream searches your face before he speaks, “There are books in the library…” His voice is unusually tender. “Or there will be.”

“Hm. Of that I have no doubt.”

“I mean to say that the library is open to you.” He murmurs, “all of the Dreaming is open to you.”

“Yes, well, it has been open to me for the past hundred years or so,” you tease with a light smile.

He shifts, rolling his body on top of yours, the pressure and weight of him illicit a soft, pleased moan from your lips. His hand drags to your face, cradling it, staring down upon you with ancient, fathomless eyes.

“You misunderstand me.”

You arch up and graze your lips across his in a chaste kiss. “Then speak plainly, Morpheus.”

“I have suffered a world emptied of you and have no desire to experience it again.” His thumb caresses the tender, delicate skin below your eye. “Be with me, here in the Dreaming, as my Queen of Dreams and Nightmares.”

You blink. “What? For how long?”

His lips relax into a tiny moue of discontentment. Dream does not waste words unnecessarily. When he speaks, you know it to be truth (or at least, his version of it). He does not babble. He does not rant or rage. His words are as precise and deliberate as the dreams he created.

“Stay until the end.”

“The end of what?”

“Of everything.” He kisses you. You tasted infinity on his tongue and hope in the plush swell of his lower lip.

He nudges your thighs apart and his cock spears between your wet folds, and buries into your cunt with a swift, hard thrust. Your fingers dig into his shoulders as a moan is yanked from your throat. He fills you completely. The hard, thick length of him stretching your walls. He holds your chin with one hand, keeping your gazes locked, as he begins to thrust into you with short, quick movements.

You cling to him, thighs wrapped tight around his narrow hips. A laugh bubbles in your throat. You haven’t given him an answer.

But perhaps this is your answer already. You greedily press your hands to his chest, his neck, his shoulders, his jaw. You tug at his hair and demand his mouth to yours. Stay, stay, stay, the thought is punctuated by each hard, claiming thrust.

“Yes,” you gasp, “yes – yes, yes-”

And like a star splitting at the seams, you come apart, again and again, with Morpheus thrusting into you and carrying you through the waves of your pleasure until tears prick at the corners of your eyes. He leans down, licking away the salt at your cheeks, and whispering sweet, ancient words of devotion into your skin.

It’s later when the Dreaming is returned to its former glory that Morpheus finds you feeding the ravens by the cliffs that remind you of your old home. The memory of the Goddess you once were.

“I have something for you,” he announces with his hands clasped behind his back.

“You are a God of Gifts,” you tease warmly, dressed in your regalia fitting for your station as his queen.

“It’s more symbolic than anything else,” he says as he approaches and opens his palm for your hand. You smile up at him, the wide, blue-gray sky against his fluttering dark cloak. You give him your hand and he slides a ring upon it – a simple ring. A single black gemstone glitters in its fastening. The ravens squawk nearby, curious, but more-so annoyed that you’ve stopped giving them attention.

The magic hums in recollection. Like an old friend visiting from out of town. The the ring contains powers you were given to dream-weave. He’s right – it’s symbolic. You don’t need the ring to mold the Dreaming to your hand. You are Queen here and the Dreaming listens to you as it listens to Morpheus.

And yet, you wiggle your fingers in the overcast light and admire the simple silver and dark gemstone.

“Mortals give rings for betrothals and marriages,” you say conversationally, “are we wed?”

He tucks his chin a little in acknowledgment.

“Then I’m your wife as well as your queen.” You sidle beside him and slide your arm around the middle of his back, your head tilted up to meet his eyes. He cradles your cheek in his palm. There is an eternity in his eyes.

He kisses you softly and whispers against your lips, “And I am your husband, your companion, your lovesick servant – there is nothing I would not do for you, my love, my heart, my banshee.”

You are Gods. Immortals. Cosmic beings. There is no real need for titles shared among you. Yet you preen under Dream’s titles. A swell of pride balloons in your chest.

He is yours, wholly and completely, and you are the same. From now until the end of time and beyond – into the stardust and heat death of all known universes, until the last living being dies and can no longer dream, and the cosmic wheel starts anew.

As it was always meant to be.

#fic: quiet fury #morpheus x reader #dream the endless x reader #dream x reader #the sandman fanfic #the sandman reader insert #sandman x reader #sandman x you #dream x you #morpheus x you #dream the endless x morrigan #f!reader x dream #finale!!!!!!!

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linderosse · 1 year ago

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The Founder’s Call— Part 4

Sun channels a bit of her inner goddess. Meanwhile, Flora continues to walk that fine line between success and danger. :)

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Masterpost

A/N: I’ll be posting to Instagram as well! If you like my content, please consider supporting me there!

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starlit-writer · 5 months ago

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in sickness and in health, ch. 4 - alpha!simon riley x omega!reader

here is chapter four!!!! this chapter is shorter than normal, but i needed to get this done for you guys <3 i definitely am excited to continue this, and i hope you are too!!! as always, if you want to be added to the tag list to make sure you stay up-to-date, let me know in the replies! eat well, lovelies <3

if you want to understand more about my omegaverse au, you can look at my masterpost here, and it'll help explain all of the intricacies that may or may not be explained well enough in these short-form fics!

word count: 3,070 chapter three masterlist ao3 link

Your head was pounding as you stalked through the hallways of the base, away from the gym. You didn’t know your destination, your heavy, angry footsteps becoming a monotonous beat that kept you from falling over the edge. You were filled with so many confusing and conflicting emotions, which made it hard to think, let alone even begin to comprehend the miserable cocktail thrumming through your veins. Your omega side was so enamored with Simon’s behavior, whining to stay close and let him apologize, but your more logical side wouldn’t let you. What had he done to deserve your forgiveness?

The short answer? Nothing. Sure, he stayed by you when you were sick, but he was the reason for it to begin with. Past then, it’s been nothing but fights and weirdness, and you hadn’t seen any glimpse of change or improvement. You felt lost and confused - the two sides of your being constantly at war with one another.

You were so lost in your own internal conflict, you didn’t even notice the other person in the hallway until it was too late, and your face met the hard planes of their chest. The scent of wind-carried sea salt, fresh candied apples, and the dust of a demolition site invaded your senses, and your head whipped up in surprise to find Soap looking down at you. His signature smirk was playing on his lips, but his bright blue eyes shone with concern as his hands settled onto your hips to keep you in place before quickly slipping off.

“Woah there, bonnie. Where ye headed with all that steam blowin’ out yer ears?”

You stared up at him, your mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water - an apt representation of how you felt at the moment. You tried to come up with something, anything to tell him, but no words would fall past your lips. The vitriol you felt towards Simon died in the back of your throat, your omega caught between wanting to defend your alpha and the reality of your situation. So you settled for placation.

“I’m fine, Soap. Not a big deal.”

It was a lie passed through gritted teeth, and Soap could tell, especially as you looked away to avoid his eyes. His gaze softened, and he brought a gentle finger to your cheek to force you to look at him.

“It’s Ghost, yeah?”

You blew out a frustrated puff of air, unwelcomed tears welling in your lash line. You were angry - angry with Simon, with yourself, with your designation, with society as a whole, anything you could possibly blame to even attempt to make sense of all of your emotions. But even anger couldn’t completely mask the bone-deep grief that had settled over you like a lead-lined blanket. All you wanted was to feel normal again. Unfortunately for you, it seemed likely for that to never be the case again. You were bonded to an alpha who, up until a week and a half ago, refused to even acknowledge you outside of mission-related conversations, and now he had become some sort of overprotective, overbearing asshole.

“I just… I don’t know what to do. I want to hate him. Gods, I want to hate him. But…”

“He’s your alpha.”

“Exactly.” You ran a hand down your face, trying to force the traitorous tears away. Soap sighed in resigned understanding, his hand settling on your shoulder. You couldn’t help but notice how his touch was angled strangely, his wrist turned out in an odd angle that just so happened to press the scent gland on his wrist right into your own scent gland right in the juncture between your neck and shoulder. You weren’t wearing your scent blockers, a medically necessary intervention to try and keep the bond sickness away. Why he wasn’t wearing his, you didn’t know, but it felt rude to point out or ask about. You tried to ignore it, to convince yourself that it was just coincidence, a mistake, but the way he pressed his skin further into yours made it hard to believe.

To confound the emotional turmoil even further, your omega was now not only at war with your logical, rational side, but also itself. Soap’s touch, his scent, felt good. Safe. More familiar to you than even your own alpha’s after the last few months. But that was just the problem, wasn’t it? Soap wasn’t your alpha. He was a part of your pack, sure, but he wasn’t your alpha. And right now? Right now all your omega wanted was your alpha, no matter how upset you were. But, you were far too prideful to actually admit that at the moment.

Instead, you gently shrugged off Soap’s touch. As his hand slid off your shoulder, an almost sad smile appeared on his lips. “He cares about you, you know?”

Your gaze snapped back to Soap’s, your lips parted in surprise. Your mind whirled, racing with conflicting thoughts, hopes, fears, and desires. Soap shook his head, that same sad smile accompanied by a small, sad laugh. “He does. He’s just shite at showin’ it. Just… give ‘im a chance, aye?”

And with that, Soap walks away, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his military-issued cargo pants, leaving you completely shocked and stunned.

—

It was nearing midnight, if the time blinking in a bright red on your alarm clock was any indication, but sleep still stubbornly refused to take you. You were sprawled out uncomfortably on your military-issued bed, the result of tossing and turning nonstop since you had laid down. After your conversation with Soap, if you could even call it that, you picked up a shift at medbay, but even your work, something you had missed deeply in the worst throes of the bond sickness, couldn’t quell the pain and anger. But even worse than the pain and anger was the confusion. Why did Soap act the way he did? It felt like there was more than what he was saying, but maybe you were reading too far into it. And right now, as shit as it felt to say it, it was the least of your problems.

It had only been a few hours since Simon had interrupted your sparring session, and the bond was stronger than it had been, even with your anger and resentment and the distance that you had created between the two of you. You still couldn’t feel his emotions very well, even when you tried to focus on it, but you just chalked that up to the fact that your own emotions were blocking him out, as strong and volatile as they were at the moment. It didn’t matter to your omega though. Your base instincts were prowling inside of you, your skin prickling with the need to be near your alpha.

And that’s how Simon’s crumpled up sweatshirt that you had thrown into the corner ended up on your bed, tucked between your pillows as you laid in the dark room. Soap’s words echoed in your ears, his Scottish brogue repeating to just give Simon a chance. You were so tired. Tired of everything. The type of bone deep exhaustion that you knew a simple night’s sleep wouldn’t fix. And that type of fatigue only brings weakness, and weakness brings irrationality. Plus, Simon’s sweatshirt was losing its scent, leaving your omega side even more on edge. Even though you hadn’t touched it until tonight, it had been sitting in the corner for a week, and it barely held the residual scent of the harsher scents of Simon’s pheromones. You knew that already, as you had unabashedly buried your face into it a few minutes ago to try and subdue your omega side enough to find sleep. But instead of finding the smoked pine, wet gunpowder, and a freshly-lit cigarette smell you knew should be there, you found it all smelling stale and rotted, which only made your omega freak out more.

You flopped onto your back, a groan of frustration leaving your lips. You picked up your phone for the umpteenth time that night, but this time your finger hovered over Simon’s contact. Soap’s words whispered in your mind again, but this time, you listened.

Your fingers flew across the screen before your more rational side could stop them.

Hey. Are you awake? We need to talk.

You threw your phone down onto your bed, your hands flying up to cover your face as another groan of frustration pushed past your lips. You hated this. All of it. You wished you could go back in time and somehow stopped all of this from happening. But, it didn’t work like that.

Simon wasn’t in any better of a state than you. He rarely slept as is, but he had found it especially hard since you had left his quarters. His thoughts were all consumed by self-deprecation and fear, and those thoughts became especially loud in the darkness of his quarters, where your sick, rotted scent still clung to his bedsheets from where you had laid for those three days. When he heard his phone buzz from where it lay face down on his bedside table, he had half a mind to ignore it, just as he had done with everything other than work the last week and a half. But something told him that it was important. He sighed, stretching his arm out to blindly grab at the device from where he was laying face down in his bed. He looked at the bright screen, his eyes adjusting to the light. As soon as he saw your name flashing across his screen, he flipped over and sat up. His heart raced as he read your text, so many worst-case scenarios flashing through his mind.

He normally wasn’t the type to worry like this. To feel anything for anyone, as evidenced by the neglect he had put you through. But, after seeing you so close to death, and his conversations with Soap and Price, he had noticed it more and more. This all-consuming desire to protect you, to be what you need. But, he would still stand by what he told you that very first day, before you had passed out. If you still wanted to break the bond, he would.

He just hoped that this wasn’t what this conversation was going to be about.

Do you want me to come to yours or do you want to come here?

His response was short, succinct. The detached words completely betrayed the way his hands shook as he typed out the response carefully, trying to give you the space to make the decision without being too overbearing.

Your response didn’t come on his phone. Instead, 10 minutes later, there was a soft knock on his door. He jumped out of bed, tugging on a pair of sweatpants. As he opened the door with one hand, the other was deftly tying the strings of his pants.

Your gaze fell down to the movement, your cheeks heating up in a flush of embarrassment before your gaze snapped up to Simon’s. Your tongue felt heavy, uncertain of itself. “Hi.”

Your scent hit Simon at full-force. You smelled better than you had the last time you were in his quarters. Your warm, caramelized vanilla, full of spice and the thinnest layer of medical antiseptic and gunpowder. It smelled much more like you, right, but there was still something off. You smelled… defeated, almost, like you had given up. And, maybe, you had.

“Hey,” he whispered back in response. He felt uncertain, something he wasn’t familiar with. “You said we needed to talk?”

You looked down at the floor, biting the corner of your lower lip. You knew what you needed, what your omega wanted, but your logical side was holding you back. You nodded slightly, keeping your gaze averted. “Can I come in?”

Simon nodded, even though you couldn’t see it, and stepped back. You stepped inside, letting the door fall closed behind you. You looked around the room, noticing how much it hadn’t changed. Simon’s sheets were mussed up, and it was clear that he had been tossing and turning just as much as you had been. You sighed softly, running a hand down your face. Your omega side was whining, begging to be wrapped up in Simon, but it had finally started to settle down being within Simon’s quarters.

Simon stood awkwardly behind you - like a puppy afraid to be seen. You felt the emotions radiating off of him, smelled it in the air. His normal scent had soured slightly, but you could tell he was trying to hide it. You glanced over your shoulder at him, and, sure enough, his hand was clamped over one of his scent glands to try and dampen the scent. He stared back at you, his brown eyes filled with a sad warmth. A frown tugged at your own lips as you saw the sadness in his gaze, a strange feeling of guilt flaring in your chest.

“What did you need to talk about?” He asked softly, his gaze unwavering from yours.

Strangely, just hearing those words from him broke something in you. Maybe it was the fact that you were exhausted, your omega so wounded and confused, or that you were so tired of being enemies - whatever the reason, it truly didn’t matter. Tears started to well in your lash line, your eyes closing to try and fight against the unrelenting tide. In the brief watery moment, you saw Simon’s face morph into thinly-veiled panic, and right when your eyes closed, you felt his arms wrap around you.

“Hey, hey, love, shhh…” Simon muttered softly as he shifted his body to press completely against yours. Your hands came up to rest on his bare chest as the tears started to flow freely. Your chest stuttered as you tried to force air into your lungs, but this was all too much and yet, not enough. “It’s okay. I got you. I got you.”

You shook your head, but you weren’t quite sure what you were denying as the tips of your omega claws dug slightly into the thick muscle of his pectoral. “I… I’m tired, Simon,” you whispered in response, your voice weak and shaky. “I’m so, so fucking tired.”

He pressed you further into his chest, your head slotting perfectly under his chin. “I know, sweetheart. I know. Do you want to talk about it?”

You shook your head again, not trusting yourself to speak. Not trusting yourself to keep the armor of spite and anger that you had carefully crafted over the last few months at bay. You knew what you needed. From both yourself and him.

Vulnerability.

“Tell me what you need, love. Please. You’ve done such a good job blocking me out, I can’t get a read on you. I need you to talk to me. I want to help you, but I can’t without words.”

“I-I didn’t do it on purpose,” You sobbed out, pressing your face further into his skin, angling it to get as close as you can to the scent gland on the underside of his jaw.

A small grumble shook in his chest as he pulled you impossibly closer, a huff rustling your hair. He placed his lips against the top of your skull gently, rocking the two of you slightly as you wept. “I know,” he muttered, his lips brushing your hair tenderly as he spoke. “It’s my fault. I pushed you away. I fucked up. And I ain’t gonna stand here and make excuses anymore. There was reasons for why I reacted the way I did, but… now’s not the time to go into them. Just know that… I’m here for you. I got you, love. In every and any way that you want me.”

“I don’t know how to forgive you.” The words were small, little more than a breath of shaky, pain-filled air that brushed against the thin, delicate skin of his throat.

And, fuck, if that didn’t stab him through the chest like a twisting blade. He knew he deserved it, gods, he knew it, but it didn’t make it hurt any less.

“I know,” he whispered in response, but his voice lacked any real strength. He sounded hollow, like your whispered admission had completely shattered him. “I know.”

“I’m just so tired,” you repeated, your voice breaking on another sob. “I don’t know what to do, I’m so fucking… I’m torn, Simon. Every day the logical side of my brain and my omega have been at war with each other, and I’m so fucking tired of fighting it. I give up.”

“You… you give up?” Simon whispered, his voice coated in shock.

You tilted your head up higher, moving away from him just enough to look up at him fully. Your cheeks were streaked with tears, the skin red and swollen. For the first time in a long time, you could feel his emotions through the bond. The shock, the self-hatred, the pain that ricocheted through his body felt almost like your own. Even through the onslaught of his emotions, you could feel your heart, which had been so cold and detached to his, warm slightly. He cares. You blinked, trying to will the tears away enough to look at Simon - really look at him for the first time, probably ever.

“I give up on pretending I don’t need you.”

Simon blinks. Once. Twice. Three times.

“What?” he mumbled, his voice still filled with shock.

“At least for now. I’m tired of fighting it. All of it. And I might not know how to forgive you, how to trust you outside of a battlefield, but I’m tired of sleeping in an empty bed away from the man I’m mated to. I’m tired of avoiding each other like the plague. I’m tired of feeling like I’m incomplete. I’m just… tired.”

Tired. Simon could work with tired. The trust and the bond strengthening and all of that can come after. But, it’s a chance. And that’s all he needed.

“Do you want to stay the night?”

You nodded slowly, forcing yourself to maintain eye contact. You knew you couldn’t run any longer. And you knew that this, even just for a night, would help soothe your omega. The actual conversation can wait until the morning.

tag list: @kerst666 @misscaller06 @letaliabane @sai-int @itsmeamysworld @massivescissorsthingperson @aeeliy @alkalineapparition @cringeycookies @trulovekay @luvlyleah276 @mundanenonsense @unclearblur @masterclassofescapism

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idontcaboose · 5 months ago

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Grand Theft Danny part 21

Previous. Masterpost

He loved his brothers, he really did, but….

How do they get into these messes? Like, he expected better from Duke. Not really from Jason, but usually he gets dragged into stuff by the Outlaws. Really, this was more in line with Tim and his Young Justice group.

It took some considerable bribing for Jason to explain his side, but after a couple of hours, two snack breaks, and more than one theoretical debates on whether or not if Danny could taste a milkshake if they poured it into the gas tank, Dick had a good idea of the absolute unit of magic fuckery that was taking place.

Throughout their explanations and subsequent snack runs, they had found themselves in Robertson park in a secluded grassy spot, with the three vigilantes on the grass leaning on the side of the Batmobile.

“So, Danny…. What do you like to do when you are not a… well, one ton of butt kicking supercar?” Dick asked, breaking the, not quite, comfortable silence of the group.

Danny responded with a clip of “Wouldn't you like to know weather boy.”

Duke couldn't stop laughing and Jason face-palmed.

“OH, come on. You try making small talk with a possessed Car.” He whined.

“Still could have done better than that Dickie.” Jason laughed.

Dick stuck his tongue out at Jason. “Fine then, what do you want to do now? You had your joyride, and got lunch, what's next?”

The three of them traded ideas with Danny cheering or boo'ing certain suggestions.

“Maybe another joyride with the cool kids?”

All three vigilantes jumped and turned to see Spoiler and Black Bat lounging on the roof of the Batmobile.

Tag list

@kizzer55555 @sebas-nights @candeartist422 @trappednyourheart @fandom-life-corrupted-me @tkiesai @2lbballpeenhammer @admiralwidow @rewrittenwrongs @whotfevenknowsanymore @symmetricalastigmatism

@thespacedragons

@atinygracie @okami-love

@lesbian-spider-drone @1n0sss @forgetmenot-bluepurple @ehobep

#dpxdc #dcxdp #haunted car au #Grand Theft Danny #AAAAAAHHHHHHH #its the gals #GUYS IT CASS #she finally showed up #how will she take the kid possessi g the car?#find out Next Time on Dragonball Z!#sorry for the long time between posts #I try to post when i have 5 parts written ahead of my public post #i got 7 ahead cause i am not 100% on where this is going #so posting it now #f it we ball #ill figure it out somepoint

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starsofjewels · 5 months ago

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Sisterhood

Cersei Lannister x Autistic! Lannister! Reader

Part 4 (?) of the autistic Lannister daughter reader.

CONTENT: Autistic!Reader, usual Westerosi mental health shenanigans, vauge mentions of Joanna's death, potential spoilies for the show (but it came out a decade ago so is it really?).

Lannister warnings

Feat. The High Sparrow, Mace Tyrell and Jaime's need for family therapy.

2.5k (ish)

If you guys like this fic, make sure to check out the masterpost for the rest of the series

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Reposted from 10 minutes ago bc of a mutual who wouldn't stop fecking around in the replies (you know who you are).

This was originally a request but I altered what they asked for so much I didn't feel I could attach it to post.

Thank you for your patience as we deal with my procrastination issues and also the fact I have 0 spare time for fanfic atm.

I'll be back in 7 weeks with the next offering, stay safe kids.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Cersei Lannister is utterly delighted when, at the grand age of thirteen, she is handed a squirming, complaining lump of pink flesh wrapped up in fine blankets. She knows what it is immediately, a baby sister, her baby sister. As much as she loves Jaime, and tolerates Tyrion, there is something appealing about a little girl. To dress up, to play with, to have all to herself- How wonderful it is, to be a sister and a prince’s betrothed.

She is very lucky, all her friends, and the low noble girls who will be her handmaidens, tell her so. Cersei is beautiful, virtuous and perfect, and you will be too. Your father calls you the angel, and with those wisps of blonde hair around your tiny, pink face and big, impossibly big, eyes, it is hard not to believe.

When Tyrion was born, he was large and bloody, misshaped like a thing made of clay, not a baby. Cersei couldn’t remember the last time she had seen a real baby, like in the paintings of herself and Jaime wrapped in their mother’s embrace, or of illustrations she can’t quite believe are her father and uncles. She goes to Tywin, Septa behind, insisting you must have come from the Gods, not quite understanding the knowing smiles of the adults around her. And life with this new, precious, thing- For that is really what you are as an infant- Is perfect. For a few days, at least.

Joanna dies four days after your birth. Cersei is not fully old enough to understand why, or what exactly has occurred, but she remembers her mother’s pale face, a hand around Tywin’s shoulder. Sometimes, when she recalls it, she thinks she can hear soft harp, even though the room is silent. You take pride of place, of course, in your mother’s arms, Father’s free arm cradling your head. If it weren’t for that lingering smell of rot, and the ever-growing whiteness of your mother’s face, it might be a pleasant scene.

The maester appears, and Cersei is ushered out of the room, new baby sister in tow. She will not see Tywin smile truly for another many years. At least, not without a very little lady accompanying him.

When you go from a lump of flesh to a truly formed person (if very small, and quite plump), Cersei begins to realise just how wonderful it is to have a much younger sister. She is fifteen, and you are an excellent pawn to get Prince Rhaegar to notice her. Rhaegar is soft and gentle, less like a dragon and more like a dog, and he simply adores infants. He has one coming himself, from his new wife, the Dornish princess, but no-one seems to care much about poor Elia, hidden away upstairs.

One of your earliest memories is sitting by the fountain in the courtyard as Cersei plaits flowers into your hair, Rhaegar coming by to offer her more, and sitting with your tiny self as you attempt to poke the fish. Cersei remembers you wailing every time the dragon prince took your hand to prevent a fish massacre. Your earliest memory, funnily enough, is Tywin taking you line fishing at no older than three or four.

You, as it transpires, turn out to be an excellent bonding point between herself and Rhaegar. Viserys is just about your age, if slightly older, and so it becomes not an uncommon sight to see the older boy taking you places, wandering about with the Hand’s daughter no differently than the common children. Everyone seems to love you; you are good, obedient, quiet. Glances turn to Tyrion, four years your senior. Loud, and brash and already with a decent-sized collection of swear words. It is no wonder you are everyone’s favourite.

Of course, women in Westeros do not tend to have a very good lot in life. Women are virtuous, women are prizes, and what is a better prize than Tywin Lannister’s eldest daughter? Cersei stays in the Red Keep when Arryn becomes Hand, when she is married off to a man who would rather spend his nights in foreign beds and wrestle hogs than he would with her. Her gaze falls to Jaime, her babes come Lannister-blond, and she wonders what may have become of you under your father’s influence.

And like most ideas Cersei has, this one falls apart just the same. There is no little blonde maiden, dressed in Lannister colours and paying more attention to her dolls than the court. She expects a lion, and what arrives is little more than a cat.

The next time Cersei properly sees you, you are at least twenty. Her son, her single pride and joy, rules as a tyrant, even she can admit that. Ned Stark is dead, Renly Baratheon is dead, and the idea that you might have grown up into a proper young lady is gone.

You, a woman of twenty, are attached to your father like an infant. Cersei remembers you as a young child, and cannot honestly find a difference, aside from the obvious developments of womanhood. You are very pretty, but you are not a Lannister: your hair has darkened, your eyes shift, wide and frightened.

“Go, child,” She doesn’t quite think she’s ever heard Tywin’s voice so plain, so sweet, “go and see your sister, there is work to do.”

So you do, you sit awkwardly between herself and one of her more favourable maidens. Cersei does not speak to you, only occasionally passing you something or half-explaining an inside joke. Something is wrong with you, she can feel it from even a passing glance, but she cannot quite tell what.

But you are her sister, so it doesn’t really matter what she wants or thinks. Cersei is, for all intents and purposes, as much under the control of Tywin as she was before her marriage, before he abandoned her in the capital; she will never admit it, but she’d do anything he asked.

Days become months, and months become the better part of years, she hardly speaks to you. Together, at Tywin’s funeral, she watches you recite all of your prayers, leave him coins and jewels on his person, and she realises that the last time the two of you spoke was Joffrey’s wedding day, if she even wants to remember such a tragedy,

“He always liked you better,” She says, motioning to your father. By now, the Septon has already finished his prayers, and Tywin is well and truly moved to the next place, “Never one conversation didn’t have your little name on the end: how sweet you were, how intelligent you were-” Cersei’s tone takes an edge, even if she doesn’t mean it to, “There was nothing any of us could ever do to win his favour- But you? No-one could tear him away from a princess like you.”

And you sit there, letting her say anything that needs to be. Your eyes just as wide, just as still as ever, and it infuriates her. Perhaps she wants you to fight, or to sob and insist you knew nothing of your father’s favouritism, but you say nothing.

“Do you even speak?” Cersei asks eventually, “Or did Father take your tongue with him?”

She wants some retribution, and she gets none. So she slaps you across the face. There is no Tywin to protect you in this instance, but there is Jaime. He marches over, golden hand glistening in the firelight, and takes her by the wrist, gently, into a side room. Mace Tyrell bumbles over to you. You’ll speak to him, apparently, but not to your own sister.

“What was that for?”

Bitter tears come. The very ones that worked so well against any man other than her brother. He has, and always will, see past it. Hands cup her cheeks, and she almost jumps at the cool metal of a prosthetic she still isn’t quite used to.

“She’s not like us-” Jaime says eventually, “It isn’t her fault she’s different.”

This is not the Jaime she remembers. The Jaime with two hands, who would defend her in an instant. Cersei isn’t quite sure where this has come from, what he’s done, or heard. She assumes Tywin spoke to him, in his usual way, some time before his death,

“Father said-”

“Father said-” He has never argued against her before. Not once, not truly, “That she is our responsibility. What else would you do, Cersei? Ship her down to Dorne with Myrcella? Lose the only remnants of Father we have left? Tyrion is gone, Father is dead. I will not let her go anywhere - Besides, Father would haunt us.”

It is too soon to make such jokes. She falls into his arms, much like a princess would in one of her mother’s old fairy stories. For the first time in years, Cersei wants her mother…

Tommen’s ascension to the throne is marked by religion. The High Sparrow (as he insists upon calling himself) creeps from the outskirts of King’s Landing and places himself, quite comfortably, right within the royal family. Cersei feels her son’s following slipping from her control into the world of religion, and she wonders if this is how her father felt when Joffrey began to stray from command.

But Tommen is not her worry, not really. He is her son, but he is too dense to truly be manipulated. A sweet boy, a good boy, but far too young to have any real sense of coercion. No, her worry is not Tommen, it is you.

Quiet, obedient little girls, as it turns out, are essentially gold dust to this new group of robins, or sparrows, or whatever idiotic bird-themed name they’ve given to themselves. Especially a quiet, noble girl. She finds you frequently with Cousin Lancel, applying salve to the hideous star carved into his forehead. She imagines you kissing it as well, that you fulfill a mother’s role for him. Not that she’d be surprised.

It is one of those strange days that she doesn’t quite remember fully. She hasn’t slept well, not that she has been, and she notices her handmaidens are depleting in numbers. To be married, or to become septas, or whatever it is they do with their lives; she isn’t entirely sure. But it is getting colder, definitely, Winter is coming again.

“But then it turned out he was scared of them-”

It is your voice, definitely, talking about dogs. She has never heard you so utterly in your element, and nor has she heard the burst of laughter that follows. A man’s, an older man’s. For the first time in her life, Cersei hides herself in the shadows, and you walk past on the High Sparrow’s arm. You seem confident, almost at ease, entirely different from the little girl she’s grown to know, and something like jealousy blooms to see you with a strange, old man, rather than her.

“Which I don’t understand, because it was only a little dog-”

“It was well past your waist, and it had a bird in its mouth- His bird.”

Your laugh is something your father would treasure, her father would treasure. But there is something about this interaction that spurs a rage within her. She doesn’t understand how you, the lady who would not speak a word to her own sister, could be so friendly to that old Sparrow. The two of you go down the corridor, and an hour later you are summoned to the Council rooms.

“He’s nice to me,” She hears you say, brushing one of the king’s cats. What a childish response. “He wants me to become a septa.”

“And- Do you want to be a septa?”

It is Uncle Kevan who speaks, and Cersei is thankful for that. She isn’t sure she has the correct words to voice exactly how she’s feeling. You look up with big, sweet eyes and tilt your head.

“I suppose it’d be nice to wear the same thing every day, I wouldn’t have to worry about laundering.”

The queen beside you scoffs and rolls her eyes, it is a response she has grown used to from you, your dependence on order. It comes from Tywin, he was exactly the same with money and accounts. At least he had a dresser.

She does not worry about you personally, particularly, and she knows she ought to. She worries that you’re sleeping with that old zealot, and it’ll look bad on the family’s name. It isn’t entirely implausible, not with how the two of you behave with each other; less like a teacher and his mentor, and slightly more like a young couple in love.

You are devastated when Tyrion arrives with half of his new Valyrian army to take you away to some land beyond. She watches you try to convince your new friend to come with you, but he has his mission, and you yours. A High Sparrow does not belong outside of his nest, he says, and Cersei wonders where he thinks a lioness is supposed to go- Not that you could ever be classified as a lioness.

And that High Sparrow, your friend as you insist, turns on her as soon as you are out of the picture. She is stripped and lashed and shamed, to such an extent she feels her father roll in his grave on particularly quiet nights. Any other woman might understand that this is how you have felt your whole life; alone, afraid, latching onto any connection you manage to pull from the wreckage. But Cersei is not any other woman, and she unleashes fury like no other. Your High Sparrow crashes to the ground in spectacular, green, fashion, and she doubts you will ever find out.

When Cersei is queen in her own right, before she is killed as a tyrant like her son before her, the last she hears of you is a life of adventure on the Iron Islands, chasing about the now-broken Theon Greyjoy under the watch of his uncle: The pious one, not Euron, who is barred from coming anywhere near you, she discovers. And the three of you have, apparently, formed an odd little family, overseen by Balon and monitored by Yara, or Asha, or whatever the girl’s name is.

She never did understand you, but with the family in tatters, she is relieved you are safe. As one less burden on her shoulders, and not out of love, she assures herself. Perhaps one day you will marry Theon and Balon will stop pissing around. Or, more likely, you’ll stay on that bundle of wet rocks, playing about like a child. Less a lion, and more of a leopard seal.

At least you have a happy ending, even if she is not there to see it.

#game of thrones #game of thrones x reader #got #got x reader #game of thrones x y/n #autistic!reader #autistic!lannister!reader #cersei lannister #queen cersei #jaime lannister #tyrion lannister #tywin lannister #house lannister #reposted from 3 minutes ago sorry if you already saw this

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lo1k-diamonds · 9 months ago

Text

Be as it must 💜 Part 3

“Is there more to learn about you, Jungkook?”

PAIRING: Alpha!Jungkook x Omega(f)reader

SUMMARY: You try to resist the CEO's charms, but it's hard... At least until the other shoe drops.

WORD COUNT: 8.9 k

GENRE: ABO, strangers to lovers, fated lovers, smut

RATING: R (explicit)

WARNINGS: tension and teasing, and angst

A.N. A huge thank you to @moonleeai for the beta read💜 This was never supposed to be so long, but I'm a fan of making the reader fall in love too... Before the bomb drops 💣 Enjoy 😉

You thought getting kidnapped would be the most bizarre experience you had ever been through, but it seemed like CEO Jeon Jungkook had other thoughts.

If it wasn’t weird that you entered his gigantic Seoul building while unconscious and tied up, it had to be that you exited escorted by the man himself, right into a car that you had only ever seen on television. You shrunk into the back seat, not only feeling weird with the surrounding spacious, immaculate leather, but with the fact that beyond the smoked glass, the CEO was telling something to the driver before he got inside the car.

You refused to look back to confirm whether the CEO had stayed put, watching you go; instead, you closed your eyes and heaved a deep sigh. It was outlandish that you wanted to turn around and see him there, as if you needed reassurance, when in truth, he was part of the problem.

You thought the weirdness would end there, which led you to look outside the window and see the tall buildings reflecting the city lights as the car moved. He was your boss, after all. If anything, he did need you to deal with the American consortium negotiations. And you trusted his word; he said you could leave once it was all said and done, so you weren’t a prisoner.

But you did not expect what he had planned for you.

“CEO Jeon has asked me to convey to you that he means to assure your comfort,” the man, Seung Ji-Young, said after introducing himself as the CEO’s driver and assistant, looking at you through the rearview mirror. You raised an eyebrow. “Given the circumstances, he has made arrangements to have a series of boutiques welcome you so you may relax and feel right at home.”

Your forehead creased as you took a glance at the time displayed on the dashboard, “At this hour?”

“Of course.”

You blinked, glancing again — 20:25. You shook your head, “Why would I need clothes? Unless—” You leaned forward, “What happened to my luggage?”

“We have it, rest assured.”

You couldn’t stop frowning at the weirdness of it all, “Right.”

“If there is somewhere else you’d like to go to relax, like a spa, it is not a problem. I’ve been instructed to drive you wherever you’d like.”

Your lips became an uneasy line, “No, I’m fine.”

The man nodded as he drove with a serious demeanor, “Then may I suggest a Michelin star—”

“No,” you interrupted swiftly, afraid that his offers would never stop. “Just— Just take me home— I mean, where I’m supposed to sleep.”

“Certainly.”

You groaned mutely and rubbed your eyes; now, even you were talking weirdly. But could anyone blame you after everything that had happened?

You stayed quiet as the car drove smoothly through narrower and narrower streets. Despite trusting what the CEO had said, you couldn’t help the uneasiness twisting your guts.

Finally, the car entered an underground garage and you were able to breathe. Mr Seung circled the car to get your small luggage from the back, including your handbag, and you bowed in relief, finding in it all your very important documents and belongings. It certainly comforted you enough to follow Mr Seung across the parking lot and into the elevator with a renewed sureness that you were not a prisoner.

“Would you like to go straight to your suite or take a look at the amenities first?”

His voice was as gentle as ever, and you tried to offer him a small smile, “Straight to bed would be best.” He pressed the keypad to select the 48th floor, and you frowned again, “Shouldn’t I check in first?”

“You mean with the concierge? No, he’s aware of your presence and available 24 hours in case you need anything.”

Your mouth opened, but you quickly closed it; maybe the CEO owned an apartment. That would justify why you weren’t at a hotel right now. You honestly didn’t care as long as you could put that day behind you.

The final straw took form in the quiet, gentle explanation of Mr Seung, “The amenities at your disposal include the residence lounge, gym, movie theater, swimming pool and spa. The latter includes a sauna, whirlpool, jet bath, and steam room at any hour, while the massages and skin and body treatments are available during the day. Of course, given the circumstances, a call can be made to arrange any treatment of your preference within the hour. Anything from a massage to a mud bath can be arranged; please don’t hesitate.”

You nodded respectfully while you screamed in your head — why was this happening? You just wanted your head to hit the pillows. The exhaustion taking over your mind was rendering you out of order, yet that ahjussi was so nice. Why was it all so hard?

“Ah, here we are,” he said as the elevator came to a stop gently with a sweet voice announcing the floor over the speakers.

You exited the elevator first, though you waited for Mr Seung to indicate to you which of the two doors was intended for you and to type the code in.

Once the door opened, you entered and braced yourself with eyes so wide they were twice the size. The stairs to your left indicated you were in a duplex penthouse, but it was the open concept of the space that floored you. Oak herringbone floors expanded into a panoramic view through floor-to-ceiling windows from one side of the building to the other. The soft touches of the white furniture and long couch in the living room extended into the dining room with a long glass table with an exorbitant vase of flowers that brought a heart stopping pop of color.

You blinked, befuddled, at the luxury surrounding you, and Mr Seung passed by you to indicate the next room, “There is the kitchen, should you need to arrange something, and a private terrace for your enjoyment as well.”

You glanced over the natural stone tops in shades of pure white matching the cabinets and circled the island to check what he was talking about. The view continued on that side of the building, leaving you speechless. From that high, the world looked small. It was as if that place was out of touch with reality.

“But perhaps you’d like to see the guest suite,” he smiled, and you just nodded.

You followed him back towards the staircase, ready to pick up your luggage, when he waved at a paper on the foyer table.

“CEO Jeon wanted you to know the password so you can make use of the apartment as you please. He’s also asked me to inform you that everything is at your disposal, including all snacks and beverages.”

You blinked, trying to keep up through the stupor, “How did he have time to fill up the pantry?”

You were wondering more to yourself, but Mr Seung chuckled, “We do it for him, of course. He particularly likes shrimp crackers, but I’m sure he won’t mind if you take some.”

You could only frown as though the information was odd. Mr Seung grabbed your luggage and started his way up the stairs, and you finally managed to say, “He lives here?”

“Of course, he owns the building.”

He didn’t stop, thus missing the way your grimace spelled a What?! with furrowed eyebrows, wide eyes and parted lips. You looked around you once more, taking in the crazy luxury surrounding you before hurrying up the stairs. You thought he had booked a hotel room for you, at most owned an empty apartment, and that was already in the realm of stupidly crazy rich. But what did he mean, the CEO lived here? Here, as in the building? Or here, as in—

Your breath caught as you reached the upper floor. The wall that faced the floor-to-ceiling window was entirely covered by a dark blue tapestry with glistening silver stars surrounding a central half-moon serving as the base of a vibrant orange tiger lily, shining brighter than any celestial bodies around it. You swallowed hard and looked at the master room across from where Mr Seung had disappeared with your luggage. Someone lived there, and you didn’t need more than the half-moon and dark blue colors to remember the Jeon Family emblem. Still, if that wasn’t enough, his scent reaching your nose told you everything you needed to know.

“Here you have it, the guest suite.”

Mr Seung was smiling as he opened the door to a walk-in closet, a small office, and then, across the room, to the ensuite bathroom. Meanwhile, a view as breathtaking as downstairs greeted you, and you continued to be flabbergasted.

“I thought he meant a hotel…” you whispered.

“CEO Jeon wanted to make sure of your comfort personally.”

You glanced at the man, and it was only because he seemed dead serious, almost concerned, that you didn’t throw your hands to the ceiling. Who cared about what the CEO wanted?! You were tired! And overwhelmed! And done with everything being blown out of proportion!

“But, of course, if you are dissatisfied, I can arrange for a five-star—”

“No, no, please,” you found yourself raising a hand and closing your eyes, begging him to stop. “I’ll stay, this is fine. No, perfect. It’s perfect, I’m perfectly happy.”

Mr Seung’s eyes instantly softened, as though you being pleased comforted him deeply. “I’m glad to hear it. I’m usually available to drive CEO Jeon at 6 AM, but should you require me to be available earlier, I’d be happy to assist you.”

You stared at the man, speechless. How was he so kind and sweet, and where did he come from?

“No, I— I can get to the office by mys—” You bit your tongue, then raked your hair back. What was the point, really? “I normally go to the office around eight thirty, so please don’t hurry because of me. I need to sleep. Badly.”

You huffed the last words, but Mr Seung stiffened as though he had been stung, “Of course, I won’t hold you any longer. Have a good night.”

He bowed deeply, making you rush to do the same before he left quietly. Your fingers gripped your hair roots as you looked around you — what the fuck? The incredible cityscape view, the suite that was probably your apartment size, the room across from yours where CEO Jeon slept… Everything was just surreal.

You woke up the next morning with a renewed vitality. Not because that was the best bed you had ever slept in, the biggest shower you had ever used, or the most delicious breakfast you had ever had, but because you had processed things. CEO Jeon Jungkook was an alpha of the Jeon Family who, through medieval means, had committed a crime based solely on your blood. Your rare designation did not excuse it, and as such, he was trying his best to accommodate you to prevent you from causing a scene, suing, exposing, or all of the above. There was a potential additional agenda that involved the traditional matching of an omega to an alpha, but you were in the XXI century. Alphas didn’t have to be with omegas, rare as they were, and you would not be coerced into engaging in such ancient customs. CEO Jeon would respect your wishes, and you believed his word.

He had even entered and left his own apartment without a word or a sound. You had slept like a rock — perhaps surprisingly, you felt safe there — but you had expected to see him at breakfast, at least. In the end, the only proof you had of his fleeting presence was the closed bedroom door and dirty coffee mug at the head of the dining table. You almost felt bad for potentially making him uncomfortable, but then remembered this was all his fault. Plus, he probably made Mr Seung drive him at 6 AM, which was also barbaric.

It brought a smile to your face to see Mr Seung’s happiness when you told him how you had rested well. You believed his care ran deeper than any CEO Jeon’s order, though you couldn’t help wondering if it was because he knew of your designation.

Fortunately, at the office, such things didn’t matter. As soon as you said your name to one of the secretaries on the last floor, she instantly provided you with your own office and badge, explaining how everything worked. You were used to sharing an office, but you had decided not to complain. Live and let live. If the CEO wanted to overbear you with such things, you’d accept them quietly. You just needed to do your job and leave.

Your laptop remained your own, so entering the workflow was seamless. You were pleased to find all the information about the rescheduled meetings, and emails about other projects you were working on. You even made sure to check in and reassure Yoon Minsik, your mentor, before attending the first in-person meeting with the legal team of that office.

Although you had only met most of them online, it was a cordial and nice moment before starting what you hoped would be a fruitful meeting. But then CEO Jeon arrived.

Before, you were just a member of the team, participating in meetings you’d otherwise attend online. After he entered the room, however, you were an omega in the presence of an alpha who easily disrupted the flow of the conversation.

You didn’t believe he did it on purpose, in his defense. You could smell humans amongst the team, and even they were affected by the CEO’s presence. What you’d like to say is that you, contrary to them, were not impacted in any way, but that was not the case.

You had to clear your voice as you spoke and actively force yourself to pretend he wasn’t there. Inwardly, you kept reassuring yourself that it was just that department meeting to coordinate ongoing projects. He wasn’t usually there, but maybe he had made an exception this time.

Only CEO Jeon was present in every meeting.

It was exhausting to focus on each different project and give your best while trying to ignore him. Not that he spoke a lot, but when he did, it threw your attention completely off. He looked so fine. That black designer suit framed his large shoulders deliciously, making every move as evident as possible. Making you imagine what it would be like to be caged in by said arms, embracing you as if—

“Hey!”

You blinked and looked away as everyone got up from their chairs. You should have noticed the meeting ended and that the CEO had been forced to leave, called by that woman, his secretary — Sunhwa.

You faced one of your colleagues, who was smiling expectantly, “Should we have lunch together?”

It was easy to accede and join her and the team, but your thoughts remained on Sunhwa. She wasn’t present in the meetings, but you had noticed her easily because every single time you had to move between meeting rooms — and the CEO did the same — she showed up to talk to him, pass him a file, or just accompany him. To the point you wondered if he needed a bodyguard and heard whispers of other people potentially commenting the same. You couldn’t help feeling bad for her; you couldn’t decide if she was jealous of you, with all the stink eyes she threw your way at every chance, or overzealous.

Regardless, you thought it didn’t matter because, in the afternoon, things would be different. Those meetings would be all about the American consortium negotiations, both internal and external, and you ran those without the presence of the CEO.

You had to huff quietly as he pulled the chair next to you, oddly sharing with you the head of that meeting room table. Except for a glance and polite smile, you didn’t give him any more of your attention. It was unsettling enough if your boss would accompany you to every meeting as if to assess your worth, but the fact that he was so close, with big brown eyes trained on you while his scent made your head spin… It made it a thousand times harder.

Still, you braved through the meeting, expecting things to go well because that was your element. What you didn’t count on were his interruptions.

“I’m certain we don’t need to renegotiate the time window; they will surely accept it.”

“Have we established concrete rules for the use of prototypes?”

“What about intellectual rights? As the manufacturer, shouldn’t we obtain the rights to all procedures that we optimize during development?”

Your expression softened, “According to agreement stipulations, by signing, we commit to safely keep their intellectual property, which includes all manufacturing processes. If these are optimized, they will be added to the patent. We will, of course, negotiate appropriate compensation should that happen, including access to prototypes and benefits should the production cost or time be reduced.”

The room was quiet after you spoke, but you had forgotten about them. Instead, your eyes were fixed on the CEO’s. Very round and very big, almost sparkling at you, entirely taken by what you had said. His gaze was curious, intense and interested, so you couldn’t be mad about his disruptions.

Still, you sighed. He was distracting.

“Let’s proceed to the financial section,” you asked, waving at the appropriate head of the department to speak up.

The CEO tapped his tablet to jump to the appropriate page of the document, clearing his throat, and you subtly leaned to whisper into his ear, “Focus.”

Your eyes met when you pulled back, and it was like the record changed. If his questions seemed chaotic and somewhat disconnected before, now they were spot on. From one meeting to the other, including with the American company representatives, every comment was precise, demonstrating flawlessly why the Jeon conglomerate was unavoidable in the South Korean industry.

You were secretly impressed, though you expected nothing less. Perhaps the way you had managed to work together so seamlessly in front of the American company representatives was surprising, but you imagined that a pro like him could make it work with anyone. He wasn’t nicknamed good at everything for nothing.

You assumed he was pleased, too, when the video call ended, and he leaned back into his chair, laughing quietly. His glee made you smile as you gathered your things and closed your laptop, observing everyone else in the room calling it a day while you wondered if Mr Seung would take you home. It was silly of you, but with everything that happened, you didn’t even memorize the address—

“That was so smooth. I think we floored them,” he grinned, getting up to his feet as though he was even more energized than before.

You chuckled and nodded, putting your laptop in your bag. Maybe that was so, but you were ready to go home.

“Have dinner with me.”

You stopped shy of closing the bag and looked at him instantly, batting your eyelashes with all your befuddlement.

“We have to celebrate,” he continued, and his grin reemerged as though he couldn’t contain it.

“They haven’t signed it yet,” you were quiet, instinctively reasoning with him despite not even being able to fully think right now.

He chuckled, “But they will, no doubt. I’m sure we will have a response by tomorrow and a verbal agreement shortly after.”

You nodded and looked down, unable to stop the way your body reacted. He was taller than you, broad, all-encompassing, and smelled strong, sweet...dizzying. There were two sides to that moment: who he was — so destabilizing, you thought there was no avoiding it — and what he was saying — so professional, when you wanted to forget all about it.

Fortunately, in your hazed mind, the latter won. “We’ll wrap up sooner, and I’ll get to return to Busan faster, then.”

Your entranced eyes captured the way his jaw hardened easily. His eyes sparked differently, with a look to them that caused a tingle to go down your spine, but he nodded, “Indeed. So dinner tonight.”

His tone implied you were just giving him more reasons to insist, and the corners of your lips twitched mischievously. Maybe you were; it was hard to resist.

“CEO Jeon?”

You stiffened like you had just been caught stealing candy and didn’t bother to look. You forced the zipper closed and grabbed your bag, purposefully pushing what Sunhwa was telling the CEO to fade with the background noise. Whatever it was, maybe it was a good thing — you needed distance to think, too.

You bowed to both on your way out and didn’t mean to spare a glance, but his voice beckoned you to look back, “Mr Seung is in the parking lot, please go with him.”

You nodded, meaning to appease the worry in his voice and eyes, and melted when you succeeded. His features instantly returned to a confident, dazzling smile before turning to Sunhwa about whatever work-related issue she was referring to, and you had to swallow. You shouldn’t be so attuned to how he felt; it didn’t make any sense. Still, as you made your way to his apartment with his driver, all you could think was that you never officially accepted his invitation.

Jungkook nodded after Mr Seung confirmed that he had dropped you off safely at the apartment, where you had stayed for the last three hours. You hadn’t requested to go anywhere in particular, and arrangements had been made for dinner, so he could relax.

He sighed as he closed his eyes and let the purr of the car lull him. He knew it would be an interesting day, but not even his wildest dreams could have prepared him for it.

First, arriving home the night before to the faint trace of your sweet jasmine scent absolutely threw him off. The whole night he had to keep himself in check; no, he couldn’t follow your delicate perfume to your bed, touch you, or claim you. You probably didn’t trust him after the way you ended up there, and he wasn’t a creep. He could reign in his primal urge and leave the decision up to you. He could show you that being next to him was fate, as intrinsically inescapable as the Earth and Moon orbiting each other. You’d realize that soon enough and ask him to touch you instead.

He could barely sleep, so his second move was to leave the apartment as soon as humanly possible. He needed to review everything about the projects you were working on, plus get his work out of the way so he could attend every meeting of yours and watch you in your element.

Jungkook was frankly impressed; you were like a fish in water, navigating every topic and hurdle effortlessly. He wasn’t sure you noticed how everyone quieted down to listen to you and obliged and interacted every time you requested it, but it was a wonder to see. If he hadn’t smelled your designation, he would have wondered what kind of woman conducted such ease and readiness.

Unfortunately, you were also incredibly distracting. Not only was he probably not of use to you in your work, but he was also falling behind in the slightest with his duties. Sunhwa kept reminding him, of course, and he appreciated it, but he couldn’t bring himself to worry about anything else.

Which made him wonder if you’d be a liability and not an asset if you stayed. However, that was a fleeting thought because as soon as it emerged, it evaporated when you whispered into his ear, “Focus.”

The whiff of your scent hit him so hard he had to close his eyes so no one would see them rolling back. Then he faced you, and your gaze did something to him. It was strong and encouraging, and he was set. Suddenly, he could focus. His mind was clear and everything just worked.

It was incredible, inebriating; better than hitting the jackpot, it was like you were his focus token that increased his abilities by two hundred percent. So inviting you to dinner was as easy as breathing. You mentioning Busan again almost ruined his mood, but then you obliged with big, starry eyes when he asked you to drive with Mr Seung in the exact spot he was in now, going home to you, and he couldn’t help the widest grin. He hadn’t lost you, not yet.

He knew it was late, and he wouldn’t dream of keeping you starving while waiting for him. Your shoes and handbag were by the entrance, so he knew you were inside. There was noise from the kitchen, though that couldn’t be you, so he jumped on the couch and heaved a deep breath, closing his eyes. He loved the sweet scent that lingered around the house because of you; it instantly relaxed him but also gave him a push. Maybe he should check on you—

He heard steps down the stairs at the same time his personal chef exited the kitchen to inform him dinner was ready and on the table.

“Would you like me to stay and serve?”

Jungkook dismissed the chef swiftly and quietly, acknowledging their head bow just in time to turn to you. His hand was on the noose of his tie, instantly loosening it as his mouth watered. He was starving, but it wasn’t food on his mind as he ate up the view.

You were wearing something quite professional — black dress pants with a silk blouse that was a hint of blue. He would have thought you too formal if it weren’t for your bare feet stepping quietly on the wood floor, along with your still-humid hair falling in waves over your shoulders and chest. But like this, he could only smile at you entering the living room and imagine you jumping into his arms to welcome him home after a long day. Then, what you wore wouldn’t matter, not because he’d be free to undress you, but because with your touch, everything would feel whole.

You bowed politely to the chef, watching them go, and it gave Jungkook a moment of clarity: what he felt was beyond simple interest. It wasn’t fascination or attraction, it was everything combined. He didn’t think it was possible; a skeptical part of him still insisted it wasn’t.

But then you opened your mouth and changed the very axis upon which his world spun. “Good evening.”

He could only smirk; the simplest words could escape your lips, and he’d drink them like they were gospel, “Good evening.”

Your astute eyes observed him, and it was like lying down at the beach under the warm sunlight, “Was there a problem at the office?”

He tilted his head, “I needed to finish up some things. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

Your lips twitched as you nodded, “It’s not a problem. In fact, I realized I never accepted your invitation, so I wasn’t sure if it still stood.”

He smirked, “It does, and it looks like you accepted.”

His arms stretched over the back of the couch, and you had to consciously keep your feet from taking you to him. It wasn’t an invitation, no matter how inviting it seemed.

“I thought it was wise to be ready,” you informed, taking a few steps to the side, unable to stay still.

“To have dinner with me?”

“To celebrate,” you corrected, trying to resist his smirk by keeping your expression as neutral as possible.

“By yourself?”

His eyebrow quirked, daring, and you finally smiled, “I was told there is a residence lounge. Thought I could get a drink there, and who knows who could join me.”

You shrugged nonchalantly, and he laughed openly, “You’re right.” He got up, loosening his tie completely and throwing it on the couch. It was enough to tense your back, dissipating your smile as you observed him taking off his suit coat and leaving it next to the tie. “I should have started by offering a drink. Is wine okay?”

Blood spread to your cheeks, but he didn’t notice as he turned around to enter the dining room. It gave you a moment to breathe. “If it’s red. Otherwise, I’m afraid I’ll have to leave.”

His laughter was music to your ears as you followed him, only to confirm that the person leaving was wearing a white chef coat for good reason. The glass dining table was set for two, at the head and the place to its right, and in between, an assortment of dishes released a delicious warm scent. From meat to shrimp, noodles to rice, boiled, fermented or fried, it seemed the chef had decided to leave you with a big variety just so you could have anything you possibly wanted.

Your eyes turned to him, his back facing you as he got a red wine bottle from the wine cooler. “This is incredible,” you voiced, unafraid of sounding too easily impressed. That table with the panoramic view and the incredible lighting showing his gleeful smile would easily shake anyone.

“I’m happy you like it.”

“Do you always have dinner like this?”

He placed the bottle on the table, twisting the corkscrew to get it open, “No, not at all. I asked for something special tonight.”

You heard the pop of the cork coming off, but that wasn’t why your heart skipped a beat. He reached for a wine glass on the table, poured a line of wine, then swirled it and took a soft sniff, smiling ecstatically after.

He raised the glass to you, and you stepped forward to accept it, entranced. You took a whiff, too, and the sweet, dark fruit aromas made your eyelashes flutter. You detected the blackberries and plums, and surely a trace of cloves.

Your reaction was enough for him to nod and pour a glass for himself. His shifting attention allowed you to swallow and ask, “Was this what you had in mind?”

He smirked, then turned to you, and your heart flipped again. He had shortened the distance between you and cupped your hand around the glass to tilt it forward towards his chest. The wine glugs, filling your glass, were but an afterthought as you looked at him, his eyes so close you could see stars.

“Absolutely,” he said quietly, yet you heard him so clearly. His expression was likely as serious as yours, mirroring the same tension as he took the bottle away. “This was exactly what I had in mind.”

The sound of the bottle being placed on the table didn’t rattle you; nothing was louder than your racing heart. His hand left yours, and although you could see the reluctance, you bit your inner lip to stay quiet. Being that close didn’t mean just having your breath stolen by his sparkly eyes or unique beauty marks; it also meant seeing how red his eyes were.

“I see… but if you're too tired, we can take a rain check.”

You were certain your worry was easily heard in your voice, yet he shook his head with a returning wide smile and raised his glass between you, “Not a chance.”

Your lips twitched, but you nodded and raised your glass to clink his, bringing it to your lips as he did the same. The velvety taste matched its aroma perfectly, but you weren’t paying attention. His eyes were locked with yours as though that tension was unbreakable, and you realized you didn’t know what you were celebrating. He didn’t specify the toast, and somehow, you knew work had stayed in the office tonight.

When you put the glass down, you weren’t sure you were dizzy with the alcohol or the moment, but your cheeks were hot. You ignored it, just to keep staring into the stars in his eyes, when a stomach growl cut the silence.

You looked down at his stomach, covered by a black button shirt, then up, “Woah, that was powerful.”

He smirked and rubbed the back of his head, “Sorry, I’m starving. Let’s dig in.” He waved at you to sit by his side, “Please, go ahead. Take anything you’d like.”

He held back, even as you took your time to observe the table and take your pick. He adjusted himself on the chair, but it was surprisingly easy to let you start first. It was just right.

“I wanted to have samgyeopsal,” he confessed, smiling sheepishly. “But we’d have to go to a real barbecue for that and—”

Your eyes widened with a spark, a small gasp jerking your shoulders as you reached for a bowl, “Not a problem.”

He raised an eyebrow at your sudden interest, then chuckled, “Do you like japchae that much?”

“My absolute favorite,” you nodded, filling your plate with utmost focus.

“Alright, I’ll make it for you a lot.”

You had started eating but stopped stuffing your face with the delicious noodles, raising your eyebrows at him instead while he served himself. “You can cook?”

He chuckled, “I love cooking. I’d be showing off my skills right now, but I’m more interested in talking to you.” The butterflies in your stomach twirled around as you stared up at him. He only chuckled, “But now I know. Let’s see, what else? What about makguksu? I have an awesome recipe as well.”

It was easy to eat while you discussed food, especially if it was a chance to quiz him and confirm he knew what he was talking about. He did, and you overlooked his initial promise to cook for you in exchange for a normal, healthy culinary debate.

But neither of you wanted to eat or talk about food all night. He ate a lot, you noticed, and by the end, every dish was done. The red bottle was empty too, so it was the perfect moment to get up.

“I’ll grab another one,” he said, waving at the couch while he headed to the wine cooler. It could have been your chance to say goodnight, but you didn’t want to. “Why do you only drink red?” He asked loudly, and you turned to look over your shoulder at him. “Can't it be Lambrusco?”

You chuckled and sat on the couch, “Lambrusco is a red, and it's delicious. Bring it on!”

The sound of the bottle being dragged out of the cooler, placed on the glass dining table, and popped open made your skin tingle pleasurably. It could be his proximity messing with your nerves, or the alcohol. A cautious part of you thought it was best to call it a night, but the bottle was already open, and he was already extending a new glass to you.

You clinked glasses in silence again once he sat down, and this time, you didn’t bother wondering about the occasion.

“Why not white?”

He mused after the sweetness made him click his tongue, and you sighed with a second sip, “Too acidic for me.”

“Noted,” he nodded, his features serious. “I'll get rid of all whites to make space for more Lambrusco.”

You laughed, “Why would you refine your stock based on my taste?”

He laughed with you, then bit his lip. You smiled as you took another sip, and you looked so happy, simply enjoying yourself, that his priorities shifted. “I like learning more about you.”

“You do?”

You sounded surprised, but he didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“Well, I haven't learned as much about you,” you scrunched your nose, choosing to take things lightly, and he chuckled.

“I'm sure you already know a lot.”

You tried not to scoff, “I don’t. You think because you’re the CEO, I would know your taste in wine?” Your tone only made him laugh more, leaning back into a pillow that had his abandoned suit coat before he faced you again. “Do you even like reds?”

“Oh yeah, but I prefer beer. Oh, and whiskey.”

“So we know our next drink…”

You hid behind the glass and he smirked, “Good idea. I'll make my specialty cocktail. Only close friends know about it, so know you'll taste something exclusive.”

“Really? I’m flattered; who knew I’d get to know the CEO so well.”

The corner of your mouth raised with mischief as you emptied your glass, and instantly, he was refilling it with a slightly raised eyebrow, “You can call me Jungkook.”

His dark eyes, as he instructed you, released a current down your spine that spread warmth in every direction. There was no way that calling your boss by his first name was a good idea, but you had stopped playing it safe a few glasses ago.

“Is there more to learn about you, Jungkook?” His name on your tongue drew his eyes to your mouth, conveniently about to take another sip. You reveled in the sweetness and tension of that moment, hopefully as much as him. “Something no one else knows.”

His teeth bit into his lower lip to stop a grin, and he nodded, “Certainly.” He placed the glass down on the coffee table and you swallowed. “There’s a lot to find out.”

He unfastened his cuff links, casually folding and pulling the sleeves of his black button shirt to his elbow, and you gasped.

You leaned forward with your free hand, “You have a sleeve?”

He grinned slyly, extending his right arm for you to touch more easily, “I do.”

He was quiet while you explored every tattoo line, from the clock to the letters, stopping to wonder at the tiger lily in bright tones of orange. “Incredible,” you muttered, dragging your finger easily. You were so focused that you missed the goosebumps forming under your touch. He let you turn his arm and even pull the sleeve a bit further up, where you noticed more lines and figures ready to show. You were so insistent you pouted when the fabric got so tight around his bicep it refused to rake further up to his shoulder.

His chuckle drew your attention, “I can take it off if you’d like to see the rest.”

Your hands withdrew instantly, fingers rubbing on each other needily. Your eyes caught the absence of any other article of clothing underneath his shirt, and you swallowed down your heated longing. “No, I— Of course not.”

You didn’t bother saying it was inappropriate; you fell back on your side of the couch. Your throat seemed to have blocked, so you cleared it. There was a line you shouldn’t cross, but you also didn’t want to stop whatever you two were doing.

“I don’t have tattoos,” you started, pulling your blouse sleeve. “But I do have this birthmark.”

His eyes followed your fingers, then he grabbed your arm delicately to trace it with his fingers. Your forearm erupted in goosebumps, electrified by his caress, attention, and warmth. It was almost overwhelming, and you had to swallow thickly to keep silent.

“It looks like a butterfly,” he mused, concentrating, and you nodded.

“My mother calls me that.”

He whispered something under his breath, then shifted in his seat, “Look.”

He brought his forearm next to yours, and you realized what he meant: your birthmark was parallel to his tiger lily. Superposed, your butterfly would find its home in him. It made you shudder from head to toe.

“What ties you to Busan?” His question broke the spell despite his caresses to your arm. You frowned, trying to catch his line of thought. “Friends? Family?”

The Lambrusco swirled a little inside his glass, revealing a short tremble, and your eyes stayed low on his lily, “My mother, mostly. She doesn’t live in Busan, but in a village not too far away.”

Your apprehension was palpable, so you weren’t surprised when he brushed the back of his fingers in a feather-like touch on your forearm, “I understand if it’s too personal, you don’t have to tell me anything that will make you uncomfortable.”

Whether because of his soft touch or warm eyes, you instantly shook your head, “Not uncomfortable, just… I don’t really talk about her. Or my family. She doesn’t like it and—”

Your brow furrowed, and he was ready to reassure you, but you decided to say it.

“And nobody would understand, but maybe you would,” you pushed out, looking into his eyes. Your mom would chastise you for this decision, but it was yours nonetheless. You just felt so alone in all this. “Our family made sacrifices to be eradicated from the registry, and for generations, we’ve been hiding so we wouldn’t be detected.”

He nodded gravely, lowering his eyes to his fingers still touching your milky skin.

“You’re probably the last person I should tell this to,” you chuckled. “But even though times should be different, I was never certain where to draw the line between potential paranoia and it just being like she described. Unfortunately, recent events have made me conclude she was not wrong in wanting us to be cautious.”

“Wait, there’s—” He pressed his lips before he sorted his words, looking at you intently, “There’s something to be said about your mother’s fears and the outdated methods the Family uses to search for omegas. They should know it’s criminal, but it’s how my grandfather found my grandmother, so I suppose that’s why they insist on it.”

“He kidnapped her too?”

“No—” He almost choked. “Hunters found her and brought her to him. They were mates and inseparable.”

“You met her?”

Your tone was almost anxious, and he smiled with a nod, “The only omega I’ve ever met other than you.” His expression showed fondness, “Grandpa was crazy about her and everyone loved her. She had this… aura to her. I was instantly calm. I was… a bit of a reckless and loud kid, but she never got angry at me. She would just put me on her lap and ask me what happened, and soon after, she was tickling me while I told her all about my adventures.”

You leaned on your side into the couch back, “Adventures, huh?”

It wasn’t hard to imagine, especially when he smirked mischievously, “My knees wouldn't have gotten bruised if I hadn't chased a pirate up a tree.”

“A pirate?”

Your eyebrows jumped, and you both laughed quietly. You were glad to be at ease, folding a leg under you.

“What an exciting childhood you had.”

“What about yours?”

You pursed your lips, “It was just me and my mother. My dad died in a car accident when I was a kid, and my grandma had dementia and died not too long after.”

His eyes softened, “That must have been hard.”

“It was the most on my mom.”

“How old were you?”

“Thirteen.”

“It must have affected you,” his voice quieted, and you noticed his thumb never stopped brushing your pulse point, soothing you for a while now.

“I grew up fast,” you shrugged, casually letting his touch continue. “It was hard because my mother was paranoid about us being caught, but I was raised around humans, unsure if her stories were true and if I should really just… stay hidden in that village or do something with myself.” He nodded, and you admitted, “That’s why hearing from others that my fate isn’t to be used as a tool, abused, or anything like that is…”

“No,” he pressed his thumb to your wrist, and it seemed to you it was to placate his own anxiety this time. “I promise you, that is not— I would never do that.”

His voice was firm, but something in your eyes must have given you away. You didn’t want to believe he was lying, but it wasn’t in his best interest to tell you the truth.

“My grandma always said a mate’s love was the foundation of our family and that I shouldn’t give up, even if my father never found her.” His eyes lowered once more to your arm before he faced you, “I grew up with them, seeing what a mate’s bond looks like. I would never hurt an omega, even if she wasn’t my mate.”

“But there are those who would.”

“Maybe once upon a time, but I swear things are different now. It was their mistreatment that led to their extinction. Well, alleged,” he corrected, eying you meaningfully. “The Families had to turn to betas, which was seen mostly as a catastrophe a couple of generations back.”

“Why?”

“It affected the strength of their blood, lines started dying and alpha numbers dwindled too. The egoistical views and attitudes of a few generations almost cost us everything.”

“So shouldn’t the way omegas were treated be the real catastrophe?”

Your tone was rough around the edges, but his eyes remained soft, “Worse than a catastrophe, an atrocity. It hurt so many for so many generations.”

His tone was apologetic as he looked at you, but it didn’t soothe you. Not even his touch on your wrist did. “If you recognize the problem, then you should be the first one to set an example. You acknowledge it was an atrocity, but you still send hunters to kidnap omegas instead of searching for yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

He actually looked lost, so you clarified, “If you don’t want to give up like your grandmother suggested, then maybe you should go down to Busan and search for yourself. Meet people.”

His eyebrows jumped, then he shook his head with an embarrassed smile, “I… never considered it.”

“Imagine if you had.”

Your chest warmed with his gaze on yours. You didn’t know why you were admonishing him for not visiting sooner, borderline implying you would have met differently, just like his grandmother had hoped. The past couldn’t be changed, and nothing would happen regardless.

You cleared your throat, “Anyway, it's annoying that your secretary keeps calling me fake.”

He huffed, letting his head fall on the back of the couch as though it tired him too.

“I never wanted to be recognized or seen as just my designation, but it is who I am, so she's pissing me off.”

You sneered at the ridiculousness of the situation, and he nodded, “It's because she never met anyone like you… I don't think she's able to really smell it. She's not as sensitive as us. But you don't have to worry about her. I'll handle things with her.”

You took the glass to your mouth, musing over it quietly. “Well, she works for you… and I won't stay long anyway.”

He was drinking when you spoke, his jaw becoming the slightest bit sharper under the light. His thumb still rubbed your pulse point soothingly.

“Actually… I have a question if you don’t mind.”

You pressed your lips sheepishly, and he almost choked in his hurry to nod.

“What do I smell like?” Your eyebrows framed your curious, big eyes, and his lips parted in wonder. “I've asked my mom, but she only tells me I'm sweet. I've never met anyone else I could ask.”

He blinked away his shock, straightening instantly to lean in a bit closer to you. Not that he needed to; effectively, he could pinpoint every trace and note of your unique aroma. But when you let your head fall back the slightest to expose your neck, he couldn’t be stopped. It was the sweetest invitation, baring your neck to him so he could take you in up close and personal.

He almost growled, something so deep inside him stirring he had to grip the glass and keep himself from grabbing your wrist or pressing his face into the crook of your neck. He was certain you’d taste and feel as endlessly delicate as your scent, but he knew the limits. Even if he thought of you as his, it had to come from you. If anything came out of getting to know you, it was that waiting was the only option he had if he ever wanted to welcome his mate by his side.

So he groaned silently and pulled back; he might not have met you in the right circumstances, but he wasn’t about to fuck this up.

“She’s right, you smell sweet,” he rasped, looking into your beautiful eyes again, so close he could see the black dots hiding among the lights. “Like jasmines — sweet, deep, and fond. And me?” He saw you swallow, but he couldn’t resist, “What do I smell like?”

“I’m sure you know,” you tried, though you didn’t move.

He shook his head, “What do I smell like to you?”

You looked down at his neck with a hint of uneasiness, but his soothing touch calmed you enough to go forward. You leaned into the crook of his neck, so close you felt his body warmth emanating. One deep breath, though, and you almost whimpered. Your free hand gripped his arm as your whole body warmed and thrummed with the heady scent.

“Strong,” you whispered, noticing a moment later his neck was covered in goosebumps. “Earthy.” You couldn’t resist nuzzling his skin the slightest, raising it up his neck until you met his jaw. “Spicy, something so alluring I just…”

You nuzzled his cheek and he turned to face you, with lips so close to yours, his warm breath lulled your eyes closed. You were certain his lips would touch yours, releasing all that tension into a burst that would raze your senses.

But the sounds of a keypad being pressed made you instinctively pull back, and you were happy you did because in mere seconds it was as though the rug was being pulled from under your feet.

The front door burst open, and you jumped to your feet, frightened. Jungkook stood up, too, trying to regain the touch that had been severed in the motion, but it was too late. You both had to face the woman storming inside the apartment, with eyes so wide, and nostrils so wide in fury, it confused you more than anything.

“What the hell?!”

Sunhwa’s outrage wasn’t missed on you, but all you could do was frown, stupefied.

“What are you doing?” Jungkook’s tone was cold, and you weren’t certain if that was the right reaction. Shouldn’t he be pissed that his secretary just stormed into his apartment late at night?

“What am I doing? What are you doing?!”

His eyes hardened as though her question didn’t merit a reply, and she threw the folders in her hand on the coffee table.

“I wanted to update you on the ASICS deal and thought you probably wouldn’t have eaten yet, so I called Chef Jae, and they told me they had prepared the special dinner you asked for!”

You glanced at him, even more confused than before, and his reply came quiet, “You should know better than to just barge in here.”

“You weren’t picking up the phone!”

Her screeches were starting to give you a headache, “Alright, listen. It’s past eleven in the evening, surely there’s nothing that can justify causing a scene like this.”

Her laugh was a shriek, “You have some gall to tell me I can’t cause a scene, huh?! First, you try to seduce him by falsely claiming to be an omega—”

“I am!”

“— and now you’ve invited yourself into his apartment! Do you really have no shame? I won’t stand for this!”

Your eyebrows jumped in pure disbelief, “And who are you to care what an adult man does in his apartment?”

She stomped her foot, fuming as she glared, “I’m his fiancé!”

Your stomach dropped, spreading such coldness through your guts, you froze.

In years of law, despite dealing with senseless clients at times, you had never lost your composure or words, but today was the day. Her words, that scene, and the deceit underlying that whole night gutted you, so you were speechless.

“You don't know what you're saying.”

His tone was firm, but one glance told you he was seething. Your first instinct was to resent him; he should be apologizing, not angry that his fiancé ruined the ruse.

Sunhwa crossed her arms with a laugh, “Oh, so I'm suddenly not?”

“We have a contract.”

“Precisely!”

Her clapback was triumphant, and you stiffened even further.

“This is not what you think,” he said, having turned to you.

You looked at him slowly, but Sunhwa was already stepping closer between you, “This is exactly what you think! He's promised to me! How dare you come in here and try to seduce him with your false claims and—!”

“Enough!”

His roar effectively silenced her, making even the glass in your hand reverberate. It forced you to look away and realize you had no business standing there.

You put the glass on the coffee table, “I see you have things to discuss, so I'll leave you to it.”

You ignored the smothering silence surrounding you and headed up the stairs.

That silence was dearly missed when the last concrete thing you heard was Sunhwa freaking out, “She's sleeping here?!”

You closed the bedroom door and weighed your options, but then ended up locking the door and hiding with your face into your pillow. You had drunk too much, and it was too late to wander off in the middle of Seoul. For now, you’d just have to stay.

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