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alinathinkstoomuch · 2 months ago

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THOROUGHLY DEALT WITH

18+ MDNI

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader summary: you're angry with aaron for missing an important event, so naturally, he fucks the anger out of you. warnings | an: UMMMM ok so! p in v sex, fingering & oral (f receiving) spanking, drooling, overstimulation, masturbation, light d/s elements, choking & mirrors (can u tell i have my favs) somnophilia mentioned, errthang consensual, age gap, just filth yalllll word count: 4.2k… i wrote this when i was ovulating,, my cycle unfortunately decides what content i post LOL

✧ masterlist

You began with his shirts. The infuriatingly pristine, colour-coded, pattern-matched shirts hanging in your closet. The one you once shared. After tonight, however, you’d have ample room for your winter coats.

It felt harsh, thinking that way. And perhaps, once the adrenaline had ebbed, you’d be curled up among those coats, using the sleeves as tissues. But for now, you let the mindset of pure rage, slight dramatics and fury take the lead.

You knew what you were stepping into, a relationship with a man who might as well have been the crown jewel of the FBI, given how seldom he was home. And you bore it with grace. You never demanded much, only ever asked for compromise when it mattered, when it truly mattered.

So one by one, the shirts sailed over the bannister, landing in a crumpled heap by the entryway. Cotton casualties of yet another one of his spectacularly poor decisions.

He’d missed it.

The one thing you’d asked him not to miss. Not a work dinner, not some meaningless social obligation, but your event. The one you’d planned for months, circled on the calendar, reminded him of over and over. The one he looked you dead in the eye and promised he’d be there for.

What did you get instead? A text.

I’m sorry. Something came up.

Something came up, indeed. The collapse of your relationship, for starters.

Okay, maybe that was the dramatics talking. Maybe you didn’t want it to end, but you wanted—no, needed—him to take you seriously. Because how dare he? How dare he treat your life like the flexible one? As if your moments were optional, but his moments, ones that revolved around blood, caution tape, and sirens were the ones that ever mattered.

And the worst part of it all was the fact that despite all your anger, you still missed him in a way that language couldn’t quite capture. He’d been out on a case for two weeks, and even before that, he was barely home, glued to that damn bureaucratic chair in his office like it deserved more of him than you did.

You’d spent the last eight hours convincing yourself you were done. Done making excuses for him. Done watching your life conform to his schedule, his job, him in general. But your body, the ultimate traitor, didn’t seem done with him at all. Not when your hand drifted between your legs in the shower, picturing the way he used to pin you there, palm flat against your sternum.

Not even now, when you were supposed to be standing your ground. You still found yourself wishing he’d walk through that door and press you against it, like he needed it just as badly as you did.

Maybe that’s all this was. Maybe all you needed was a good fucking.

And you knew that was exactly what you would’ve gotten, had he shown up like he promised. He would’ve started in the car, hand gripping your thigh, maybe even slipping under your dress, getting you all worked up before you’d even made it home.

Then he would’ve railed into you, bent you over the piano in the foyer, lights blazing because of course he’d want the neighbours to see exactly how he rewarded your hard work. But no. You went home alone. Worked up, pissed off, with every intent of emptying your wine stash. Which you did.

And now, you stood at the top of the stairs, breath uneven as your pulse pounded in your throat. And that’s when you heard it.

His car in the driveway.

Shoes. Yes. Shoes seemed poetic. Fitting. The perfect thing to hurl at him with all the grace of a woman scorned and denied an earth-shattering orgasm. Actually, orgasms—plural. Because he wouldn’t have stopped at just one. He would’ve teased the first out of you, held you at the edge until you begged, then made up for it with two more. Rewards for being so damn patient.

You turned on your heel and marched back into the closet, snatching the nearest pair of his smug little leather loafers. Polished, arrogant things, much like the man who owned them.

By the time he stepped through the front door, you were already back at your vantage point, arm cocked, waiting until he turned to launch the first shoe.

It missed his head by a fraction and slammed into the doorframe with a satisfying crack.

He froze, jacket slung over one arm, briefcase in hand, tie loosened and all.

“Hi, honey,” you called out, your voice sweet enough to rot teeth. Then came the second loafer which landed just short of his feet. “Figured I’d give you a hand with the packing,” you added, gesturing to the shirts across the entryway. “Consider it a head start. I assumed your schedule wouldn’t allow for sentimentality.”

He set his briefcase down first, then his jacket, but you didn’t stay to watch the performance. You were already halfway down the hall, disappearing into the closet like a woman possessed, and thoroughly, furiously sexually frustrated.

You grabbed as many of his jackets as your arms could carry, yanking them from the rack with such force—hangers still hooked—you were genuinely surprised the bar hadn’t come crashing down with them.

You heard him then, just shy of the dressing room, steps clear as day. You paused in the hallway and dropped the pile right where it met the doorway, letting the expensive fabric fall into a heap like a makeshift barricade.

Then, back into the closet you went. You reached for what was left, another jacket, two more blazers, and his beloved cashmere sweaters. You snatched them from their hangers like they were the ones that were responsible. And with your arms full again you turned, only to find him standing there. So close that you nearly walked right into him.

“Unless you’re here to carry these to the curb, I suggest you get the hell out of my way, Aaron.”

His eyes dropped briefly to the pile in your arms, then back to your face. “I’m not leaving.”

“Like hell you’re not—”

“Just put my things down and we can talk about this,” he said, with that infuriatingly calm voice that made you want to scream, in two very different ways. “I know I made a mistake.”

You scoffed and stepped closer, close enough to breathe him in. Not the crisp, clean scent you were used to in the mornings when he’d leave for work showered, shaven and put together. No, this was him at the end of the day. The faint remnants of cologne clinging to his skin, mixed with something more worn-in, and when he exhaled, you caught the faintest trace of bourbon on his breath. Rossi’s doing, no doubt.

Probably his way of trying to calm him down.

You’d heard Dave refer to you as a ‘fiery one’ more than once, always with a little too much amusement in his voice. He’d even joked, right in front of you, that Aaron wouldn’t know what to do with a woman like you. Said he’d fold if you ever gave him real attitude. Clearly, Rossi had sensed what kind of storm Aaron was walking into tonight and had handed him a glass like some kind of offering from the gods.

“So not only are you incapable of being unselfish for one night that doesn’t revolve around you, you also seem to have a stunningly poor ability to follow basic instructions,” you snapped, voice rising in a way that was rare. “Are you absolutely certain you went to FBI school, or did you half-ass that the way you half-ass everything else you claim to care about?”

“Are you done?”

“Not even fucking close. But go ahead, interrupt again. You’re great at that, right?” You shoved the pile of clothes into his chest, hard enough to make him take a step back. “Talking over people, brushing them off, missing everything that actually matters until it’s already too late.”

He stood there for a second, holding the clothes before letting them drop to the floor without a word. You let out a bitter laugh at the sight and moved to shoulder past him, but his hand shot out, catching your wrist.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” you hissed, turning back to face him. “Don’t walk away from the man who didn’t show up? Don’t stop screaming because it’s the only thing that gets through that thick, federal skull of yours?”

“Don’t do this. Not when you want me more than you want me to leave.”

“What? Are you—are you actually insane? Delusional? Is this the sleep deprivation talking? Because if so, you can take that smug little fantasy and get the hell out of my house.”

He let go of your wrist, but only to step behind you. His hands moved to your hips, turning your body to position you in front of the island in the centre of the dressing room.

“You want me gone?” he asked.

You cocked your head slightly to the right, catching his reflection in the mirror ahead as he began to undo his tie.

“Say it,” he murmured, eyes meeting yours in the glass. “Say it while I’m inside you.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Not because you lacked words, lord knows you had plenty. And he hadn’t even scraped the surface of the venom still burning at the back of your throat. But your body—traitorous, wretched thing—had already betrayed you.

You were supposed to be holding your ground. Not standing there, spine taut, with him behind you, visibly restraining yourself from folding over the island and handing him all your anger, gift-wrapped in a neat little bow that read please, fuck me senseless.

His fingers brushed your waist, and your lungs locked up. Your throat was so dry your heart had taken to skipping two beats at a time, just to remind you to swallow.

“I missed one night,” he continued, his fingertips now trailing up the length of your forearms. “But I haven’t missed this. Not once.”

You let out a flimsy exhale, turning your head to meet his eyes in the mirror once more. “You think this makes it better?” You knew it did. Maybe this wasn’t the kind of answer that made sense in a normal relationship, but nothing about you and Aaron had ever been normal.

“No,” he answered like the gentleman he was pretending to be, knowing exactly what was coming. “But I think you want it anyway.” And then his hands dropped from your arms completely. “So…what’s it going to be?”

Your hands moved before your mind did, bracing yourself against the island, knuckles whitening as your spine arched over the marble.

He hummed in approval, hands moving to your neck, brushing your hair aside. “That’s what I thought.” You felt him press into you, the weight of him flattening you against the surface as his fingers found the zipper of your jeans.

“This doesn’t change anything,” you lied, needing to put up some kind of fight.

He stilled for half a second, then let out a quiet laugh. “No?” he mocked, dragging the denim down your thighs until it was bunched at your knees. “Then why are you shaking?”

“Because I can’t fucking stand you,” you spat, forehead pressing to the marble, breath fogging against it as you tried—really tried—to remember why you decided his wardrobe would look better scattered across the entryway.

You heard him click his tongue behind you.

“Honey,” he drawled, his voice so pleased and full in all the ways that you were seconds away from being.“You’re so wet your underwear’s turned three shades darker.” And just to prove your point, his thumb dragged slowly over the soaked fabric making your body jolt, forehead nearly smacking the marble with the force of the reaction.

“Step out of the jeans for me,” he murmured, tapping your right thigh first, then your left.

You kicked the material off one leg at a time, your balance swaying as you did, hands tightening around the edge of the island for strength because it was the only thing keeping you upright.

His hand slid up the backs of your legs again, brushing that spot where your ass met your thighs. Then, without a word, his fingers slipped underneath the gauzy material of your panties.

You sucked in a breath as his middle finger dragged through your folds.

“Do you remember what had you so pissed off in the first place?” he questioned, like he genuinely expected you to form a coherent sentence right now.

“Yes,” you groaned into the counter, hips bucking shamelessly against his hand.

“So greedy,” he tutted, pulling his finger back just enough to watch your hips chase it. “Want me out of the house. Throwing my things out like some scene from a bad divorce. But one finger and you’re already a whiny little mess?”

A strangled noise tore from your throat, something between a curse and a moan, as your hands gripped the counter tighter.

“How many times did you touch yourself while I was gone, hm?”

“I—fuck, I don’t—”

“You don’t know?” He pushed a thick finger inside you, making you hiss at the stretch. “That’s not a real answer. Try again.”

You bit down on your lower lip hard enough to sting, eyes fluttering shut as your body betrayed you all over again.

“I asked you a question.”

“Three,” you gasped. “Maybe four.”

He let out a low, satisfied noise. “Maybe? You lost count?”

“D-Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh, I don’t need to,” he laughed, adding a second finger. “You’re doing it for me.”

Your right hand curled into a fist, accidentally knocking a bag off the side in the process. “I hate you,” you mewled, the words barely making it past your throat.

“Liar,” he whispered, lips ghosting over your spine as his fingers worked deeper, curling just right. “You don’t hate me. You hate that I know exactly how to make you come before I’ve even unzipped my pants.”

Your mouth was parted against the marble, and when a moan caught in your throat, you managed to drag it back down just barely. Coaxing it into a shaky breath instead, trying to cling to the last scraps of pride you had left. Because he was right. Infuriatingly right.

“Well?” you hissed, breath catching. “Are you going to unzip your pants, or are we still pretending your fingers are doing anything I didn’t handle on my own while you were gone?”

Your heard an unbothered chuckle from him first and then felt the sharp sting of his palm landing against your ass, second. The impact was muffled by the fabric of your underwear, but the message landed all the same.

“That’s sweet, dear. But I don’t remember hearing you make these kinds of noises the last time you decided to take care of yourself…right next to me.”

You jaw clenched.

It had only happened once. You thought he was asleep—clearly, he wasn’t. He’d gotten in late from work, and you hadn’t wanted to bother him, so you took matters into your own hands… literally.

In hindsight, it explained the sudden burst of sex drive the next morning. You’d woken up to his mouth between your legs like he was trying to make a point that he could always make you come harder.

His free hand fisted in your hair, tugging your head to the side as he angled your face toward the mirror. “This isn’t how you sounded then, is it?” he taunted, fingers slipping out of you just to circle your swollen clit instead.

You gasped, body jerking at the sudden change in pressure.

“And just for that—” his hand stilled, the contact vanishing altogether, “—you can wait.”

You took the chance to catch your breath, heart pounding as you clenched around nothing, blinking back the tears gathering in your waterline like they’d scheduled a meeting.

Glancing at the mirror you saw his hands work his belt free and you were tempted. So incredibly tempted to prove him wrong, to reach down between your legs and finish what he so cruelly started. Just a few strokes, that’s all it would take. But before you could even move—

“Don’t.”

You stilled. Every muscle locked.

“Put one hand between your legs,” he continued, the sound of his belt sliding from the last loop sharp in your ears, “and I’ll bind both behind your back. You won’t come tonight. Or tomorrow.”

Your chest rose and fell rapidly, barely managing to pull air in. The fabric of your top clung to your skin, sticky with sweat and a rage that seemed to be dissipating by the second. All that remained in its place was a desperate, aching hunger for him.

You pressed your thighs together without thinking, chasing some kind of friction, some kind of relief, but Aaron’s hands were already on your hips. His fingers slipped beneath the elastic of your underwear, tugging them down your legs.

You knew it was his favourite part, especially when he had you bent over nearly every surface in the house. He loved watching the strings of your wetness peel away with the fabric, loved when it dripped down your thigh.

Once you were free of the only barrier between the two of you, you braced yourself flat against the counter, arching your back just enough to let him swipe his thumb through your pussy, allowing him relish in your wetness like a ritual he never dared to skip.

“Still want me to go?” he asked, though his voice carried a gentler note.

You turned your head, eyes back on the mirror. “Just fuck me,” you whispered—no, begged. “Please.”

He leaned in, bending over you to press a kiss to the inside of your forearm. Then another, trailing lazily up the length of your arm to your shoulder. Behind you, you felt his hand move between your bodies, hearing the rustle of fabric as he pushed his boxers down.

He aligned himself with you, dragging the thick length of his cock between your thighs, letting you feel everything. Every vein, every throbbing inch, the obscene heat of him paired with the wet slip of precum he spread over you.

You keened out a moan, barely managing to keep yourself upright even with the counter beneath you, legs beginning to shake with the effort it took to stay still.

“I’m sorry I missed it,” he murmured, voice rasping just below your ear. “I wanted to be there. More than anything.”

“I know,” you breathed just as he guided your hips, braced his feet, and buried himself inside you in one devastating thrust. The stretch sent you spiralling, tears spilling freely down your cheeks as your forehead found comfort in the marble once more.

He didn’t give you time to adjust. He pulled out just enough to make you clench around the absence, and then slammed back in harder.

One hand slipped under your shirt, calloused fingers grazing your nipple while the other found its way back to your slick clit. All that came from your mouth were broken, pathetic sounds. Half-moans, half-sobs, every syllable caught between nonsense and pleading.

“A-Aaron, oh my f—god—oh—” Your voice wavered as he hit that spot again, and again, and again, until you were shaking with every thrust.

Drool slipped past your lips, a thick string trailing down to the countertop, followed by more, clinging to your chin, catching in the strands of your hair as you trembled under the weight of his body.

You felt Aaron release your nipple before his hand moved to your neck, his palm firm against your throat, holding you in place just as another string of spit slipped past your lips, landing on his hand.

“Look at you,” he grunted, tightening his hold as his hips lurched forward again. “Dripping from both ends.”

“Please don’t stop—I’m—I’m—”

“You’re close,” he chuntered, breath hot against your skin. “I can feel it, baby. You’re squeezing me so fucking tight, I don’t think I can last much longer.”

Your whole body locked, spine arching violently off the counter, eyes rolling back as the coil deep in your belly finally snapped. Your mouth opened in a silent scream, nothing coming out but air, tears, and barely intelligible sounds that might’ve been his name.

But Aaron didn’t stop.

Not even when your legs gave out beneath you, not when you slumped forward against the marble, sobbing through the aftershocks that tore right through you. He held you up, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other sliding up your back, fucking you through it, slow and deep now, like he needed to feel every last twitch and tremble your body offered him.

You could feel his rhythm start to falter, each thrust getting sloppier, his hips stuttering against you. Then, with a muffled moan into your shoulder, he pushed into you one final time and stilled, cock pulsing as he came. His grip eased, but his whole body shuddered against yours like he’d been hanging on just long enough to make sure you came first.

He made sure you were completely filled before he pulled out slowly, causing you to whimper at the emptiness. You barely managed to brush the damp hair from your face, to wipe away at the trail of drool on your chin, before his arms were around you again, this time gently guiding you down to the floor of the dressing room.

“Aaron,” you panted, landing on a pile of clothes you’d thrown there earlier. Soft cotton, rumpled cashmere, the ghost of his cologne clinging to it all. “What…what are you doing?”

“Shh, honey.” He knelt between your legs, his knees cracking on the way down.

“Sure this is good for your old man frame?”

He spread your legs open, fingers moving to push his come back inside you. “If I throw my back out eating your pussy, I’ll die a happy man.”

Your breath caught, hips jerking instinctively at the contact. “Jesus—Aaron—”

He lowered his head, mouth hot and wet as it latched onto your cunt, tongue dragging through the mess he’d just pushed back into you like it was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.

Your hands shot to his head, fingers tangling in his hair, undecided if you were pulling him closer or trying to push him away. “I don’t think I can go again, baby,” you gasped, your thighs twitching from the overstimulation.

You heard a sloppy, muffled, “You can,” just as he sucked your clit into his mouth, hard enough to make your vision white out for a second.

“Motherfuc—” Your legs locked around his head with such force that it had to be uncomfortable for him, maybe even a little painful. But when you opened your eyes and looked down, he didn’t look bothered in the slightest.

You caught the way his hips were grinding slowly into the rug beneath him, telling you this might not even be for your pleasure anymore but for his.

“I really, really don’t think I can come again,” you cried out, hips lifting into his mouth. “Please, Aar—”

Your voice broke off as he groaned against your pussy, loud and filthy. The vibration of it paired with the way he lapped at you, coaxed that familiar feeling, winding tight in your abdomen.

You shook your head, back arching, mouth open but no sound escaping as he sucked your clit into his mouth and circled it with his tongue over, and over and over again.

“Aaron, I—fuck—I’m gonna—”

The words dissolved into a sob as the pressure inside you reached its peak, crashing over you with a dizzying force. You came again, harder this time, legs spasming, hands clawing at the rug and his hair, tears slipping down your temples as your body convulsed under him.

You felt his mouth finally ease up, the warmth of him pulling away only for a moment until he was crawling up your body, bracing himself on his elbows as he hovered over you.

He scanned your face, watching the way your chest heaved, the way your eyes were still screwed shut as you tried to come down from the high he’d dragged out of you. He didn’t say anything, just let you come back to him on your own terms because he was generous like that.

Your fingers slowly loosened their grip on the rug, the tension bleeding from your limbs. Finally, you blinked up at him, dazed and thoroughly fucked-out.

“Think I went to heaven.”

He huffed a laugh, forehead dropping to yours. “Yeah?” he murmured. “Were they impressed?”

You let out a weak laugh, your hands dragging up from the rug to rest on his shoulders. “I’m still mad at you. Just… now I can do it with a clear head rather than a—”

“Horny one?” he supplied, earning a nod from you.

“Mhm. Was this your idea of an apology?”

“I mean…” He looked down at you, then at the mess around the closet. “It stopped you from throwing any more of my clothes, didn’t it?”

You snorted. “Temporarily.”

“I’ll take it.” He leaned down to press a lazy, unhurried kiss to your cheek. “Now, come on, let’s get you cleaned up. Then you can go back to yelling at me properly.”

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner one shot #criminal minds #ssa aaron hotchner #hotch #aaron hotchner smut #mine🌟

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palevcr · 24 days ago

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── ⊱ ۫ ׅAPOLOGIES

SUMMARY: When Theo fucks up — spectacularly, stupidly, drunkenly — he knows there’s only one way to earn back the girl he never deserved but can’t live without. And she makes him work for it. For days she ignores him, freezes him out with that quiet, dangerous composure that makes him want to kneel and ruin her in the same breath. So he does both. Cornered in the Slytherin common room, she tries to stay cold, tries to hold onto her righteous anger — but Theo’s apologies don’t come in words alone. On his knees, hands reverent on silk stockings and his mouth pressed where she’s softest, he begs for forgiveness in the only language he knows she’ll accept.

genre: decadent apology smut, messy desperate intimacy, possessive worship, soft ruin, bratty stubborn reader, helpless soft dom Theo

pairing: Theodore Nott x Zabini!reader

tw: MDNI+18, explicit content, semi-public setting, oral sex (f receiving), possessive/pleading language, soft power play, messy apology, mild breathplay implication (thighs around head), messy clothing, slight humiliation kink undertones (Theo finishing in his pants), praise kink, obsession-coded devotion, brat tamer undertones, intense emotional vulnerability

authors note: Possible spam incoming cause I’ve been filling up my drafts for a while and I’ve decided it’s time they’re let free and into society so um yeah😼

Theodore had fucked up. Nothing revolutionary there — it was practically woven into the fabric of his personality by now, the reckless threads of impulse and arrogance stitched so tightly that sometimes even he couldn’t tell where his carelessness ended and his charm began. But this time, he’d gone and done something spectacularly idiotic — a monumental slip at some nameless Slytherin party blurred by too much firewhisky and half-remembered laughter echoing against stone walls. He’d drunk himself into oblivion, so thoroughly that the entire night was a hazy smear in his memory, a gap that yawned wider each time he tried to remember whose perfume had clung to his shirt when he woke up. Whatever had happened, it was enough to ignite the quiet, lethal fury of the girl now seated across from him — the one person he would gladly let ruin him, again and again.

Y/N Zabini, his princess and his executioner both, hadn’t so much as glanced in his direction for three days. Three days of icy silences, of brushed-off apologies left to rot between them like wilted roses. She hadn’t raised her voice, hadn’t demanded anything, hadn’t lowered herself to the petty shrieks and dramatics he was so accustomed to from the rest of them — and it was that, precisely that, which unspooled something desperate and feral in him. Because she knew her worth, and Merlin help him, he worshipped that about her. She was never going to be easy — not like the girls who giggled at his dry wit and melted under the practiced flicker of his half-smirk. She was the opposite: silk-wrapped steel, a slow poison dressed in velvet and gold. And right now, she looked at him as though she was calculating whether he was worth the trouble of an execution at all.

They sat opposite each other in the Slytherin common room, emerald firelight licking at the shadows under her jaw, the faint shimmer of her lip gloss catching the dim glow each time she shifted her mouth — which was not often enough for his sanity. She reclined like royalty, one leg draped elegantly over the other, her shoe dangling from the tip of her toes in a silent threat of indifference. She could have been bored out of her mind if not for the eyes — dark, merciless, and trained on him like a predator tracing the fragile heartbeat of its prey. And Theodore Nott — cunning, glib-mouthed, heir to secrets that would blacken lesser boys’ souls — didn’t know whether he ought to shout back or drop to his knees and beg to be let back into her good graces in the only way he knew how.

“You know,” he began, his voice sandpapered raw from too many unspoken apologies, soft enough to slip under her skin if she let it, “I can’t mend what I can’t see, darling.” He leaned forward, elbows digging into his knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles threatened to split pale. He held her gaze like a man holding a live wire — half hoping it would kill him if only to feel her rage break this suffocating silence. “Talk to me. Scream, hex me — set fire to my bed, for Merlin’s sake — just do something. Anything other than this... silence you wear like a fucking crown.”

She did not flinch. Did not blink. She merely tilted her head, the slow arc of her neck graceful and menacing all at once. Her lashes lifted — delicate as moth wings against the flame — and her stare pinned him more effectively than any binding charm ever could. There was a ghost of a smile there, too, something cruel and amused that danced at the corner of her mouth before vanishing into the cool marble of her expression. In that moment, Theo felt it again — that jagged line between fury and want snapping taut in his chest, straining so tight it almost hurt. Because the truth was this: she was never more devastating than when she was angry at him. Never more beautiful than when her silence said, I could break you in half if I felt like it. And maybe — just maybe — he wanted her to.

“What do you want me to do?” Theo’s voice cracked the silence like a match struck in the dark, raw and almost boyish in its desperation — a far cry from the practiced drawl he usually wielded like a blade. The question hung there between them, a fragile offering, his pride laid bare at her feet.

But she only lifted one slender shoulder in a dismissive shrug, eyes flicking away to some distant, invisible point beyond the common room walls — as though the ancient stone and flickering torches were more worthy of her attention than the fool kneeling for her mercy. The dismissal made something vicious twist in Theo’s chest, a tangle of want and regret so thick it nearly strangled him. He sighed, his fingers dragging up the fabric of his trousers, seeking grounding in the rough scrape of wool beneath his palms. For a heartbeat, he simply watched her — drank her in like a dying man might a final glass of wine — then rose to his feet, slow and deliberate, as if afraid a sudden movement might shatter the porcelain shell of her calm.

He stepped closer, the soft leather of his shoes whispering against the worn carpet. She felt his presence before she looked at him — the shift in the air, the subtle dip in temperature that always seemed to follow him like an omen. When her gaze finally met his again, there was a flicker there — the tiniest chink in her armor, wide enough for him to crawl through and drown himself in. And drown he would, gladly.

Without a word, Theo sank to his knees before her — a motion so unexpected it drew a startled breath from her parted lips. His hands settled on her calf, reverent and trembling, before he pressed his forehead to her knee as if it were an altar at which he was long overdue to worship. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, the words muffled against the fine fabric of her stockings, soft but carved with a sincerity that made something tight in her chest coil even tighter.

Slowly, he dragged his palm up the smooth slope of her shin, over the delicate dip of her knee until his fingertips curled possessively at the bend. His mouth followed, brushing warm apologies against her skin like whispered prayers — kisses so gentle they almost didn’t touch her at all. “I’m really, really sorry,” he breathed, his voice husky with a raw edge that only she ever got to hear. He lifted her leg, settling her knee over his shoulder, the shift in position pulling a soft, unwilling gasp from her lips that she tried, futilely, to swallow back down.

“Theo…” her voice was a warning and a plea all at once — sharp as broken glass yet sweet enough to have him groaning low in his throat. Her eyes darted around the dim common room, suddenly hyperaware of how exposed this was, how scandalous it would be if some stray prefect or gossip-hungry first-year wandered back early from dinner.

“It’s just us, sweetheart,” Theo soothed, his thumb tracing lazy circles into the sensitive skin behind her knee, eyes dark and wide as they lifted to meet hers. He looked devastating like this — on his knees, tie askew, desperation licking the corners of his mouth. “Everyone’s at dinner. Let me apologise properly. Please, baby… let me show you how sorry I am. Let me make it up to you the only way I know how.”

He leaned in, pressing a soft, almost reverent kiss to the inside of her thigh — dangerously close to the hem of her skirt now bunched indecently high on his shoulder. Each word, each brush of his lips, each plea soaked into her skin like wine into silk — staining, sinking, impossible to wash away. And maybe, just maybe, she’d let him. Maybe she’d let him atone for every sin carved into the blurred memory of that drunken night — right here, on his knees, where he belonged.

“This is really stupid,” she whispered, the words soft and breathless, dissolving almost as soon as they left her lips. Her gaze flitted nervously around the empty common room, the shadows thrown by the low-burning torches dancing across the ancient stone walls like silent witnesses to their unfolding sin. But even as her voice trembled with reason, her resolve betrayed her: delicate fingers slid into Theo’s dark hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp in a way that made his eyelids flutter shut, a low, involuntary groan vibrating against her skin. Merlin, he’d always loved her hands in his hair — the power coiled in her touch, equal parts indulgence and command, making him pliant beneath her even as he burned to ruin her in turn.

Theo’s kisses grew bolder, hotter, a trail of devotion pressed into the soft skin of her inner thigh as he edged higher, the sharp cut of her sighs fuelling something dark and possessive inside him. His hand — pale, long-fingered, deceptively elegant — traced up the silken line of her other leg, coaxing it gently onto his opposite shoulder until she was spread open before him, a living portrait of decadent ruin perched on her emerald-backed throne. The new angle left her entirely at his mercy: skirt bunched around her hips in disheveled pleats, her stockings tugged slightly askew, the fragile lace of her panties stretched tight over the softness he ached to taste.

The sight alone was enough to make Theo’s breath catch, desire snarling low and hot in his chest like a caged animal rattling its bars. She looked devastating like this — flushed, breath coming in short, uneven gasps, the regal composure she wore like second skin slipping away in pieces under the weight of his devotion. His thumb traced teasingly along the edge of lace, knuckles brushing the heat of her, drinking in the way her thighs tensed under his touch, muscles tightening with anticipation she wouldn’t dare voice.

Then, with a deliberate slowness that was both apology and punishment, Theo hooked a finger under the delicate band of her panties, dragging them to the side. The motion bared her fully to him, and her gasp — sharp, almost wounded in its vulnerability — sliced through the hush of the empty room, echoing off ancient stone and sinking straight into his bones. It was the sweetest kind of agony, the sort that made Theo’s chest tighten with both reverence and hunger: to see her undone, not by accident but by him alone.

His dark eyes, now half-lidded with want, flicked up to meet hers — a silent question burning there, fierce and wordless. And in that taut, breathless moment, every ounce of his regret, longing, and devotion bled into the kiss he pressed just above where she wanted him most, lips brushing the delicate skin in a promise as old as sin itself: Let me atone. Let me worship. Let me ruin you until you forgive me.

Theo hummed against her, the sound low and reverent, vibrating through the sensitive skin under his tongue and pulling a strangled moan from her parted lips — a sound so soft and lethal it sank its claws into his spine and made him nearly feral with want. He didn’t bother teasing her anymore, didn’t waste a second pretending he had any control left to maintain. He dove in like a man half-mad with thirst, tongue parting her slick folds with a practiced hunger that spoke of all the nights he’d imagined her just like this: spread open, thighs trembling, helpless to do anything but take what he gave her.

She gasped, the sound sharp and crystalline as her back arched off the velvet-cushioned seat, her hips canting forward helplessly, chasing every flick of his tongue like a prayer. When her thighs clamped around his head — soft, warm, trembling just slightly with the effort to keep him close — Theo only groaned deeper into her, hands digging into the plush softness of her hips to anchor her against his relentless mouth. If she squeezed the breath from his lungs until his vision blurred at the edges? So be it. There were far worse ways to die than buried between her thighs, drowning in her scent and taste until the world narrowed to nothing but the soft, broken sounds she couldn’t stop herself from making for him.

He could feel the ragged hitch of her breath every time he flattened his tongue against her, the delicate flutter of her pulse under the silk of her inner thigh where his fingers pressed bruising promises into her skin. Every shiver, every involuntary roll of her hips, fed the raw, aching need coiling hot and insistent in his belly. It didn’t matter that he was still fully clothed, his shirt sticking uncomfortably to the sweat at the small of his back, his tie askew and brushing her calf with each hungry tilt of his head. All that mattered was her — the taste of her, the way her hands tangled in his hair, nails scraping his scalp with a desperation that bordered on cruel. He fucking loved it. He’d beg for it.

The pressure in his own trousers was blinding — every heartbeat throbbing painfully through the tight line of his cock, straining against the expensive fabric like it wanted to tear straight through. One of his hands slipped from her hip, sliding down his own chest, over the sharp ridges of his belt until it cupped himself through the thin wool of his trousers. The hiss that escaped him was muffled by her, the vibration sending a tremor through her core that made her whimper his name — a broken sound that scraped every shred of restraint from his bones.

He palmed himself lazily, half a threat, half a promise — the obscene thrill of it feeding the primal satisfaction blooming low in his gut. To be here, on his knees before her, undone by her taste and the soft clamp of her thighs around his flushed, desperate face — it was penance and pleasure all in one. And when he felt her hips jerk forward, thighs quivering, the first sweet rush of her coming apart for him building under his tongue, Theo knew there was no place on earth he’d rather die than right here — suffocated by her forgiveness, wrecked by her ruin.

“Theo, wait… I can’t—” Her protest broke apart on a gasp, the syllables dissolving into a breathy moan that made his spine thrum with vicious satisfaction. She tried, with what little resolve she had left, to press her palms to his shoulders, to push him back — but it was useless. The moment her hips bucked forward, chasing the relentless drag of his tongue, her fingers curled instead into the fabric of his shirt, balling it into fists like she was trying to anchor herself to something real before she shattered entirely.

But Theo didn’t stop — couldn’t stop, not when she tasted like absolution and ruin in equal measure, not when every helpless roll of her hips told him she was close enough to break apart for him. He only doubled down, growling low into her as he sealed his mouth around her clit, the sound a rough purr that vibrated through her, forcing another broken cry from her throat. He fucked his tongue as deep as it would reach, then pulled back to flick and circle her swollen clit with the kind of desperate, reverent attention that said this was his true apology — wordless and filthy and honest in a way neither of them would ever dare admit in daylight.

His own hips rocked forward in time with the rhythm of his tongue, hand squeezing himself through the fabric of his trousers so hard it almost hurt, each pulse of pleasure grounding him in the swirl of her taste and the choked-off sounds spilling past her bitten lips. He was painfully, dizzyingly hard — the kind of hard that made his vision blur every time she whimpered his name or dug her nails into his shoulders like she wanted to mark him deep enough that no amount of scalding shower water could ever wash her off.

He could feel her legs trembling now, thighs tightening around his head in desperate pulses that made his pulse thunder in his ears. He shifted slightly, one hand bracing her hip to hold her still as he worked his mouth over her with the singular focus of a sinner clawing for redemption. He dragged his tongue flat and slow over her clit before sucking it between his lips again, swirling, teasing, coaxing every shudder and whimper from her until she had no choice but to fall apart.

When her hips jerked, rolling up so sharply she nearly knocked him back, Theo only groaned into her, the sound almost savage, all teeth and want. His hand squeezed himself harder through his trousers, hips rocking against the rough friction as he chased the dizzy high of knowing he was the one dragging these sounds from her throat. He wanted to feel her break — to feel her thighs clamp tight enough to steal the breath from his lungs, to drown him so completely in her that every other regret from that stupid, drunken night would be smothered in the dark velvet of her heat and her forgiveness.

He pulled back just enough to murmur, voice hoarse and ragged against the slick heat of her: “Come on, princess… don’t run now. Let me have it. Let me taste you…” Then he buried himself again, tongue and lips claiming every trembling pulse of her pleasure like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

And she did. Her breath hitched on a choked sob of his name — part warning, part surrender — before her head tipped back against the cool leather of the sofa, lashes fluttering shut like moth wings before dusk. Her mouth fell open around a soft, strangled moan as the last of her resolve crumbled under the merciless devotion of his tongue. Her thighs clamped tight around his head, trembling with each helpless spasm that wracked her body as she came undone for him, wet and perfect and raw against his mouth.

Theo felt it like a blessing, her pleasure spilling onto his tongue, warm and sweet, the taste of her forgiveness coating his lips and jaw. He lapped it up greedily, refusing to waste a single drop, his tongue coaxing every last shiver, every tiny, involuntary aftershock from her core until she was whimpering brokenly into the hush of the common room, her hips twitching with overstimulation but never once pulling away. If anything, she pushed closer, as if she’d rather drown in him than face the empty cold of her pride a moment longer.

He didn’t stop — wouldn’t stop — even as his own body coiled so tight with need it bordered on agony. His hand worked himself through the now-damp front of his trousers, the fabric darkened with sweat and precum and the obscene friction of his palm dragging over his length in desperate, jerky pulls. Every muffled moan she spilled, every tremor in her thighs, every helpless grind of her hips against his mouth pushed him closer to the edge, each pulse of her pleasure feeding the raw, animal need snarling at the base of his spine.

When she sagged back against the sofa, boneless and trembling, Theo pressed one last, searing kiss to her fluttering core, sucking gently at her swollen clit until she gasped and her fingers tugged sharply at his hair. The sharp sting of it — the ownership in that tiny, wordless command — tipped him right over the edge.

A low, broken groan tore out of him as he buried his face against her thigh, hips jerking forward into his own hand. The pleasure crashed through him like wildfire, blinding and raw, stealing his breath as he spilled into his trousers — the hot, wet mess of it spreading inside the expensive fabric, soaking through his briefs and sticking damply to his skin. It was messy, humiliating, so pathetically eager it almost made him laugh if he’d had the breath to spare. But Merlin, it was perfect — perfect because it was for her, because it was from her, because there was no part of him she didn’t own now, from the desperate scrape of his teeth on her thigh to the warm stickiness cooling on his belly.

He stayed there for a moment, forehead pressed to the softness of her inner leg, his breath coming in ragged gasps against her skin. Slowly, he turned his head just enough to press a soft, almost reverent kiss to the tender flesh above her knee — a wordless vow stitched into the taste of her on his tongue, a promise that, drunk or sober, ruined or redeemed, he was always going to be hers.

#˙ . ꒷ emmy writes. 𖦹˙—#𐔌 . ⋮ smut.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱#hogwarts fanfiction #theodore nott x slytherin!reader #theodore nott x y/n #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott smut #theodore nott

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bbokaricentral · 3 days ago

Text

caught in a web

Summary: han jisung can save the city from supervillains, but he can't save his gpa or his love life. after two years of pining, his crush finally asks him out—only for his spider-sense to cockblock him at the worst possible moment. now he's got metal maniacs destroying amusement parks, a secret identity hanging by a thread, and exactly one chance to prove he's boyfriend material without accidentally revealing he's the guy swinging around in spandex.

(amazing artist who make such fanart of han is here)

words: 12.k!

aka: nerd!jisung gets spider powers and somehow becomes an even bigger disaster

Tags: spiderman au, college au, han jisung x reader,fluff, pining, secret identity chaos, mild violence/action, near death experiences(really ass on my part guys) language, explosions, second-hand embarrassment, han is so peter parker coded here, jisung being a loser (love me some nerdsung) other idols used as ocs/side characters

notes: saw one nerd jisung fic and it altered my brain chemistry so here's 12k words of him being a disaster in costume. sorry for abandoning my hyunjin fic but spider-jisung demanded to be written 🕷️

—

The sound of shattering glass echoed through the downtown district as Han Jisung webbed up another piece of debris, his spider suit stretching as he dodged a particularly nasty swing from the villain's metallic arm. The bastard was stronger than he looked, and Jisung was already feeling the strain in his shoulders from the prolonged fight.

"Seriously, Sledgehammer? That's the best name you could come up with?" Jisung quipped, shooting a web at the man's feet and yanking hard, sending him tumbling into a conveniently placed dumpster with a satisfying crash. "What happened to creativity in crime these days? Did you guys stop trying after Doctor Octopus?"

"Weird how you're talking Spiderman!" the villain spits back

"Hey! My name is way better than fucking Sledgehammer!" Jisung said, putting on a show of faux offense.

The villain apparently actually called Sledgehammer, judging by the crude name spray-painted on his makeshift armor groaned from inside the dumpster. Jisung quickly webbed him up properly, layering the synthetic material thick enough that even enhanced strength wouldn't break through easily.

"NYPD? Yeah, it's your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man again. Got another gift-wrapped present for you on Fifth and Main." He ended the call and was about to swing away when he heard the news vans approaching, their sirens cutting through the evening air.

From his perch on a nearby building, Jisung watched as reporters swarmed the scene below like vultures on roadkill.

"This marks the third appearance this month of the mysterious vigilante the media has dubbed 'Spider-Man,'" the reporter announced to her camera crew, her voice carrying that practiced news anchor cadence.

"Police have yet to comment on whether this masked individual is friend or foe, but citizens seem grateful for his intervention in what could have been a devastating attack on the shopping district."

Jisung snorted. Friend or foe? He was literally gift-wrapping criminals for them like it was fucking Christmas morning.

His phone buzzed with a text from

felix: dude where the fuck are you? physics lab started 20 minutes ago and professor martinez is asking questions

"Shit," Jisung muttered, shooting a web toward campus. Being a superhero was seriously messing with his GPA, and if his parents found out he was failing classes, they'd kill him before any supervillain got the chance.

"You look like you got hit by a truck," Jay observed as Jisung stumbled into their shared apartment later that evening, his backpack falling off his shoulder with a loud thud that made their upstairs neighbor bang on the floor in complaint.

"Thanks, appreiate the honesty." Jisung groaned, collapsing face-first onto their ratty couch that they'd found on the street corner sophomore year. It smelled faintly of cigarettes and regret, but it was home.

Felix emerged from the kitchen with a bowl of ramen, taking one look at his roommate's disheveled state. "Let me guess 'food poisoning' again?"

The three of them had established this code early on. Jisung couldn't exactly say he'd been fighting crime, so food poisoning became their go-to excuse for his frequent disappearances and exhausted appearances. It was getting harder to sell, especially since Felix had started keeping track of how often Jisung allegedly got sick.

"The worst kind," Jisung mumbled into the couch cushions, tasting fabric softener and despair. "The kind that throws cars and has really bad fucking aim."

Jay raised an eyebrow, setting down his textbook. "Cars? Dude, you need to eat at better places. Maybe try somewhere that doesn't serve week-old sushi from a gas station."

When he'd first discovered his powers six months ago courtesy of a field trip gone wrong involving a very angry, very radioactive spider—he'd sworn Felix and Jay to secrecy. They'd been surprisingly cool about it, though they still made fun of his web-shooters.

"Speaking of eating," Felix said, settling into his chair with the kind of grin that meant he was about to suggest something Jisung would hate, "there's a party at Mizi's house tomorrow night. You should come."

Jisung's head shot up from the couch like he'd been electrocuted. "A party? Felix, you know I don't do parties. I do Netflix, crying over organic chemistry, and occasionally saving the city from megalomaniacs. Social interaction is not in my skill set."

"Come on," Jay joined in, and Jisung knew he was doomed because they were tag-teaming him. "You never do anything fun. When's the last time you talked to someone who wasn't us, your professors, or some asshole in a costume trying to blow up Manhattan?"

"I talk to people!"

"The librarian asking you to please stop falling asleep on your textbooks doesn't count," Felix deadpanned, slurping his ramen obnoxiously. "Neither does arguing with Professor Kim about the theoretical applications of quantum mechanics."

Jisung was about to argue when Jay delivered the killing blow: "Y/N will be there."

The effect was immediate. Jisung's complaints died in his throat, and he could feel his cheeks heating up like he was fourteen again and his mom was showing his friends his baby pictures. Y/N, possibly the most beautiful, intelligent, and completely out-of-his-league girl on campus. You shared exactly ond classes(Introduction to Psychology), where Jisung spent more time stealing glances at you than actually learning about Freud's weird obsession with his mother.

"That's not... I don't... why would that matter?" Jisung stammered, his voice cracking slightly.

Felix and Jay exchanged knowing looks, the kind that best friends develop after years of watching each other make fools of themselves over crushes.

"Oh, I don't know," Felix said innocently, but his eyes were sparkling with mischief. "Maybe because you've been pining after her since freshman year? Maybe because you literally walked into a glass door last week because you were staring at her ass?"

"That door was very clean," Jisung protested weakly. "And I wasn't staring at her ass. I was... observing. Scientifically."

"Scientifically my dick," Felix snorted. "You nearly gave yourself a concussion because you were too busy drooling to watch where you were going."

"Jisung," Jay said seriously, sitting down across from him with that look that meant he was about to dispense wisdom whether Jisung wanted it or not. "You're smart, you're funny when you're not overthinking everything to death, and despite what you think, you're not completely hopeless with people. But you're never going to get anywhere if you don't actually try."

"Besides," Felix added with a grin that was absolutely diabolical, "what's the worst that could happen? You embarrass yourself, she rejects you, and you spend the rest of college hiding in the library like some kind of academic hermit? Oh wait, you're aleready doing that."

Jisung could think of about a million things that could go wrong, starting with making a complete fool of himself and ending with his spider-sense going off mid-conversation and having to awkwardly exit while you thought he was just weird. But looking at his friends' expectant faces, he found himself nodding.

"Okay. Okay, fine. But if this goes horribly wrong, I'm blaming both of you fuckers and never speaking to you again."

"Deal," Felix said immediately, looking far too pleased with himself.

The party was already in full swing by the time they arrived, music thumping loud enough that Jisung could feel it in his chest like a second heartbeat. He tugged at the hem of the button-down Felix had forced him into, feeling overdressed and underprepared for the social battlefield ahead.

"I can't do this," he said for the fifteenth time as they walked up to the house, which was practically vibrating with bass and poor life choices.

"Yes, you fucking can," Jay said firmly, grabbing Jisung by the shoulders and forcing him to make eye contact. "We've been over this. You're going to go in there, find Y/N, and have a normal conversation. No rambling about quantum physics, no fun facts about spider mating rituals, and definitely no mention of that documentary you watched about arachnid silk production."

"But the documentary was really interesting—"

"No."

"The tensile strength of spider silk is actually—"

"Jisung, I swear to God, if you start talking about spider facts at this party, I will personally web you to the ceiling," Felix threatened, then paused. "Wait, can you actually do that to yourself?"

"Theoretically, yes, but the angle would be awkward and—"

"NERD," both his friends said in unison.

The house was packed with people Jisung recognized but had never actually spoken to. He'd always been more of a background character in the college social scene—the guy you might partner with for a difficult assignment but wouldn't think to invite to things. The guy who knew everyone's name but whose name no one could quite remember.

They'd been there for maybe twenty minutes, Jisung nursing the same beer and trying to work up the courage to approach you (you looked absolutely stunning in a simple black dress that made his brain short-circuit), when you suddenly appeared beside him like some kind of beautiful, terrifying angel.

"Han Jisung, right?" you said, and your voice was just as sweet as he'd imagined during his many, many daydreams. "We're in Professor Kim's psych class together."

Jisung's brain short-circuited, sparked, and possibly caught fire. You knew his name. You knew his actual name, not just "that guy who sits in the back and occasionally says smart things."

"I, uh, yes. That's me. Han Jisung. Who is me. I am Han Jisung." He wanted to disappear into the floor and never resurface. Maybe he could web himself to the basement and live there permanently.

But instead of looking annoyed or weirded out, you laughed—a genuine, bright sound that made Jisung's chest feel warm and his spider-sense tingle in a completely different way than usual.

"I really liked your comment in class last week about cognitive dissonance in social media," you continued, taking a sip of whatever fruity drink was in your red solo cup. "It was really insightful. Most people just regurgitate whatever they read online, but you actually thought about it."

"You... you were listening?" Jisung asked, surprised. Half the class usually looked dead inside during Kim's lectures.

"Of course I was listening. You always have interesting things to say." You smiled at him, and Jisung felt like he might actually float away, spider-powers or no spider-powers. "Though you always look terrified when Professor Kim calls on you."

"That's because Professor Kim is scary," Jisung said without thinking, then immediately regretted it. "I mean, not scary, just... intimidating. In a good way. A respectable way. She could probably kill me with her mind."

You laughed again, stepping a little closer, and Jisung caught a whiff of your perfume, something light and floral that made him a little dizzy. "You're cute when you're nervous."

Jisung was pretty sure his face was now approximately the color of a tomato. "I'm not nervous. This is just my face. My face is just... red. Naturally. I have a condition."

"Your face is very red for someone who's not nervous," you teased, and were you flirting with him? This felt like flirting. Jisung had no idea how to handle flirting.

They talked for what felt like hours but was probably only twenty minutes. You asked about his major (computer science with a minor in biochemistry), his hobbies (he very carefully avoided mentioning web-slinging and fighting crime), and his thoughts on their upcoming psych exam.

"I have to admit," you said, leaning against the wall beside him, close enough that he could count your eyelashes if he wanted to, "I was hoping I'd run into you tonight."

Jisung's brain stuttered like a broken record. "You were?"

"Mhmm." You were standing close enough that he could see the little flecks of gold in your eyes. "I've been wanting to talk to you for a while, but you always seem to disappear after class. Like you're late for something important."

Because I'm usually running off to fight crime, Jisung thought, but obviously couldn't say that. "I just... I'm not great with crowds. People make me nervous."

"I noticed," you said softly, your voice barely audible over the music. "It's refreshing, actually. Most guys I know are so..." You gestured vaguely around the party at a group of frat boys doing something that probably violated several laws of physics and common sense. "Loud. Obnoxious. You're different."

You were looking at him in a way that made Jisung's heart race for reasons that had nothing to do with impending danger. Your eyes kept flickering down to his lips, and you were definitely leaning closer, and oh god was this actually happening—

His spider-sense exploded.

The familiar tingling sensation hit him like a freight train, so intense he actually winced and grabbed the wall for support. Somewhere in the city, something very bad was happening, and it was big enough that his senses were screaming at him from miles away.

"I..." Jisung looked at you, who were now definitely leaning in for a kiss, your eyes fluttering closed, lips slightly parted, and he wanted to die. "I have to go."

Your eyes snapped open, confusion and hurt flickering across your face. "What?"

"I'm sorry, I just... I think I'm going to be sick. Food poisoning. Very sudden. Rain check?" He was already backing away, cursing his life and his spider-powers and the cosmic forces that seemed determined to ruin any chance he had at happiness.

You looked confused and a little hurt, your arms wrapping around yourself defensively. "Oh. Okay. Feel better, I guess?"

Jisung practically ran through the house, dodging drunk college students and feeling like the world's biggest asshole. He texted Felix and Jay that he was leaving, then ducked into an alley three blocks from the party and changed into his suit, stashing his clothes in a web sac attached to a fire escape.

"This better be worth it," he muttered, swinging toward whatever disaster was waiting for him.

Downtown was chaos.

The villain, who Jisung mentally dubbed "Acid Bath" based on the green, corrosive substance dripping from his hands and eating through everything it touched, was melting through the city like a walking chemistry experiment gone wrong. Cars, street lamps, even the asphalt beneath his feet dissolved like sugar in water, leaving behind a trail of destruction that looked like something out of a horror movie.

"Great," Jisung muttered, perching on a building to assess the situation. The air smelled like burning metal and sulfur, and he could see civilians running in all directions, screaming as they tried to avoid the acid trails. "It's like fighting a walking fucking nightmare."

Acid Bath seemed to be heading toward the financial district, leaving a path of melted destruction in his wake. Whatever his plan was, Jisung needed to stop him before he reached any buildings full of people.

"Hey, Slimer!" Jisung called out, swinging down to street level with practiced ease. "Halloween was last month! Also, your costume is shit!"

The villain turned, his face a grotesque mess of bubbling green scars that looked like they hurt just to exist. When he spoke, his voice was distorted and wet, like he was talking through a mouthful of poison.

"Spider-Man," he hissed, acid dripping from his lips onto the ground with a sizzling sound. "Perfect. I was hoping you'd show up so I could melt that smart mouth right off your face."

"Really? I'm flattered. Most people don't want me to show up to their crime sprees. Usually they're all 'oh no, Spider-Man' and 'please don't web me to a lamppost' and 'I have rights.' Very ungrateful, if you ask me."

Acid Bath lunged forward, his hands outstretched and dripping with that horrifying green substance. Jisung dodged, his enhanced reflexes kicking in, but not before some of the acid splashed onto a nearby car. The metal hissed and bubbled, eating through the door like it was made of paper.

"Okay, that's definitely not covered by insurance," Jisung said, keeping mobile and trying to stay out of range. This was going to be tricky. He couldn't get close enough for physical combat, and his webs wouldn't hold if this asshole could just melt through them.

"So what's your deal?" Jisung asked, staying mobile and trying to keep the villain's attention while he figured out a strategy. "Bad breakup? Failed chemistry exam? Fell into a vat of chemicals because you didn't read the safety manual? Please tell me it's not another 'my dad didn't hug me enough' situation."

"You think this is a joke?" Acid Bath snarled, hurling a glob of acid that Jisung barely avoided. It hit a street lamp behind him, and the metal post crumbled like a stale cookie. "I was a respected scientist until Oscorp destroyed my life! They stole my research, fired me, and blacklisted me from every lab in the city! They all deserve to–"

"Ah, the classic 'evil corporation ruined my life so now I'm going to take it out on innocent people' routine. Very original. Really breaking new ground here."

The fight continued for what felt like hours. Jisung managed to web up some street barriers to contain the villain's movement, but Acid Bath just melted through them like they were made of tissue paper. Every time Jisung tried to get close, another splash of acid would force him back, and the smell was starting to make him lightheaded.

The real problem was the collateral damage. Every missed shot from Acid Bath was destroying property and endangering civilians. Jisung had to keep his attention focused while also herding panicked people away from the danger zone, and it was fucking exhausting.

"You know what your problem is?" Jisung called out, dodging another acid blast that took out a fire hydrant. "You've got no range control. You're like a storm trooper with a chemistry set."

"I'll show you range!" Acid Bath roared, and this time he didn't throw acid—he breathed it out in a wide spray that covered half the street.

Jisung barely managed to swing out of the way. The acid cloud was huge and he could feel droplets hitting his suit, small holes appearing in the fabric. This wasn't sustainable. He needed a new approach.

It wasn't until Jisung noticed a fire hydrant that he got an idea.

"You know what they say about acid," Jisung said, shooting a web at the hydrant and yanking hard. "It doesn't play well with water!"

The hydrant exploded in a geyser of pressurized water, sending a powerful stream directly at the villain. Acid Bath screamed as the water hit him, the acid on his body diluting and neutralizing. Steam rose from his skin as the chemical reaction worked in reverse, and within minutes, he was just a regular guy in a ruined lab coat, unconscious and no longer dangerous.

"And that," Jisung said, webbing the unconscious villain to a convenient lamppost, "is why you should have paid attention in basic chemistry. Water beats acid, rock beats scissors, and Spider-Man beats crazy scientists with poor safety protocols."

He called the police and was about to swing away when he noticed the significant damage to his suit. The acid had eaten through parts of the fabric, and he was pretty sure he had some minor burns on his arms that were going to sting like hell tomorrow.

By the time he made it back to the apartment, it was nearly 3 AM. Felix and Jay were waiting up for him, concern written all over their faces and empty energy drink cans scattered across the coffee table.

"Rough night?" Felix asked, noting Jisung's visible exhaustion and the holes in his suit.

"The roughest," Jisung groaned, collapsing onto the couch and immediately regretting it as the burns on his arms made contact with the fabric. "And I totally blew it with Y/N."

"What happened?" Jay asked, setting down his textbook and giving Jisung his full attention.

Jisung explained the whole situation—well, the part about having to leave suddenly. He left out the details about fighting a walking acid factory and nearly getting dissolved.

"Dude," Felix said sympathetically, running a hand through his hair, "that fucking sucks. But maybe you can explain tomorrow? Tell her you felt better?"

"I don't know," Jisung sighed, staring at the ceiling and trying not to think about the look on your face when he'd basically run away from you. "She probably thinks I'm a complete weirdo now. Who does that? Who runs away from someone who's about to kiss them?"

"Someone with really bad timing and a hero complex," Jay said dryly. "But seriously, man, just talk to her. Explain that you weren't feeling well. People get siick, it happens."

"Yeah, but not conveniently right before the most important moment of my entire romantic life," Jisung said miserably.

But the next day, you surprised him.

Jisung was sitting in his usual spot in the back of their psychology class, trying to stay awake despite having gotten maybe three hours of sleep and downing enough caffeine to kill a horse. Professor Kim was droning on about classical conditioning, and Jisung was seriously considering whether it would be less embarrassing to fall asleep in class or to actually die of exhaustion, when you slid into the seat next to him.

"Feeling better?" you asked, and there was genuine concern in your voice rather than annoyance, which was more than Jisung deserved.

"Much better, thank you," Jisung said, straightening up and trying to look like he hadn't spent the night fighting crime and questioning his life choices. "I'm really sorry about last night. I know the timing was... weird."

"It's okay," you said with a smile that made Jisung's heart do something complicated in his chest. "These things happen. Though I have to ask—what kind of food poisoning hits that suddenly? One second we were talking, and the next you looked like you'd seen a ghost."

Jisung's mind raced. "Uh... bad sushi? You know how it is with raw fish. Very unpredictable. Could have been sitting out too long, wrong temperature, contaminated with... fish... bacteria?"

You nodded, though you looked a little skeptical. "Right. Sushi. From where?"

"That place on... Fifth Street. You probably don't know it. Very small. Family-owned. They're... not great with food safety." Jisung was digging himself into a hole, but he couldn't stop talking. "I should have known better, really. The rice looked suspicious."

"Suspicious rice," you repeated, and there was definitely amusement in your voice now.

"Very suspicious. Almost... malevolent."

Before Jisung could make an even bigger fool of himself, Professor Kim started class, saving him from having to explain the theoretical malevolence of sushi rice.

Halfway through the lecture on Pavlov's experiments, you passed him a note: Want to study together after class? I promise no sushi.

Jisung's heart did a little flip. He wrote back: Are you sure? I'm a pretty boring study partner.

Your response made him smile: I doubt that. You made Pavlov's experiments sound interesting last week, and that's basically impossible.

After class, you found a quiet corner in the library, away from the usual chaos of college students pretending to study while actually scrolling through social media. You had brought color-coded notes and highlighters, while Jisung had a single notebook that looked like it had been through a war zone.

"Okay," you said, spreading your materials out on the table with the efficiency of someone who actually had their shit together, "I'm thinking we start with the chapters on learning theory and work our way through to cognitive development?"

"Sounds good," Jisung agreed, trying not to stare at how organized your notes were. Everything was neat and categorized, with little diagrams and highlighted key points, while his looked like he'd taken them during an earthquake while riding a mechanical bull.

They'd been studying for about an hour, and Jisung was actually starting to relax, when you asked, "So what got you interested in psychology? It's not exactly the most obvious choice for a computer science major."

Jisung considered his answer carefully. He couldn't exactly say that understanding human behavior had become crucial for his superhero work—knowing how people reacted in crisis situations, understanding what motivated criminals, figuring out how to calm down panicked civilians. That would raise questions he wasn't ready to answer.

"I guess I've always been interested in how people think," he said finally, twirling his pen between his fingers. "Like, why do people make the choices they do? What drives someone to help others, or to hurt them? What makes someone risk their life for strangers, or throw their life away for revenge? It's all just... fascinating to me."

You nodded thoughtfully, resting your chin on your hand. "That's really cool. Most people I know just take it for the easy credit."

"Is that why you're taking it?" Jisung asked.

"Partially," you admitted with a laugh. "But also because I'm thinking about switching my major. I'm in business right now, but it doesn't feel... meaningful, you know? I want to do something that actually helps people."

Jisung looked at you with new respect. Here you were, beautiful and popular and probably capable of doing anything you wanted, and you were thinking about giving up a potentially lucrative career to help people.

"What are you thinking of switching to?"

"Maybe social work? Or counseling psychology? I haven't decided yet." You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, looking a little embarrassed. "I know it sounds naive, but I want to make a difference. I want to help people who are struggling, who don't have anyone else in their corner."

"It doesn't sound naive at all," Jisung said earnestly, leaning forward. "I think that's really admirable. The world needs more people who actually give a shit about others."

You smiled at him, and it was different from your other smiles—softer, more genuine. "You're really sweet, you know that?"

They continued studying, but the conversation had shifted to more personal topics. You told him about growing up in a small town, about your parents' expectations for your business degree, about your fears of disappointing people.

In return, Jisung found himself opening up more than he had with anyone except Felix and Jay, talking about the pressure of his pre-med parents who couldn't understand why he'd swithed to computer science, about feeling like he was always letting people down.

"You know," you said as you were packing up your books, "I had kind of a crush on you freshman year."

Jisung nearly dropped his notebook. "You what?"

"You probably don't remember, but we had Biology 101 together. You sat two rows in front of me, and you always asked the most thoughtful questions. I kept hoping you'd notice me, but you seemed so focused on your studies."

"I..." Jisung's brain was having trouble processing this information. "I had no idea. I thought you were way out of my league."

"Out of your league?" You laughed, and it was that bright, genuine sound that made his chest warm. "Jisung, you're brilliant, you're sweet, and you're incredibly cute when you get excited about something. How could you be out of anyone's league?"

Before Jisung could respond, your friends appeared at the table like they'd materialized from thin air. He recognized them—Rei and Lara, both part of the popular crowd that usually wouldn't give him a second glance.

"There you are!" Rei exclaimed, slightly out of breath like she'd been running around the library. "We've been looking everywhere for you."

"Hey guys," you said, but there was a slight edge to your voice, like you weren't entirely pleased by the interruption. "This is Jisung. Jisung, meet Rei and Lara."

"Hi," Jisung said awkwardly, giving them a small wave and immediately feeling like an idiot for waving.

Lara looked between you and Jisung with a knowing smile that made Jisung's stomach twist with anxiety. "Oh, so this is the guy you've been talking about."

Your cheeks turned pink. "Lara!"

"What? I'm just saying, you've mentioned him like five times this week." Lara turned to Jisung with a grin that was either friendly or predatory, he couldn't tell. "She thinks you're very smart."

Jisung felt his own face heating up. "I... thank you?"

Reigiggled. "You're adorable. Y/N, you should totally ask him to—"

"Okay!" you interrupted, standing up quickly and shooting your friends a look that could kill. "I think that's enough embarrassment for one day. Jisung, I should let you get going."

"Right," Jisung said, gathering his things and trying to ignore the knowing looks your friends were exchanging.

"Thanks for studying with me. Same time tomorrow?"

"Definitely," you said with a smile.

As Jisung walked away, he could hear your friends immediately start talking in excited whispers. He couldn't make out the words, but their tone was encouraging, which he chose to take as a good sign.

The next day after class, Jisung was at his locker, trying to organize the disaster that was his backpack, when you appeared beside him looking determined but nervous.

"Hey," you said, fidgeting with your phone case. "So I was wondering... are you free Saturday evening? Around seven?"

Jisung's heart started racing like he'd just web-swung across the city. "Saturday? Yeah, I think so. Why?"

"There's this new roller coaster at Luna Park—The Cyclone's Revenge. I've been dying to try it, but none of my friends are into extreme rides." You bit your lip, and Jisung was momentarily distracted by the gesture.

"Would you want to go with me? Like... as a date?"

Jisung was pretty sure his heart had stopped beating. You were asking him out. You, the girl he'd been pining after for two years, were asking him on a date.

"Yes," he said immediately, not trusting himself to form more complex sentences without fucking it up. "Yes, I would love that. Seven pm. Saturday. Roller coasters. Yes."

Your face lit up with a brilliant smile that made Jisung feel like he could probably fly without the web-shooters. "Really? Great! I'll text you the details."

"Perfect," Jisung managed, though he was pretty sure he was grinning like an idiot.

After you left, Jisung stood at his locker for a full minute, trying to process what had just happened.

He had a date.

With you.

An actual date.

He was so caught up in his excitement that he didn't notice his spider-sense giving him a very faint warning tingle.

—

Meanwhile, across campus, you were having your own crisis in your dorm room with Lara sprawled across your bed, critiquing your outfit choices with the dedication of a fashion editor.

"No, absolutely not," Lara said, pointing dramatically at the conservative blouse you were holding up. "You look like you're going to a job interview at a bank. This is supposed to be fun, Y/N. Fun and flirty and 'please kiss me on the Ferris wheel.'"

you tossed the blouse aside with a sigh. " I don't want to look like I'm trying too hard."

"Babes, you've been talking about this boy for weeks. You're already trying hard. The question is whether you want to look cute while doing it." Lara sat up, fixing you with a serious look. "When's the last time you went on a real date? Not some group hang or study session disguised as romantic interest. An actual, honest-to-god date."

You paused, considering. "Um... sophomore year? That guy from my economics class?"

"Soobin from Econ who spent the entire dinner talking about cryptocurrency and his dad's boat?" Lara's expression was horrified. "That wasn't a date, that was a humanitarian crisis. You deserve better than Soobin from Econ."

"Jisung is definitely better than Soobin from Econ," you agreed, pulling out a a cream or off-white knitted sweater dress with an off-shoulder design that has black ribbon ties at the neckline, with a cute flared skirt at the bottom.t hit just above your knees. "What about this one?"

Lara tilted her head, considering. "Better. The color is perfect, and it's casual enough for an amusement park but still cute enough to show you made an effort. But..." She rummaged through your closet pulling out your long boots before grabbing some longass creme socks in your accessories drawer. "Add this. Trust me."

You tried on the combination, turning to look at yourself in the mirror. The outfit was perfect—comfortable enough for walking around an amusement park all evening, but flattering and feminine. You looked like yourself, just... elevated.

"Okay, but what if he doesn't show up?" you asked, voicing the fear that had been nagging at you since you'd asked him out. "What if he gets that mysterious food poisoning again?"

"Then he's an idiot and call me and Rei and we will all go together, even if we don’t really like roller coasters" Lara said firmly. "But he's not going to bail. Did you see his face when you asked him out? The boy looked like he'd won the lottery."

"He did look pretty happy," you admitted, unable to suppress your smile at the memory.

"Happy? Y/N, I thought he was going to combust on the spot. His face went so red I was genuinely concerned about his blood pressure." Lara grinned, flopping back down on your bed. "Trust me, he'll be there. Probably early, knowing him."

You spent the next hour getting ready, with Lara providing commentary on everything from your hair, to your makeup. By the time you were finished, you felt confident and excited rather than nervous.

"You look gorgeous," Lara said sincerely, giving you a quick hug. "And more importantly, you look happy. When you talk about Jisung, you get this little smile that you don't get with anyone else."

"Really?" you asked, checking your reflection one more time.

"Really. It's like... you light up. It's disgusting how cute it is." Lara grabbed her keys from your desk. "Come on, I'll drive you to the subway. Can't you get sweaty before your big date."

As you gathered your purse and checked that you had everything, Lara continued her pep talk. "Remember, just be yourself. He already likes you—the real you, not some perfect version. And if conversation gets awkward, just ask him about school or his hobbies or whatever nerdy thing he's passionate about. Boys love talking about themselves."

"What if I say something stupid?"

"Then you say something stupid. Everyone says stupid things on dates. It's like a rite of passage." Lara opened the door, gesturing for you to follow. "Besides, something tells me Jisung won't mind. He seems like the type who finds rambling endearing."

—

Saturday evening found Jisung in their apartment bathroom, staring at his reflection while Felix and Jay argued over his outfit choices like he was their personal Ken doll.

"The blue sweater makes him look approachable," Felix was saying, holding up a soft blue pullover. "Like, 'hi, I'm a nice guy who won't murder you on the first date.'"

"The button-down makes him look more mature," Jay countered, waving a white Oxford shirt. "This is a date, not a fucking study session. He needs to look like he has his shit together."

"I can hear you both, you know," Jisung called from the bathroom, where he was having a minor breakdown about his hair. No matter what he did, it looked like he'd stuck his finger in an electrical socket. "And I'm perfectly capable of dressing myself."

"Evidence suggests otherwise," Felix called back. "Remember what you wore to orientation?"

"That shirt was fine!"

"It had a periodic table on it, Jisung. And not in a cool, vintage way. In a 'please wedgie me' way."

Jisung emerged from the bathroom to find his entire wardrobe spread across Jay's bed, organized by color and style. His friends took fashion very seriously, probably more seriously than he took saving the city.

"Okay," Jay said, looking him up and down critically like he was judging a fashion show. "Dark jeans—good choice. Now we just need to decide on the tpop."

After much debate and several threats of violence, they settled on the blue sweater with a dark jacket. Jisung had to admit he looked pretty good—casual but put-together, approachable but not sloppy.

"Remember," Felix said as Jisung was getting ready to leave, "be yourself. She already likes you, so just relax and have fun."

"And please," Jay added, "try not to info-dump about spider facts or whatever. Save that for the third date."

"I don't info-dump," Jisung protested.

Both his friends gave him a look.

"Fine, I'll try to keep the science talk to a minimum," he conceded.

"And if your 'food poisoning' acts up," Felix said with air quotes, "try to give her some warning this time instead of just running away like the building's on fire."

"I'll do my best," Jisung said, though they all knew that if his spider-sense went off, he'd have no choice but to bail.

Jisung left the apartment at 6:20, planning to arrive fashionably early. Luna Park was only a twenty-minute subway ride away, which would put him there right around 6:45—early enough to show he was eager, not so early that he looked desperate.

At least, that was the plan.

He was walking toward the subway station, mentally rehearsing conversation topics and trying not to think about all the ways this could go wrong, when his spider-sense went off like a fire alarm.

"No," he said out loud, stopping dead in the middle of the sidewalk while pedestrians flowed around him like water around a rock. "No, no, no. Not tonight. Any night but tonight."

But his senses were screaming at him, that familiar tingling sensation so intense it was almost painful. Whatever was happening, it was big, and it was close, and people were going to die if he didn't act.

Jisung pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over your contact. How could he explain this? How could he tell you that he had to bail on the most important date of his life because his superhero responsibilities were calling?

In the distance, he could hear sirens and screaming. The choice was made for him.

He ducked into an alley, quickly changing into his suit and stashing his date clothes in a web sac. As he swung toward the chaos, he sent you a text: Emergency came up, running late. DON'T LEAVE. I'll be there as soon as I can. I'm so sorry.

Luna Park was in complete chaos when Jisung arrived.

What had started as a normal Saturday evening at the amusement park had turned into a nightmare scenario. The villain, who looked like a cross between a medieval knight and a construction vehicle, was systematically destroying rides and terroriziing families. His armor was covered in spinning blades and hydraulic pistons, and every step he took left cracks in the concrete.

"Great," Jisung muttered, surveying the scene from a nearby building. "It's like if a transformer had a baby with a blender and raised it on steroids."

The villain, who Jisung immediately dubbed "Shredder" (because creativity was not his strong suit under pressure), was currently taking apart the Tilt-a-Whirl like it was made of tinker toys. Families were screaming and running in all directions, parents scooping up children and pushing through the panicked crowds toward the exits.

But what made Jisung's blood run cold was the sight of people trapped on various rides that had been damaged in the attack. The Ferris wheel had stopped moving with several cars stuck at the top, swaying dangerously in the evening wind. The roller coaster—the same one he was supposed to be riding with you, had derailed partway through its circuit, leaving passengers stranded on a twisted section of track thirty feet in the air.

"Attention, insects!" Shredder bellowed, his voice amplified by some kind of speaker system built into his armor. "You have thirty minutes to evacuate this pathetic excuse for entertainment before I reduce it to scrap metal! Anyone who remains will be processed along with the machinery!"

"Processed?" Jisung swung down to get a better look at the situation. "Who talks like that? What is this, a fucking factory?"

The first priority was getting the trapped civilians to safety. Jisung webbed his way up to the roller coaster, where a family of four was clinging to their safety harnesses in a car that was tilted at a dangerous angle.

"Hey there," Jisung said, trying to sound calm and reassuring despite the chaos around them. "Everyone okay up here?"

"Spider-Man!" the father gasped, relief flooding his voice. "Thank god. We can't get out, the safety system won't release."

"No problem. I'm going to get you down one at a time, okay? Just stay calm and hold tight."

Jisung worked quickly, using his webs to create a stable anchor point and then lowering each family member to safety. The mother was crying by the time her feet hit solid ground, clutching her children and thanking him over and over.

"Get to the exits," Jisung told them. "Stay away from the big scary robot, and you'll be fine."

He repeated this process for the other trapped passengers, his enhanced strength and agility allowing him to move quickly between the twisted sections of track. But every second he spent on rescue operatons was another second for Shredder to cause more destruction.

By the time he'd cleared the roller coaster, the villain had moved on to the Ferris wheel. Jisung watched in horror as one of the mechanical arms extending from Shredder's armor began sawing through the support structure, causing the entire wheel to groan and sway.

"Oh, come on!" Jisung yelled, swinging toward the Ferris wheel as fast as he could. "Do you have any idea how much therapy these people are going to need?"

That's when he saw you.

You were in one of the cars near the bottom of the Ferris wheel, trapped with what looked like a mechanical malfunction keeping the safety bar locked in place. Unlike the other passengers who were screaming or crying, you were trying to work the release mechanism yourself, your face set in determined concentration.

Jisung's heart stopped. You were supposed to be at the entrance, waiting for him. You weren't supposed to be in danger. This was exactly the kind of situation he'd been trying to avoid by keeping his identity secret, the people he cared about getting hurt because of his superhero life.

"Hey, Tin Man!" Jisung called out, landing on the Ferris wheel's framework with a metallic clang. "Yeah, you with the obvious compensation issues! Leave the civilians alone and fight someone your own size!"

Shredder turned, his glowing red eyes focusing on Jisung with what seemed like amusement. "Spider-Man. I was hoping you'd show up. Destroying you will be much more satisfying than dismantling these primitive entertainment devices."

"Primiitive? Dude, do you know how much engineering goes into a Ferris wheel? The load calculations alone are incredibly complex. But I guess you wouldn't understand that, being more of a 'smash things with giant metal fists' kind of guy."

Shredder lunged forward, faster than something that size should have been able to move. Jisung barely dodged the swipe from a rotating blade that would have taken his head off, the metal scraping against the Ferris wheel's support beam and sending sparks flying.

"You talk too much, web-slinger!" Shredder snarled, his mechanical arms extending like deadly tentacles. "Let me help you with that problem!"

The fight that followed was unlike anything Jisung had experienced. Shredder wasn't just strong,he was a walking arsenal. Blades extended from his arms, his back, even his legs. Hydraulic pistons gave him incredible striking power, and his armor seemed to absorb the impact from Jisung's punches like they were love taps.

Every time Jisung tried to web him up, the spinning blades cut through the synthetic material like it was tissue paper. When he tried to get close for hand-to-hand combat, the mechanical arms would lash out, forcing him to stay mobile and defensive.

The real problem was the collateral damage. Every missed attack from Shredder was damaging the Ferris wheel's structure further, causing the cars to swing more violently. Jisung could hear the metal groaning under the stress, and he knew it was only a matter of time before the whole structure came down.

"You know what your problem is?" Jisung called out, dodging a particularly vicious combination attack that left gouges in the concrete where he'd been standing. "You're like a Swiss Army knife that only knows how to cut things. Very one-dimensional. Have you considered therapy?"

"I'll show you one-dimensional!" Shredder roared, and this time instead of attacking Jisung directly, he turned his attention to the Ferris wheel's main support column.

"No, no, no!" Jisung shot a web line and swung directly at Shredder, hitting him with a full-body tackle that would have flattened a normal person. Instead, it felt like hitting a brick wall, and Jisung bounced off, winded.

But it was enough to interrupt Shredder's attack on the support structure. The villain turned his attention back to Jisung, apparently deciding that the satisfaction of destroying Spider-Man was worth more than bringing down the Ferris wheel.

"You want to play hero?" Shredder advanced on Jisung, his blades spinning faster now, creating a sound like a dozen chainsaws. "Let's see how heroiic you feel when I turn you into spider paste!"

The attacks came faster now, a whirlwind of metal and hydraulics that forced Jisung to use every ounce of his enhanced reflexes. He couldn't go on the offensive—all of his energy was focused on staying alive and keeping Shredder's attention away from the civilians.

It was during one particularly close call, when a spinning blade passed close enough to his face that he could feel the wind from it, that Jisung noticed something. The hydraulic lines powering Shredder's mechanical arms were exposed at the joints, protected only by flexible rubber coverings.

"You know," Jisung said, shooting a web to swing out of range of another attack, "for all your fancy engineering, you've got a pretty obvious design flaw."

"What are you talking about, inspect?"

Instead of answering, Jisung shot a precise web line at one of the hydraulic joints, yanking hard. The rubber covering tore away, and hydraulic fluid began spraying out under pressure. One of Shredder's mechanical arms immediately lost power, going limp.

"Hydraulics 101," Jisung said, targeting another joint. "Great power, but vulnerable to pressure loss. Maybe next time invest in better protective covering?"

Shredder roared in fury as more of his mechanical arms lost power, but he wasn't done yet. The blades built into his main armor were still functioning, and he launched himself at Jisung with berserker rage.

This time, Jisung was ready. He used Shredder's momentum against him, webbing his feet and causing him to trip forward. As the villain stumbled, Jisung webbed up his remaining functional weapons, layer after layer of synthetic material until the spinning blades were clogged and useless.

"And that," Jisung said, delivering a punch that finally seemed to have some effect on the now-powerless villain, "is why you should never put all your eggs in one mechanical basket."

Shredder collapsed, his armor powered down and his weapons neutralized. Jisung webbed him securely to a nearby lamppost, then immediately turned his attention to the Ferris wheel.

The structure was badly damaged but still standing. Most of the cars had been evacuated during the fight, but you were still trapped in yours, still working at the release mechanism with admirable determination.

Jisung swung up to your car, trying to keep his voice steady and professional despite his racing heart. "Ma'am, I'm going to get you out of there, okay?"

You looked up at him, and for a moment, Jisung thought you were going to recognize him. There was something in your eyes, a flicker of familiarity that made his stomach drop. But then you smiled—that same bright, genuine smile that had made him fall for you in the first place.

"Thank you," you said, and your voice was steady despite everything you'd just been through. "The safety release is jammed. I think something got bent when that metal guy was attacking the wheel."

"No problem. Let me take a look."

Jisung examined the mechanism, trying to ignore how close he was to you, how he could smell your perfume even through his mask. The release was indeed jammed, twisted metal preventing the safety bar from lifting.

"I'm going to have to break this," he said. "It might be a little jarring, but I'll get you out."

"Do what you need to do," you said, then added with a small laugh, "I've had enough amusement park rides for one evening."

Jisung carefully applied pressure to the twisted metal, his enhanced strength allowing him to bend it back into shape without damaging the car further. The safety bar popped open with a satisfying click.

"There we go," he said, offering you his hand to help you out of the car. "You're free."

But as you took his hand, something unexpected happened. Instead of just helping you up, you pulled yourself closer, studying his face—or what you could see of it behind the mask.

"Your voice," you said quietly, your eyes searching his. "It sounds... familiar."

Jisung's heart stopped. This was it. This was the moment his carefully constructed double life came crashing down. He should deny it, make some joke about having a common voice, swing away before you could figure it out.

Instead, he found himself frozen, looking into your eyes and seeing recognition dawning there.

"Jisung?" you whispered, so quietly he almost didn't hear it over the sound of sirens and distant shouting. "Is that... is that you?"

For a moment, the world seemed to stop. All the chaos around them, the damaged amusement park, the approaching police sirens, the crowds of people, aded into background noise. It was just the two of them, suspended in a car on a damaged Ferris wheel, with the biggest secret of his life hanging in the air between them.

Jisung opened his mouth to answer, to either confirm or deny, to figure out what the hell he was supposed to say in this situation. But before he could speak, his spider-sense went off again.

Not the overwhelming alarm that had brought him here in the first place, but a sharp, focused warning that made him spin around to scan their surroundings. Something was wrong. Something was—

"LOOK OUT!"

The shout came from somewhere below them. Jisung looked down to see that Shredder, who should have been unconscious and securely webbed to a lamppost, was somehow back on his feet. The villain had activated some kind of emergency power system, and his armor was sparking with electrical energy.

"You think you’ve won spiderman?!?" Shredder bellowed, raising his arms toward the Ferris wheel. "If i can’t get my revenge! NO ONE gets to leave”

The mechanical arms that Jisung had disabled were powering back up, but not for precision attacks this time. Instead, they were glowing with some kind of energy buildup, like Shredder was preparing to overload his entire system.

"He's going to self-destruct," Jisung realized with horror. "He's going to take out the whole Ferris wheel."

You were still looking at him with that expression of dawning recognition, but now there was also fear in your eyes as you realized what was happening. "Jisung, what—"

"Hold on," Jisung said, not bothering to deny his identity anymore. There would be time for explanations later—if they survived the next few minutes. "Hold on tight."

He wrapped one arm around your waist and shot a web line with the other, swinging both of you out of the Ferris wheel car just as Shredder's armor reached critical overload.

The explosion was massive, a bloom of fire and electricity that lit up the evening sky. The shockwave hit them in mid-swing, and Jisung had to adjust his trajectory to avoid the flying debris. He landed hard on a section of undamaged ground, rolling to absorb the impact and shielding you with his body as pieces of metal rained down around them.

When the dust settled, the Ferris wheel was gone. Just... gone. Where it had stood moments before was now a twisted pile of metal and smoking debris. If they had been in that car for even a few more seconds...

"Holy shit," you breathed, staring at the destruction. "We could have been killed."

"Are you hurt?" Jisung asked, checking you over for injuries despite the fact that he was probably in worse shape than you were. The explosion had singed parts of his suit, and he was pretty sure he had some new cuts and bruises to add to his collection.

"I'm okay," you said, but your voice was shaky. "Thanks to you."

They sat there for a moment in the midst of the chaos, both trying to process what had just happened. Around them, police and paramedics were arriving on the scene, helping evacuate the remaining civilians and dealing with the aftermath of the attack.

"I should go," Jisung said, starting to stand up. "The police will want to ask questions, and I need to"

"Wait." You grabbed his arm, stopping him. "Jisung, please. Don't run away from me again."

He looked down at you, seeing the hurt in your eyes from the party, from all the times he'd had to leave suddenly, from the lies and half-truths and missed opportunities. You deserved better than that. You deserved the truth.

"Meet me tomorrow night," he said impulsively. "The alley behind the science building. Ten PM. I'll explain everything."

"Everything?"

"Everything I can," he promised. "Everything you want to know."

You nodded, and there was something in your expression that gave him hope. Not just understanding, but acceptance. Like maybe, just maybe, you weren't going to run away from this crazy revelation.

"Go," you said softly. "Before someone sees you."

Jisung hesitated for just a moment longer, looking at you sitting there in the ruins of what should have been your first date, your dress torn and your hair messed up but your eyes still bright and determined. Then he shot a web line and swung away into the night, leaving you with paramedics and police officers and a million questions that would have to wait until tomorrow.

—

The next evening, Jisung paced back and forth in the alley behind the science building, checking his phone every thirty seconds and trying not to throw up from nervousness.

He'd spent the entire day going over what he was going to say, how he was going to explain everything without sounding completely insane. How do you tell someone that you've been lying to them about your entire identity? That every time you'd disappeared or acted weird, it was because you were running off to fight crime in a costume?

At exactly ten PM, you appeared at the mouth of the alley, looking beautiful and nervous and determined all at once. You'd changed out of your torn dress from the night before into jeans and a sweater, but you still looked perfect to Jisung.

"Hi," you said, walking toward him slowly, like you were approaching a wild animal that might bolt at any sudden movement.

"Hi," Jisung replied, his voice cracking slightly. "Thanks for coming. I wasn't sure you would."

"I almost didn't," you admitted, stopping a few feet away from him. "I spent all day convincing myself that last night was some kind of stress-induced hallucination. That there was no way the guy I've been crushing on for two years is actually Spider-Man."

"I know how it sounds," Jisung said miserably. "I know it's insane and I know I should have told you sooner, but I couldn't. Not because I didn't trust you, but because... because people I care about get hurt when they know. Last night proved that."

"Is that why you kept leaving?" you asked. "The party, and all those times after class when you'd suddenly have to go somewhere?"

"Yeah." Jisung ran a hand through his hair, looking anywhere but at your face. "My spider-sense—it's like an early warning system. When something bad is about to happen, when people are in danger, I can feel it. And I can't ignore it. Even when I want to more than anything in the world."

You were quiet for a long moment, processing this information. Then you asked, "How long?"

"Six months. Since the spider bite during that field trip to Oscorp." Jisung finally looked at you, and he was surprised to see that you didn't look angry or scared. Just... thoughtful. "Felix and Jay know. They're the only ones who know."

"That explains a lot," you said with a small laugh. "I always wondered why they covered for you so much with the whole 'food poisoning' thing."

"You knew about that?"

"Jisung, you allegedly got food poisoning like fifteen times this semester. Either you have the worst immune system in history, or you were lying about something." You stepped closer, and Jisung's heart started racing for reasons that had nothing to do with danger. "I just never imagined it was because you were secretly saving people."

"Are you... are you okay with this?" Jisung asked hesitantly. "Because I understand if you're not. It's a lot, and it's dangerous, and I totally get it if you want to pretend last night never happened and go back to normal."

Instead of answering immediately, you reached up and touched his face gently, your fingers tracing along his jawline where his mask would normally sit.

"When I was trapped in that Ferris wheel car," you said softly, "and I saw you swinging toward me, do you know what I thought?"

Jisung shook his head, not trusting his voice.

"I thought, 'of course it's him.' Not Spider-Man—you. Of course it was you coming to save me. Because that's who you are, Jisung. You're the person who helps people, who puts others before himself, who runs toward danger instead of away from it. The costume doesn't change that. It just makes it official."

Jisung felt like he might cry. "Y/N..."

"I'm not going anywhere," you said firmly. "I mean, I might need some time to process the whole 'my crush is a superhero' thing, and we're definitely going to need to have some conversations about safety and communication. But I'm not going anywhere."

Before Jisung could respond, you stood up on your tiptoes and kissed him. It was soft and sweet and perfect, everything he'd imagined their first kiss would be. When you pulled away, you were both smiling.

"So," you said, staying close enough that he could count your eyelashes, "I believe you owe me a proper date. One without any metal villains or exploding Ferris wheels."

"I can probably manage that," Jisung said, grinning. "Though I can't promise there won't be any interruptions. The whole superhero thing doesn't really come with regular hours."

"I'll take my chances," you said, then added with a mischievous smile, "Besides, dating Spider-Man has to come with some pretty interesting stories."

Two Months Later

You were walking home from your evening class, taking the long way through the quieter part of campus because you enjoyed the peace after a day of lectures and studying. It was a Thursday night, and the campus was mostly empty except for a few other students heading back to their dorms.

You'd been dating Jisung for two months now, and it had been... an adjustment. Learning to date someone with a secret identity came with its own unique challenges. There were the sudden disappearances when his spider-sense went off, the nights when he'd show up at your window with cuts and bruises he'd explain away as "rough patrol," and the constant worry that came with loving someone who put their life on the line for strangers.

But there were also the incredible moments. The way he'd swing by your dorm room window just to say goodnight. The time he'd stopped a mugging three blocks from your apartment and then shown up for your study date five minutes later, slightly out of breath but smiling. The growing realization that you were in love with someone who was genuinely, selflessly good.

You were thinking about this, smiling to yourself as you walked through the alley that was a shortcut to your building, when you heard the familiar sound of web-shooters.

"You know," came a voice from above you, "it's not safe for pretty girls to walk alone through dark alleys at night."

You looked up to see a familiar red and blue figure hanging upside down from a web attached to the fire escape above. Even through the mask, you could tell he was grinning.

"Good thing I have my own personal superhero to protect me," you said, walking over to stand directly beneath him.

"Oh really? And who might that be?" Jisung asked, lowering himself on his web until he was hanging at your eye level, still upside down.

"Just this guy I know," you said casually, reaching up to roll his mask up just enough to expose his lips. "He's pretty amazing. Saves the city, helps old ladies cross the street, looks great in spandex."

"Sounds like a catch," Jisung murmured, his voice slightly muffled by the mask.

"He is," you agreed,

He slips his mask up to expose his mouth and nose.

Without thinking you grabbed his face and kissed him.

It was just like the movies—the upside-down kiss in the alley, romantic and perfect and slightly ridiculous. When you pulled away, you were both laughing.

"I love you," Jisung said, and even though he'd said it before, it still made your heart race.

"I love you too, Spider-boy," you replied, straightening his mask back down. "Now come down from there and walk me home properly. And try not to get distracted by any crimes in progress."

"No promises," Jisung said, flipping right-side up and landing gracefully beside you. "But for you, I'll try to keep the heroics to a minimum."

He took your hand, and you walked together through the quiet campus, just two college students in love. The fact that one of you happened to have superpowers and a tendency to swing from buildings was just a detail—an important one, but just a detail nonetheless.

As you reached your building, you turned to say goodnight, but Jisung was already looking up at the sky with that familiar expression that meant his spider-sense was tingling.

"Go," you said, before he could even explain. "Be safe. Text me when you get home."

"I love you," he said again, pulling you close for one more quick kiss.

"I love you too. Now go save the city, Spider-Man."

You watched him swing away into the night, his red and blue suit disappearing into the darkness between buildings. Then you headed inside, smiling to yourself and thinking about how much your life had changed since that first party where you'd almost kissed a boy who turned out to be so much more than you'd ever imagined.

Dating a superhero wasn't easy, but it was worth it. He was worth it.

And somewhere in the distance, you could hear the sound of web-shooters and Jisung's voice calling out some smartass comment to whatever villain was unlucky enough to cross his path tonight. You fell asleep to that sound, knowing that the city was a little bit safer because the boy you loved was out there protecting it.

A/N: an apology fic for failing to finish up my hyunjin fic!! Love you boogers!

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sergeantbarnessdoll · 3 months ago

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omg i need a dark bucky fic but one where accidentally reader without knowing utters one of the code/trigger words to activate the winter soldier. maybe some smut then angst then aftercare? idk

Don’t Say It Again » Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier

Pairings: Beefy/Boyfriend!Bucky Barnes x Girlfriend!Reader

Summary: You accidentally say one of the trigger words that activates the Winter Soldier without knowing it and Bucky makes it very clear to you that you should never speak of any of those words.

Warnings: Darkish, Smut (18+), Angst, Fluff ending, language, darkish!Bucky, dirty talk, kissing, hickeys, unprotected sex, rough sex, praise kink, size kink, Sergeant kink, metal arm kink, choking, degradation, aftercare, pet names

A/N: Thank you for the request, nonnie🩵

A/N #2: This is my first time writing something dark. My apologies if it doesn’t meet the standards of dark fics. Just know I’m trying and please don’t judge the way I write dark fics.

Written on my phone. My apologies for any mistakes.

Header made by @buckyys-babydoll / divider made by me

GIF IS NOT MINE! Gif credit goes to the creator.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!🔞

Bucky was in the living room, relaxing and reading a book while you were scrolling through your phone next to him. You had a blanket draped over your lap. You shivered a bit when you felt a chill in the apartment. You threw the blanket off of you and put your phone on the coffee table.

“I’m going to turn up the furnace a bit.” You say softly, walking over to the thermostat.

Bucky’s head shot up when you said furnace. He bookmarked the page he’s on in the book he’s reading and shut it, tossing it onto the coffee table. He stood up from the couch and made his way to you.

“What the hell did you just say?” Bucky asks, standing closely behind you.

You yelped at your boyfriend’s sudden presence. You turned around to see Bucky standing behind you. You looked up at him due to the height difference between you and him.

“I was just saying I was going to turn up the furnace a bit.” You say softly.

Bucky grabbed your arm, leading you to the bedroom. He closed and locked the door behind him. His right hand grasped your jaw, squishing your cheeks to get you to look him in his eyes. His blue eyes are now dark.

“You’re gonna learn why you shouldn’t be saying that word.” He says darkly.

You nodded, feeling submissive. His hand let go of your jaw. He brought his metal hand up to your neck, rubbing his fingers across your collarbones before wrapping his hand around your throat and squeezed it. Not enough to cut off your airway or hurt you. Just enough to choke you with a soft firm grip. Bucky yanked you towards him and kissed you roughly. You moaned against his lips.

You could sense Bucky was mad about something, but you couldn’t figure out was he was mad about. He gets rough and aggressive when he’s pissed off about something. Sometimes he gets rough and aggressive during sex, which you don’t mind, because Bucky takes very good care of you afterwards.

“Take your fucking clothes off before I rip them off.” Bucky mutters lowly.

You nodded as he took his metal hand away from your throat. Instead of risking angering your boyfriend even more, you stripped your clothes off as fast as you could and left yourself completely naked in front of him.

“Bed, now.” He demands.

You quickly got on the bed, laying on your back and propped yourself up on your elbows. Bucky didn’t waste any time stripping himself of his clothes. His cock is hard and leaking with precum. He forcefully spread your legs so he could settle himself in between them. Bucky put his right hand on the middle of your chest and pushed you back against the bed so you were propped up on your elbows anymore.

Bucky lewdly spit on your pussy before rubbing it in with his cock, smearing it with your slick and his precum. A soft moan fell from your lips. Without warning, Bucky slid his whole cock in your pussy. A small whimper fell from your lips at the stretch from his cock.

“Quit your fucking whining. You’re fine.” He says.

Bucky wrapped his metal hand around your throat again when he started thrusting. His thrusts are rough and fast. You wrapped your hand around his metal wrist for something to hold onto. He swatted your hand away with his right hand.

“Hands above your head.” He orders.

You rose your arms above your head, resting them on the pillow around your head. Bucky put his right hand around both of your wrists, holding them together. You glanced up and tried wiggling your wrists out of his grip just to see how tight his grip is.

“Stop fucking moving.” He says.

You stopped wiggling your wrists and listened to him. You stared up at Bucky, seeing that his blue eyes are now lust filled. You were too focused on Bucky fucking you that you didn’t realize he was talking. Please was quickly taking over you that you couldn’t tell if he was talking out loud to himself or talking to you.

“Out of all words, you had to say one of those words.” Bucky said, referring to the trigger words that turns him into the Winter Soldier. “Were you trying to turn me into him?” He asks.

You shook your head frantically, but that wasn’t enough for Bucky.

“Use your big girl words.” He almost growls, slight tightening his grip on your throat with his metal hand.

“I’m- I’m not trying to turn you in- into him!” You stuttered and moaned.

“Then why did you say it?” He asks, pulling your head up towards him so your face was close to his.

“I-I don’t know!” You whimpered.

Bucky scoffed like you were lying. You knew the word furnace was one of the words that turns him into the Winter Soldier, but you swear that wasn’t your intention. You just weren’t thinking about the trigger words when you said it.

“Are you gonna be a good girl and not say it again?” He asks.

“Yes!” You squeaked out.

Bucky looked in your eyes to make sure you weren’t lying. He then loosened his grip on your throat with his metal hand. His metal hand held your throat loosely as he fucked you.

His thrusts sped up, fucking you at a brutal pace. You were loving it. Even though you’re most likely going to be sore afterwards, it’s totally worth it. You could feel your orgasm building up the faster Bucky fucked you. You weren’t sure how much longer you were going to last at this pace.

“Bucky, I’m-” You were cut off when Bucky’s metal hand gave your throat a squeeze.

“You gonna cum, doll face?” Bucky asks.

You nodded your head yes.

“That’s too fucking bad.” He said in a mocking voice. “You’re not cumming till I do, understand?” He says.

You gave him a nod. That wasn’t good enough for Bucky. He gave your throat another squeeze.

“Use your big girl words.” He says.

“Yes.” You finally say.

“Yes, what?” He asks.

“Yes Sergeant.” You say submissively.

“Good girl.” He praises.

You whimpered softly, not sure how much longer you can hold on. It’s not as long as you thought, because Bucky’s orgasm was building up as well.

“Sarge, please!” You whined.

“Hold it.” Bucky pants.

Bucky came after a few more thrusts, fucking his cum in you.

“Cum.” He says.

Your orgasm was so intense that your legs began to tremble as you came, moaning his name loudly. Bucky fucked you through your orgasm. His thrusts came to a stop after a short moment. He collapsed on top of you, being careful to not accidentally crush you. Both of you were panting.

“Are you ok?” Bucky asks after a few minutes.

“Yes.” You answered.

Bucky sat upright and pulled out of you, his cum leaking out of your pussy. He went to the bathroom to run a bath for the both of you. He came back to the bedroom and picked you up bridal style and carried you to the bathroom, helping you get in the bathtub since your legs feel like jelly at the moment. He got in the bathtub and sat down behind you. You leaned into his touch.

“Are you mad at me for saying one of those words?” You asked.

“I was, but I’m not anymore.” Bucky answers.

“I’m sorry.” You apologized.

“You don’t have to apologize, babydoll. Just don’t say it again.” He says softly, kissing your lips softly.

-Bucky’s Doll

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angelseraphines · 2 months ago

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on the aesthetics of asian erasure in star wars: obi-wan kenobi and the planet of naboo

when we talk about representation in star wars, the conversation often stops at what’s visible or credited. star wars has a long-standing problem with the lack of asian leads or asian-coded worlds, but sometimes what’s more insidious is the erasure of asian influence where it once existed, or where it was clearly intended to be.

take obi-wan kenobi. before alec guinness was cast, george lucas had reportedly wanted a japanese actor to play the role, toshirō mifune, most famously known for his work with akira kurosawa. lucas has never strayed away from citing the hidden fortress as a direct inspiration for a new hope, and the jedi, in their original conception, from eastern philosophies, particularly bushido and zen buddhism. this was not accidental. it’s embedded into the language, “obi” (the sash of a kimono), “wan” (a name component common in chinese and southeast asian names), and “kenobi,” which emulates the structure of japanese surnames. it is an asian-inspired name, heavily so.

but when mifune declined, lucas pivoted. and instead of keeping that vision intact, the jedi master archetype, the wise elder, steeped in tradition, was lifted from its asian origins and handed to a white british actor. and then later, to ewan mcgregor, whose performance, while incredible, westernized the role further. we are told obi-wan is from “stewjon,” a planet born out of a joke, a merging of jon stewart’s name, after he asked lucas where obi-wan was from. then “space scotland” became the shorthand. that change from asian inspiration to european performance was never really questioned.

it’s not about demanding obi-wan look asian. it’s that the character was rooted in an asian framework, and that framework was abandoned the moment it became inconvenient to uphold. and that sets the tone for much of star wars, aesthetic borrowing without meaningful credit.

naboo is another case where this shows up. the common narrative is that naboo was inspired by renaissance europe, with its lush italian architecture, baroque dresses, and romanticized monarchy. those elements are there. but there’s a consistent thread of asian influence that is almost never acknowledged.

the names of the monarchs are a starting point. padmé, from the sanskrit “padma,” meaning lotus. sabé and saché, echoing asian and hindi name constructions. queen jamillia, whose name stems from arabic roots, suggests influence from islamic culture. even the name “naboo” itself sounds curiously close to nebo, a mesopotamian god, or nabu, the sumerian deity of wisdom. the planets closest to naboo in the galactic grid, like sereno and ord mantell, also carry vague echoes of eurasian tone.

but most significantly, look at the costume design in the phantom menace. trisha biggar drew from a range of global influences, but some of queen amidala’s most iconic gowns were directly modeled after traditional mongolian royal attire, specifically the headdress and layered robes worn by mongolian empresses. the high collars, rich brocades, and facial makeup are unmistakable. yet, in the lore, naboo is labeled as european. not central asian. not global. and certainly not asian.

this is not to say star wars owes its worldbuilding to any one culture. it doesn’t. part of its power comes from its ability to merge and reimagine cultures. but there is a problem when the contributions of asian cultures are stripped of credit, while european aesthetics are exalted as canonical. when a jedi’s name can be asian, his values drawn from eastern philosophies, his robes loosely modeled on samurai garb, and yet his face, voice, and homeworld are made definitively western.

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dear-ao3 · 5 months ago

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You can't hide the bit about starting a cult in the tags. We demand the story.

once upon a time i was a menace of a 15 year old taking high school chemistry. and this was not a particularly advanced chemistry class. we had ancient bunsen burners, occasionally we lit things on fire, sometimes there were chemicals involved, but for the most part, it was standard run of the mill shit.

the class was divided into two groups of people:

The Trouble Makers and the People Who Didnt Cause (many) Problems

as a mostly straight a and usually honors (when it wasnt science) student, i fell into the second category.

this class was 8th period, last period of the day, and the teacher was new that year. we will call him mr a.

mr a was on the younger side and seemed like a dude who wanted to have fun with us (essential for a science class). unfortunately he was teaching a batch of idiots (myself included).

its been several years so i dont remember the exact politics of this class, but i do know that it was populated by the two guys who stuck a pop tart still in the foil in the band room microwave and nearly lit the entire building on fire, a few class clowns, some very stereotypical football players, two guys who were positively dumb as bricks and constantly acted like they were on the verge or breaking up or getting back together (they were not dating at all. they were both and still are very straight), and then there was me and a few other girls who mostly just minded our business and watched the chaos unfold.

mr a's mistake was that he engaged with the insanity caused by The Trouble Makers. which resulted in even more insanity. he only lasted one year. he hated all of us but he might have hated himself more.

he did like me and my friends tho because again, we did not cause problems.

you might be wondering what kind of problems could be caused in a high school chemistry class. well lots. for starters one of the outlets in the room was taped over with NO JUSTIN! BAD JUSTIN! written on it because one kid thought it would be funny to stick scissors in the outlet in a different class (true story). there were broken beakers, smashed glass, general insanity. again, not an honors class so most of us didnt really care about it as long as we passed. there was one time he told us (jokingly) that we should only drink pepsi because his wife worked for the company and it would help fund his kids college career or something. two days later five guys came in with coke bottles. that was the kind of class this was.

but we still learned chemistry. probably. i dont actually know.

this guy taught lessons like he was reading a tumblr text post. like full on "so the guy hated that guy cause xyz and smited him in the science journals for this that and the other thing" it was entertaining.

i remember learning two things in this class. one was that salt is NaCl. which mr a called "our good friend nackle" the second we will get to in a minute.

one of the things we had to do in class relatively early on was decorate a periodic table that we would be allowed to use for tests. like color code and all that. we were allowed to use it for tests because there was a Giant periodic table hanging in the room and mr a was "too short to cover that up"

well, that periodic table proved to become his worst nightmare.

now. remember that i am 15. i am a sophomore in high school. i have not yet had to consider the horrors of college. i am at peace. aside from this chemistry class i am also taking a dance class (that i didnt like), ap english language (which was terrifying because im really bad at deeper meaning in texts), honors algebra 2 (which i Barely passed), latin III (another class i was pretty shit at, but it was fun), crafts 2 (which was wonderful), gym (thats a totally Other story) and honors united states history (which i loved). i was also dancing about 20 hours a week outside of school. but most of my schedule required me to be a good little honors student and mind my business. i was also, by all accounts, an absolute loser and a nobody and had very few friends and was totally unknown to most popular kids. however, you all know me on this blog and know im a little shit and it was only a matter of time before i caused problems Somewhere.

and that somewhere came one blissful day during 8th period chemistry when mr a asked me something about the number of electrons on carbon.

and i (to my credit) was entirely zoned out because again it was 8th period. but i gave him an answer. it was the right answer. what the answer is now i have no idea because i went on to get a ba degree in history and my eyes have not graced the periodic table since this class.

and then he asked me "how do you know thats the right answer"

and i said, in all my zoned out, infinite wisdom "it says so on the periodic chart"

isnt a periodic table? you might be asking.

well you are correct.

but you see. the giant periodic table above the front of the board at the front of the room was from the 70s. and it didnt say periodic table. it said "periodic chart of the elements"

and i, being zoned out, just read the damn name off of the thing because what the fuck else is a girl to do.

and mr a says "its a table. the periodic table."

and i, who have now zoned back in and realized my mistake, refuse to admit that i was just zoned out in class so i say, like any reasonable person, "then why does it say periodic chart up there?"

and mr a said "i dont know, its old."

and i said "well it says chart. so why cant we call it chart?"

and mr a said "because its a table."

and me, because im a little shit and also 15 and there were probably also 10 minutes left in the school day said "i think we should be allowed to call it a chart. it says so right there."

and well. that was all the go ahead the trouble makers in the class needed to hear.

from then on, it was the periodic chart. we all called it that. all of 8th period. and mr a HATED it. if you wrote chart on your test you got points taken off (which i never did because i wasnt an idiot but i would put little smiley faces next to my answer and he would draw a frown face when he graded my paper next to it). if you said it when you answered a question he would pretend he hadn't heard you.

it was such a phenomenon that it spread to his other classes. everyone called it the periodic chart. the scissors in the outlet kid. the pop tart kids. the football players. everyone. it was a chart. not a table. to this day i still call it a chart.

though, i think he was just mad that my cult (which he did call a cult, the periodic chart cult) was more successful than his stoichiometry cult. which was basically that we all had to repeat stoichiometry back to him every time he said it. that is the second thing i learned in this class. dont ask me what it is though, i just remember the name.

at the end of the year we parted ways, mr a silently glaring at me for my chart crimes, never to return to our school (probably because he got fired, unrelated to my chart crimes). despite this, he did still like me as a student, and i did get an a in his class, though it probably pained him to give it to me.

the following year i had physics in the same classroom, periodic chart overlooking me.

i used my iPhone 5c to take a photo of a white board and accidentally dropped it six inches onto the lab bench. the screen grayed out and it never turned on again.

the chart had cursed me for my hubris.

#not a tag #from saph #the periodic chart #if you went to high school with me and you remember this no you do not #somewhere in my room at my parents house i still have the chart and the tests he wrote frown faces on if i remember ill pull them out #when im next home

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abbotjack · 2 months ago

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Honestly I think Shawn, a grown man, can stand up for himself lol

“He’s a grown man, he can stand up for himself.”

Right—but that response isn’t as neutral as you think. It’s a deflection. A way of shifting responsibility for boundary enforcement back onto the individual who’s been placed in an uncomfortable position, rather than asking why he was put there in the first place.

Because this isn’t about whether Shawn Hatosy—or Pedro Pascal, or any other man—can assert a boundary. It’s about how we’ve created a culture that expects them not to. It’s about how consent is routinely ignored, overwritten, or turned into a joke in public space—especially when it comes to men, especially when it’s dressed up as irony, “feminist thirst,” or progressive kink-positivity.

It’s about the refusal to admit that consent isn’t just about sex.

Consent is about presence. It’s about participation. It’s about emotional safety. And it’s about power.

And that matters in every context—including fandom, celebrity culture, and the increasingly blurred space between admiration and projection.

When you call a male celebrity “daddy” in the middle of an interview—on camera, unprompted, fully aware it’ll go viral—you’re not giving a harmless compliment. You’re placing him inside a sexualized, hierarchical, kink-coded role, and demanding a performance. You’re not inviting him into a shared dynamic. You’re building one around him and daring him to resist.

And that’s not just parasocial behavior. That’s coercion. Coercion dressed up in a clickbait blazer and a winking “teehee.”

And patriarchy? Patriarchy loves that. Because patriarchy has always taught us that men, especially older, stoic, men, aren’t allowed to have boundaries. That they should be flattered by sexual attention. That their discomfort is a flaw in the man, not a failure of the situation. That a man’s silence means yes.

So when a male celebrity tenses up or shifts uncomfortably after being called “daddy,” we don’t pause. We dismiss him. We say:

“Come on, it’s just a joke.”

“He’s hot. He can take it.”

“It’s part of the job.”

That’s not the language of consent. That’s the language of normalized entitlement.

Now compare that to when I commented on Shawn Hatosy’s TikTok and said he was “so babygirl-coded.” And he liked it.

Why? Because “babygirl,” as it functions in contemporary online fan culture, isn’t built on dominance or performance. It doesn’t demand control. It doesn’t assign erotic authority. It’s a term that signals affection, vulnerability, softness—a playful, sometimes absurd, often tender reverence for men who deviate from traditional masculinity.

That kind of language lives within fandom culture—inside our sandboxes. And when I call someone “babygirl-coded,” that person can ignore it, engage with it, scroll past, or opt in. There’s no pressure. It’s an aesthetic label, not a demand. So when Shawn likes that comment, he’s participating on his own terms. That’s what parasocial consent looks like: voluntary, pressure-free, and rooted in choice.

Now imagine if I had written, “You’re such a daddy. Ruin me.” Totally different tone. Totally different power dynamic. Even if he never saw it, I’d still be inserting a kink-coded script into a public space as if he had agreed to it. And if he had seen it and felt uncomfortable? The onus would fall on him to disengage quietly or laugh it off, because culturally, we’ve given men almost no tools to say “no” without backlash.

Feminist methodology asks better questions:

Whose comfort is protected?

Whose silence is treated as consent?

Whose body is seen as public property?

Whose boundaries get overwritten for the sake of the bit?

We know the answers. They’re gendered. And they’re broken.

When a man is called “daddy” during a press tour, he’s not being asked to play. He’s being expected to perform, sexually, powerfully, on command. And if he doesn’t? The consequences aren’t just social, they’re structural. He’s seen as less fun. Less marketable. Less valuable as content.

That isn’t just unfair. It’s anti-consensual.

As Sara Ahmed writes, to be the one who names a problem is so often to become the problem. The one who says “this feels off,” “this crosses a line,” or simply, “this makes me uncomfortable” is marked as difficult, humorless, or ungrateful. We see this dynamic unfold constantly with male celebrities—especially those who don’t laugh when called “daddy” in person, or who subtly resist being pulled into a sexualized performance they didn’t agree to.

When a man sets a boundary, even quietly, he disrupts the fantasy. And instead of asking what created the discomfort, the culture asks why he couldn't just go along. Because admitting that men can say no, that they’re allowed to feel uneasy, that they don’t exist for our projection, requires challenging the very entitlement fandom often runs on.

So let’s be clear: You can thirst. You can spiral. You can bark, cry, and post your little essays about his shoulders in peace. You can call him whatever in your sandbox corner of the internet.

But forcing someone into your kink-coded fantasy in person, without their consent, and then reacting negatively when they don’t play along, isn’t empowering. It’s not subversive. It’s just public boundary crossing, dressed up as flirtation.

It’s not “owning the gaze.” It’s replicating it—just with the roles reversed.

And reversing the roles isn’t the same as dismantling them.

Roles—no matter how ironic or reversed—are still roles. And assigning someone a role without their participation isn’t liberation. It’s just performance under pressure.

So yes, he’s a grown man.

And that’s exactly why his boundaries matter—especially because he’s not just a celebrity, but a real person, and a parent. Being called “daddy” in person, during a professional setting, isn’t just awkward—it’s an unsolicited invitation into a kink-coded dynamic he didn’t agree to. And when that man is a father in real life, the term becomes even more jarring, blurring roles in a way that’s neither funny nor flattering. His visibility shouldn’t come with the expectation that he absorb sexual projection or emotional labor just to keep the mood light. Silence is not consent. And feminist ethics, if we’re actually practicing them, demand more than clever thirst and role reversal. They require awareness, accountability, and respect for boundaries, no matter who you’re talking to or how attractive you think they are.

And if your only defense is “He can take it,” you’ve already admitted he might not want it, and decided you didn’t care.

That’s not fandom. That’s entitlement. Wrapped in a punchline and passed off as progressive. (referencing this interview)

#ask #anon ask #if any of u want more feminist pieces im more than happy to rec #but sara ahmed covers everything in her book so well #PLEASE STOP FORCING DADDY / MOMMY ON CELEBS IRL #feminist theory #consent culture

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saywhat-politics · 4 months ago

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Department of Defense deletes Code Talkers, Iwo Jima flag raiser Hayes under Trump’s DEI order

Prominent Native American figures in U.S. military history have been erased from the U.S. Department of Defense’s website as part of the sweeping effort stemming from President Donald Trump’s executive order banning diversity, equity and inclusion.

The Department of Defense website removed articles featuring details about the Navajo Code Talkers — Navajo men who served during World War II and used their language as a secret code in battle — along with U.S. Marine Ira Hayes from the Gila River Indian Community, who helped raise the flag during the Battle of Iwo Jima in World War II.

“Navajo code has absolutely nothing to do with DEI because Navajo code was a weapon,” Navajo Code Talker Peter MacDonald said in response to the removal during an interview with the Arizona Mirror.

MacDonald, 96, is one of two living Navajo Code Talkers. He served in the South Pacific as a Code Talker and in North China with the 6th Marine Division.

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iamquiantrelle · 4 months ago

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BLOOD OATH (chapter 4) • iamquaintrelle

# pairings: mob!lewis hamilton x black reader (☔️⚡️)

# tags: @queenshikongo3 @peyiswriting @yeea-nah @ggaslyp1 @pickingupmymercedes @donteventry-itdude @snowseasonmademe @szariahwroteit @amirawrah @beauty-gurl @jessnotwiththemess @sailurmewn @lewismcqueen @purplerain-94 @vintagesoul-01 @aykxz98 @thepointlessideas @lostennyc @saintslewis @cocobutterqwueen @purplelewlew @imjustheretomanifest @a-moment-captured @mauvecherie-writes @httpsserene-main

# wc: long af...

# summary: A marriage of convenience between crime families was supposed to be simple. No one mentioned it would be this complicated...or this deadly. series masterlist

previous chapter | next chapter

Sunlight flooded the room in bright, unforgiving streams when you finally opened your eyes. You blinked at the bedside clock, the digital numbers momentarily refusing to make sense. 10:47 a.m. Impossible. You never slept past seven, a lifetime of your father's strict schedules and your mother's quiet insistence on proper appearances having trained you out of such indulgence years ago.

The absence beside your bed registered next—no wrinkled bulldog face greeting you with expectant eyes, no impatient snuffling demanding your attention. For seven consecutive mornings, Roscoe had appeared in your room like clockwork, his canine precision more reliable than any alarm. His absence felt strangely significant, another routine disrupted in a house where control and predictability reigned supreme.

Memories from the previous night flooded back as you pushed yourself upright—the shattering glass that had woken you, Lewis's uncharacteristic rage, blood dripping from his split knuckles into ice water turned pink. The kidnapping attempt. Suarez's operative infiltrating the house to reach your suite. The discovery of betrayal from within Lewis's organization, someone trusted enough to provide access codes and patrol schedules.

The Geneva trip, accelerated to tonight rather than next week.

You moved with practiced ease despite the late hour, selecting clothes appropriate for travel yet versatile enough for whatever situations might arise—dark jeans, a cashmere sweater in deep burgundy, boots with hidden compartments where a ceramic blade could be secured if necessary. Practicality disguised as style, preparation masked as fashion choices. In your world, even wardrobe decisions carried strategic implications.

The house felt different as you descended the main staircase—additional security personnel stationed at intervals, faces you didn't recognize mixed with the usual guards. The controlled chaos of crisis response operated beneath a veneer of normalcy, like watching blood spread beneath skin without breaking the surface.

Jensen stood in the entrance hall, directing a team of men unloading equipment from large metal cases—tactical vests, communication devices, and an array of weapons that would have been impressive even by your father's standards. The conversation halted momentarily as you passed, Jensen acknowledging you with a respectful nod before continuing his instructions in lowered tones.

You caught fragments as you moved past—"perimeter reconfigured," "additional scanners," "rotating protocols"—the language of security being reinforced, of vulnerabilities being eliminated. The intrusion had wounded Lewis's pride as much as it had threatened your safety; the response would be proportionate to both concerns.

Lewis's office door stood partially open, light spilling into the hallway. You hesitated briefly before knocking, the events of last night having shifted something fundamental in your relationship that hadn't yet found its proper balance.

"Come in." His voice sounded rougher than usual, fatigue eroding the edges of his usual control.

The sight that greeted you was so unexpected that it momentarily halted your stride. Lewis sat on the edge of his desk—not behind it in his usual position of authority—dressed in gray sweatpants and a simple black t-shirt that revealed the full extent of tattoos normally hidden beneath bespoke tailoring. The casual attire humanized him in ways that were strangely more intimate than if you'd seen him undressed. This was Lewis with his armor removed, the carefully constructed image of power deliberately set aside.

Dark circles shadowed his eyes, his normally immaculate braids slightly mussed, as if he'd been running his hands through them repeatedly. The knuckles you'd bandaged last night were now properly wrapped, though spots of blood had seeped through the white gauze like morse code transmitting messages of violence.

"You didn't sleep," you observed, closing the door behind you.

The ghost of a smile touched his lips, there and gone so quickly it might have been imagined. "Observant as always."

"Difficult not to be when you look like something Roscoe dragged in from the garden."

The unexpected teasing drew a flicker of genuine surprise across his features, followed by something that almost resembled amusement. "I've had more restful nights," he acknowledged, studying you with that intense focus that somehow felt more penetrating without his usual formal attire creating distance.

"How did you sleep?" he asked, the casual question carrying more weight than it would have in normal circumstances.

"Apparently too well," you replied, gesturing toward the ornate clock on his office wall that confirmed the late hour. "Why didn't anyone wake me? We're leaving tonight, and there must be preparations—"

"I gave explicit instructions not to disturb you," Lewis interrupted, his tone matter-of-fact rather than defensive. "Someone tried to kidnap you last night. I figured rest might be prudent before we uproot to Geneva."

"Fair point," you conceded, unable to keep a touch of sarcasm from your voice. "Though typically when someone tries to kidnap me, sleeping in feels rather low on the priority list."

"Typically?" Lewis raised an eyebrow. "These attempts happen with such regularity that you've established protocols?"

"Figure of speech," you clarified, though the Ricci family did, in fact, have specific procedures for various threat levels and kidnapping attempts. Your father had drilled them into all his children from an early age—the macabre equivalent of other families' fire evacuation plans.

Lewis studied you for a moment longer before beckoning you closer with a subtle gesture. You moved toward him without hesitation, curious about this more casual version of your husband and what had prompted the summons.

He reached out when you drew near, his hands settling lightly on your upper arms in a touch that wasn't quite an embrace but far more intimate than any previous contact between you. The unexpected physical connection sent a current of awareness through your body, goosebumps rising beneath the soft fabric of your sweater. This close, you could detect the subtle notes of his cologne—sandalwood and something darker beneath, expensive but not ostentatious, like everything else about Lewis Hamilton.

"Lorenzo Bianchi is dead," he said without preamble, his eyes fixed on yours to gauge your reaction.

The news wasn't surprising—you'd heard him order the execution yesterday in the car—but the confirmation still carried weight. Another piece removed from the chessboard, the game advancing with Lewis's precise strategy.

"Confirmed?" you asked, practical rather than shocked.

Lewis nodded once, appreciation for your directness evident in his expression. "This morning. Clean execution, no witnesses, no traces back to us. Martinelli has received his warning and appears to be reconsidering his alignment with Suarez."

"How did Martinelli take it?" The question was relevant to your safety as much as to business operations—allies frightened into submission often proved more dangerous than open enemies.

"With appropriate recognition of the consequences," Lewis replied, his thumb moving almost unconsciously against your arm in a small circular motion that was oddly comforting despite the subject matter. "His response suggests that he wants neutrality moving forward rather than continued opposition."

"Smart choice," you noted. "Though Suarez is unlikely to be as easily convinced."

"Suarez is a different problem entirely," Lewis agreed, something cold flickering in his eyes. "One that requires more comprehensive measures."

This reminded you of discussions in your father's study, tactical evaluations of threats and necessary responses, except Lewis approached such matters with calculated precision rather than explosive reaction. Different methods, same lethal results.

Without releasing you, Lewis reached across to open a desk drawer with his free hand, extracting a small matte black Glock. The weapon was compact but deadly, a professional's choice rather than a showpiece.

"You know how to use this." Not a question but a statement of fact, his tone reflecting confidence in your capabilities.

You nodded anyway, familiar with firearms since your early teens when your father had insisted all his daughters learn to protect themselves. "Since I was fourteen."

Lewis extended the gun toward you, handle first. "Keep this on you at all times," he instructed, his voice leaving no room for discussion. "It's registered under a clean identity, untraceable. The safety features are minimal—it will fire if you need it to, without complication."

You took the weapon, its weight familiar in your palm. Your father had given you your first gun on your sixteenth birthday—a delicate silver .22 with pearl inlay that looked more decorative than deadly. This was its opposite—purely functional, designed for one purpose without pretense or embellishment.

"The house has been secured, but until we identify the source of the breach, assume nowhere is completely safe," Lewis continued. "Naomi will remain your primary security detail, but this—" he nodded toward the gun, "—provides insurance no bodyguard can offer."

"Thank you," you said simply, appreciating both the practical protection and the respect implied by the gesture. Lewis wasn't attempting to shield you from danger through ignorance, but empowering you to participate in your own defense—another subtle distinction from your father's more paternalistic approach.

Lewis didn't immediately release the gun, his hand still wrapped around yours, creating a connection both literal and symbolic—shared danger, shared responsibility, shared understanding of the world you both inhabited. Your eyes met over this physical bridge, something unspoken passing between you that transcended the practical aspects of the moment.

For the first time, you noticed flecks of amber in his dark irises, visible only at this closeness. The observation felt strangely intimate, like uncovering another secret carefully hidden beneath Lewis's controlled exterior.

The moment stretched, tension building not from awkwardness but from something more complex—recognition, perhaps, of shifting boundaries, of territory being explored beyond strategic alliance into something neither of you had fully anticipated.

A knock at the door broke the spell, Naomi's voice calling through: "Lewis, you need to see this. The surveillance footage from the east entrance shows something interesting."

Lewis didn't immediately respond, his eyes still holding yours, hand still connected through the weapon between you. "One minute," he finally called, not looking away.

Then he did something so unexpected it momentarily stopped your breath. Leaning forward slightly, he pressed his lips to your forehead—a gesture too deliberate to be casual, too restrained to be passionate, yet somehow more meaningful than either extreme would have been.

The contact lasted only seconds before he withdrew, releasing the gun fully into your possession as he straightened. Without another word, he moved past you toward the door, the familiar mask of controlled power sliding back into place despite the incongruity of his casual attire.

You remained motionless for a moment after he'd gone, the ghost of his lips still warm against your skin, the weight of the gun in your hand a tangible reminder of danger and protection inextricably linked. Like everything in your world, intimacy and violence existed side by side, neither fully separate from the other.

Carefully, you secured the weapon in your waistband, adjusting your sweater to conceal its presence. Another layer of protection, another secret carried beneath the surface. In many ways, it felt more natural than the diamond ring on your finger—deadly practicality over decorative symbolism.

The unexpected kiss lingered in your thoughts, not because it represented romantic development, but because it suggested trust developing in a world where trust was the rarest and most valuable currency of all. You slipped the gun from your waistband briefly to check the magazine and chamber with practiced movements—fully loaded, one in the chamber, ready for immediate use. Just like you. No longer merely a Ricci daughter or Hamilton wife, but something evolving into its own dangerous identity.

You slid the gun back into place and moved toward the door, ready to prepare for Geneva and whatever awaited there. The game continued, the stakes escalating, the players adjusting strategies with each new development.

And you, once merely a piece to be moved across the board, were increasingly becoming a player in your own right.

*****************************************************

Back in your suite, you paced the length of the bedroom, phone pressed to your ear as Sophia's indignant voice filled the space. The conversation with your sisters had started with concern about your safety wrapped in complaints about canceled plans and was rapidly evolving into the particular brand of guilt only younger siblings could perfect.

"This is complete bullshit," Sophia declared, her frustration practically vibrating through the phone. "We've been planning this London trip for a week. Maria already bought new clothes, and Gabriella rescheduled three different appointments."

"I know, and I'm sorry," you replied, keeping your tone measured despite your own frustration. "But circumstances have changed. It's not safe right now."

"Since when has 'not safe' ever stopped a Ricci from doing anything?" Sophia challenged, the eye roll practically audible in her tone. "Papa taught us to move through danger, not hide from it."

You pinched the bridge of your nose, weighing how much to reveal versus how much to conceal. The delicate balance of big sister responsibilities—protect them from unnecessary worry while not treating them like children who couldn't handle truth.

"This isn't standard business danger, Soph. Someone breached Lewis's security last night." The partial truth, enough to convey seriousness without sending your sisters into panic. "We're relocating temporarily while the situation is handled."

"Relocate to where?" Maria's more practical voice cut in, suggesting Sophia had put the call on speaker without warning—typical of your youngest sister's disregard for privacy.

"Can't say over the phone," you replied, caution ingrained by years of your father's paranoia about communications. "But I'll let you know when it's safe to visit. It won't be long."

"So we're just supposed to sit here in New York while you're off playing international crime wife?" Sophia's dramatic flair hadn't diminished with distance. "This wasn't the deal when you got shipped off to London."

"I wasn't 'shipped off,'" you corrected automatically, though the description wasn't entirely inaccurate. "And yes, for now, that's exactly what you're supposed to do. Listen to Papa's security team, stay within protected areas, and wait for my call."

Gabriella's calm voice joined the conversation, the voice of reason among your sisters as always. "She's right, Soph. If Lewis's security was breached, that's serious. Better to delay than walk into a situation."

Sophia made a disgusted sound. "Fine. But you owe me for this disappointment."

You recognized the negotiation opening for what it was—Sophia's transition from outright refusal to bargaining phase. "What exactly do I owe you?"

"That Birkin bag I showed you last week. The green one."

"A thirty thousand dollar bag for postponing a trip?" You couldn't help but laugh. "Your extortion skills need work."

"Twenty thousand with the discount Papa's friend could get," Sophia countered. "And I've been wanting it forever."

"Ten thousand maximum, and you follow all security protocols without complaint until this is resolved," you countered, falling into the familiar rhythm of sisterly negotiation.

"Fifteen, and I want it in the special edition leather."

"Twelve, standard leather, and you stop interrogating Papa's guards about my situation. They have actual work to do besides satisfying your curiosity."

A pause, then a reluctant sigh. "Fine. But I want it by my birthday."

"Done," you agreed, knowing the bag was a small price for your sister's cooperation and safety. "Now put Maria back on."

As you shifted into more practical conversation with your middle sister about security arrangements and family matters, movement caught your peripheral vision. The connecting door between your suite and Lewis's—a door that had remained firmly closed since your arrival in London—stood slightly ajar, a sliver of the adjoining room visible through the gap.

Words died in your throat as Lewis came into view, back turned toward the door, clearly in the process of changing clothes. He pulled his t-shirt over his head in a smooth motion, revealing a canvas of muscle and ink that momentarily short-circuited your thoughts. Unlike the decorative softness of mobsters from your father's generation, with their espresso-paunches and gold chain necklaces, Lewis's body was a functional weapon—all lean sinew and defined strength without unnecessary bulk.

Tattoos covered his torso in strategic patterns—a large compass design centered on his chest, its intricate detail suggesting meaning beyond mere decoration. A rose bloomed along his left side, its thorny stem wrapping around his ribs like a warning. A huge cross cascaded down his spine, religion and art intertwined in permanent ink.

"Hello? Are you still there?" Maria's voice suddenly pierced your focus, jarring you back to the phone conversation you'd completely forgotten.

"Sorry, got distracted," you managed, quickly moving to close the connecting door with as little sound as possible. "What were you saying?"

"I was asking when you think we might actually get to visit," Maria repeated, suspicion coloring her tone. "What was so distracting?"

"Just security staff needing confirmation on something," you lied smoothly, turning your back on the now-closed door. "And I'm not sure about visit timing yet. I'll call you from... where I'm going... once we're settled."

The conversation wrapped up with the usual sisterly threats of bodily harm if you didn't call regularly, promises to keep them updated, and Sophia's final reminder about her bag—"Green, special edition, size 30, and I'll send the exact reference number to make sure there's no 'confusion'."

You set the phone down after hanging up, your mind returning unbidden to the glimpse of Lewis through the door. The sight shouldn't have affected you as it did—you'd seen shirtless men before, had even had a few lovers during college, but something about the unexpected vulnerability of Lewis, seeing the man beneath the tailored suits and controlled exterior, stirred something complicated in your chest.

The connecting door's sudden accessibility raised questions as well. Had it been unlocked all along, or was this a recent development? Another boundary shifting in the wake of last night's events, perhaps—security considerations trumping privacy concerns. The thought of Lewis having access to your bedroom at any time should have been unsettling, yet somehow wasn't, which was potentially more disturbing than the access itself.

You returned to packing methodically, selecting clothes appropriate for Geneva's early autumn climate along with a few pieces elegant enough for whatever business functions Lewis might need you to attend. The Glock he'd given you was carefully wrapped in a silk scarf and tucked into a hidden compartment in your luggage—easily accessible but not immediately visible.

A knock on your door interrupted your thoughts. "Yes?" you called, closing your suitcase with a decisive click.

Lewis pushed the door open slightly, his head appearing in the gap. "May I come in?"

"Of course," you replied, straightening as he entered the room fully.

He'd changed into dark slacks and a charcoal sweater that somehow looked both casual and expensive, the sleeves pushed up to reveal the intricate tattoos covering his forearms. The outfit was a middle ground between the formal suits he typically wore and the unexpectedly revealing sweatpants from earlier—comfortable but still controlled, like Lewis himself.

"Almost ready?" he asked, eyes scanning the packed luggage at the foot of your bed.

"Just about. Waiting for my passport from Naomi—she's adding the Swiss visa."

Lewis nodded, moving further into the room with his characteristic measured grace. "The jet's being prepared. We should be wheels up by seven, arrival in Geneva around eleven local time."

"And your meeting is tomorrow?" you asked, recalling fragments of information gathered over the past week.

"Afternoon, with Augustus Mueller. He heads the digital currency department at Banque Privée Genève." Lewis leaned against the bedpost, his posture more relaxed than usual though still carrying that coiled readiness that never fully left him. "I've been trying to secure accounts there for years. They've finally agreed to a formal meeting."

"They've made you wait that long?" you asked, genuine surprise coloring your tone. Most financial institutions fell over themselves to accommodate clients with Lewis's resources, regardless of how those resources were acquired.

A hint of that rare smile touched his lips. "Swiss bankers are the original assholes of the financial world. They make you prove your worth before deigning to take your money." The light profanity and touch of humor felt unexpectedly intimate—another glimpse behind the carefully constructed facade. "Three years of negotiations to get a meeting that should have happened in three weeks."

You couldn't help the small chuckle that escaped you. "Impressive patience on your part."

"Strategic necessity," he corrected, though amusement lingered in his expression. "Their security protocols are worth the wait. Once established, the accounts will provide protection beyond what any other institution can offer."

You nodded, understanding the value of such banking relationships in your world. The right financial infrastructure could provide protection more effective than armed guards—money properly secured was power properly preserved.

"I've made additional arrangements for Geneva," Lewis continued, something shifting in his tone that caught your attention. "Given the circumstances, I thought it appropriate to adjust our itinerary."

"In what way?" you asked, curiosity piqued by his suddenly careful phrasing.

"We need a legitimate reason to remain in Switzerland while certain situations develop," he explained. "A proper honeymoon provides perfect cover while allowing us to remain close to banking operations."

Honeymoon.

The word hung in the air between you, loaded with implications that had nothing to do with security protocols or business strategy.

Lewis watched your reaction with careful attention, reading the momentary unease that you couldn't quite mask. "Not like that," he clarified quickly, then with unexpected hesitation added, "...unless?"

"Unless?" you echoed, eyebrow rising in genuine surprise at the uncharacteristic ambiguity from someone typically so precise in his communication.

The question drew a genuine chuckle from Lewis—not the controlled almost-smile you'd grown accustomed to, but actual amusement that transformed his severe features. The sound was rich and unexpectedly warm, like discovering a rare instrument could produce music when you'd only ever heard it used for formal announcements.

You found yourself smiling in response, oddly pleased to have elicited such a reaction. It was then you noticed his dimples—those small indentations that appeared only with genuine smiles, a detail you'd intellectually registered when first meeting him but hadn't truly seen in action until this moment. When had that feature become so attractive? The shift in your perception was subtle but undeniable, like suddenly noticing a painting's details after passing it daily.

Lewis scratched his beard thoughtfully, head tilting slightly as he studied you. "Never mind on that," he said, though the amusement hadn't fully left his eyes. "But I thought you might appreciate some time to relax."

"I wouldn't mind that," you admitted, surprised by your own sincerity. The idea of breathing space, even within the constraints of your complicated situation, held unexpected appeal.

He nodded, gaze sweeping around your room as if mentally cataloging its contents. "I'll let you finish packing, then."

"Okay."

Another moment of charged silence stretched between you, neither entirely comfortable nor precisely uncomfortable—a space of possibility neither of you seemed quite ready to define. Then Lewis turned, crossing to the door in a few measured strides and pulling it closed behind him with a soft click.

You released a breath you hadn't realized you were holding, the oxygen leaving your lungs in a rush that left you slightly light-headed. The conversation replayed in your mind, focusing on that single word—"unless"—and the implications that hung unspoken behind it.

Had Lewis Hamilton, your strategic husband of calculated precision, just implied interest in consummating your marriage of convenience? Like everything about Lewis, it had been carefully calibrated—an opening created without pressure applied, a possibility presented without expectation attached.

More surprising than his implied interest was your own reaction to it—not revulsion or even reluctance, but a complex mixture of curiosity and something warmer that you weren't entirely prepared to examine. The memory of his shirtless form seen through the doorway resurfaced.

You moved to the window, gazing out at the manicured grounds of the estate while your thoughts reorganized themselves around this new development. Marriage in your world had always been primarily strategic—emotional connection an added bonus. You'd entered this arrangement fully expecting a business partnership, perhaps eventually a friendship of mutual respect.

The possibility of genuine attraction hadn't factored into your calculations, yet here it was, introducing a variable you hadn't prepared for. Not unwelcome, but certainly interesting.

*******************************************************

The private jet hummed around you, its engines a steady drone that matched the circular pattern of your thoughts as you stared out the window at darkness punctuated by occasional city lights below. Across the aisle, Lewis worked steadily on his laptop, the blue glow casting shadows across the angles of his face, emphasizing the controlled focus you'd come to recognize as his default state.

Two hours into the flight to Geneva, and the conversation from your bedroom still circled your mind like a persistent melody—that single word "unless" and all it implied hanging in the air between you even now. Not that Lewis showed any sign of it. Since boarding, he'd been courteous but professional; the momentary crack in his composure sealed as if it had never existed.

You took another sip of the excellent red wine the flight attendant had poured before discreetly retreating to the forward cabin, leaving you and Lewis alone in the main cabin's luxurious privacy. The alcohol warmed your throat but did nothing to quiet your thoughts about what Lewis had been suggesting in your bedroom.

Sex. Fucking. Consummating a marriage that existed on paper but had yet to become physical reality.

It wasn't that the idea itself was disturbing. Lewis was objectively hot—that glimpse of his tattooed torso through the doorway had confirmed what his tailored suits had merely suggested. But the implications of crossing that particular line felt more significant than a simple physical act. Sex changed things, complicated arrangements that functioned perfectly well without such entanglements.

Lewis had been nothing if not respectful of boundaries since your arrival in London. Every interaction had maintained careful distance, every conversation balanced between professional and personal without tipping decisively toward the latter. Even his suggestion had been presented as possibility rather than expectation—a door opened but not insisted upon.

Your mother's words from years ago surfaced in your memory: "Men in our world handle danger in predictable ways—with violence, with alcohol, or with sex. Sometimes all three in sequence." She'd been explaining your father's particularly aggressive bedroom demands after narrowly escaping a federal investigation, her matter-of-fact acceptance of his behavior part of the unspoken contract of their marriage.

Perhaps Lewis was simply experiencing the natural male response to threats and violence—physical desire as a release valve for tension. The kidnapping attempt, the betrayal from within his organization, the complications with Suarez—enough pressure to drive any man toward basic outlets for stress. Sex as a biological need rather than an emotional connection.

You'd been aware of your father's numerous mistresses since adolescence, had seen the knowing glances between your mother and his guards when he'd stay out late on certain nights. Not that he'd been disrespectful enough to bring evidence home, but the pattern had been clear enough to recognize even before you understood its mechanics. Men had urges, had needs—Ricci daughters were taught this reality early, prepared for the inevitability of husbands who would seek physical satisfaction beyond marriage beds while expecting absolute fidelity from their wives.

Maybe Lewis, for all his controlled distinction from men like your father, was ultimately driven by the same basic male programming. The timing certainly aligned with your mother's warnings about danger heightening sexual impulses. The breached security, the blood-spotted bandages on his knuckles—violence already engaged, perhaps sex naturally following in the cycle your mother had described.

You glanced at him across the aisle, studying his profile as he focused on whatever complicated financial maneuvers filled his screen. Nothing in his demeanor suggested a man consumed by sex. If it was indeed on his mind, he concealed it with the same precision he applied to all potentially compromising emotions.

The question that kept circling back wasn't whether Lewis wanted sex—his "unless" had made that possibility clear enough—but whether you did. And if so, what it would mean beyond the obvious physical consequences.

You weren't naive about sex. College had provided opportunities for exploration before your father's reputation inevitably scared away potential partners. You understood the basics, had even enjoyed some wildness on occasion, but you had always maintained emotional distance.

Sex with Lewis would be something else entirely—crossing a threshold that couldn't be uncrossed, creating connection where strategic distance might be safer. Yet the prospect wasn't without appeal. That glimpse of his body, the rare genuine smile with those dimples, the focused intensity that characterized everything he did—

"You're thinking very loudly," Lewis observed without looking up from his screen, his voice startling you from your thoughts.

"Excuse me?" you replied, caught off-guard by the sudden break in silence.

Now he did look up, those dark eyes finding yours with practiced precision. "Your expression. It's quite... concentrated. Like you're solving a complex equation."

You couldn't help the slight smile that tugged at your lips. "Something like that."

"Care to share the problem? I'm reasonably good with difficult calculations." The hint of dry humor was becoming more frequent in his interactions with you.

"Just processing everything," you replied, deliberately vague. "It's been an eventful twenty-four hours."

Lewis closed his laptop, giving you his full attention. "That's an understatement. How are you handling it? The attempt was directed at you specifically."

"I've had kidnapping threats before," you reminded him. "The Ricci name comes with certain occupational hazards."

"There's a difference between abstract threats and someone physically breaching security to reach your bedroom," Lewis pointed out. "Most people would find that deeply disturbing."

"I'm not most people," you echoed his own words from earlier with deliberate parallelism.

That almost-smile appeared briefly. "No, you certainly aren't. But the question still stands."

You considered how to respond honestly without revealing the actual direction of your thoughts. "I'm more concerned about what it represents than the attempt itself. Suarez has connections inside your organization—that's the disturbing part."

Lewis nodded. "We're making progress identifying the source. The operative who died had communications that point toward specific personnel. It's being handled."

The clinical phrasing couldn't quite disguise what "being handled" likely meant—interrogations considerably more thorough than what had left Lewis's knuckles bloody, followed by disposal methods that would leave no evidence for authorities to find.

"How extensive do you think the breach is?" you asked.

"Limited but strategically placed," Lewis replied, his expression hardening slightly. "Someone with access to security protocols but not operational details. Which narrows the field considerably."

"Then there's hope your Geneva banking connections haven't been compromised?"

"The compartmentalization should have protected that information, yes." Lewis leaned back in his seat, an uncharacteristically casual posture that suggested growing comfort in your presence. "Mueller doesn't know about Suarez or Bianchi. To him, we're simply a wealthy couple looking to establish private accounts for legitimate business interests."

"With a honeymoon cover story," you added, deliberately addressing the elephant that had followed you onto the plane.

Something flickered in Lewis's expression—surprise at your directness, perhaps, or appreciation for not dancing around the subject. "Yes. It provides legitimate reason for an extended stay if needed."

"Practical," you acknowledged, holding his gaze. "Though complicated."

"Most effective strategies involve some level of complexity," Lewis replied, his tone carefully neutral despite the weight of unspoken meaning beneath his words. "The question is whether the advantages outweigh potential complications."

"And what's your thoughts on that particular equation?" you asked.

Lewis studied you for a moment, his expression revealing nothing of his thoughts. "I think it depends entirely on mutual agreement about desired outcomes and acceptable risks."

"Very diplomatic," you observed with a hint of genuine amusement.

Something like self-awareness crossed his features. "Occupational hazard. Precision in communication prevents misunderstandings with potentially significant consequences."

"Then let me be precise," you said, setting your wine glass down decisively. "Earlier, in my bedroom, you had an implied question. I'd like clarity on what exactly you were suggesting."

The directness clearly caught him off-guard, that rare unguarded expression briefly crossing his features before control reasserted itself.

"I was saying that our marriage could potentially incorporate additional aspects if mutually desired," Lewis replied after a moment, his phrasing still careful but considerably more direct than before. "Not as requirement or expectation, simply as... an option available should preferences align."

"Sex," you translated bluntly. "You were asking if I might be interested in having sex with you."

Lewis's eyebrow raised slightly at your candor, but he didn't flinch from it. "Yes. Though with more emphasis on choice and timing being entirely on your terms."

"I appreciate the honesty," you said. "And the emphasis on choice."

"Your father made clear from the beginning that certain traditional expectations wouldn't be part of our initial arrangement," Lewis explained, his tone matter-of-fact rather than defensive. "I've respected those parameters and will continue to do so unless you indicate otherwise."

The information was new—your father negotiating sexual boundaries on your behalf without your knowledge, Lewis accepting limitations that men of your father's generation would have considered insulting to their masculinity. Another unexpected dimension to an arrangement that continued revealing new facets with each passing day.

"And yet you made the suggestion," you observed, not accusatory but curious about the shift.

Something almost like vulnerability suddenly crossed Lewis's features. "Circumstances change. Relationships evolve. What begins as purely strategic can develop into something else when people work closely together."

"My mother always said men in our world have predictable responses to danger," you said, deciding honesty deserved equal honesty in return. "Violence, alcohol, or sex—usually in that order."

Understanding registered in Lewis's expression. "You think my suggestion was just a response to a threat."

"The timing fits with her theory," you added. "Less about me specifically and more about male needs after danger triggers certain responses."

Lewis considered this, his expression thoughtful rather than offended. "There's likely some truth to that observation as general pattern. Stress and danger do trigger certain biological responses." He met your eyes directly. "But I'd like to think I'm capable of distinguishing between chemical reactions and genuine interest."

"And which category did your suggestion fall into?" The question was bold, but the conversation had already crossed into territory where traditional caution seemed unnecessarily limiting.

"Both, if I'm being entirely honest," Lewis replied after a moment, the admission clearly costing something in terms of his usual controlled presentation. "The danger certainly heightened awareness of mortality and corresponding impulses. But those impulses were directed specifically toward you for reasons beyond mere proximity or convenience."

It was perhaps the most revealing statement he'd made since your marriage—acknowledgment of genuine attraction rather than strategic consideration alone, of personal desire beyond contractual arrangement.

"I see," you said simply, processing this new information and its implications for your evolving relationship.

"My suggestion wasn't made with an expectation of immediate response," Lewis added, apparently sensing your need for space to consider. "Geneva provides the opportunity, but creates no obligation whatsoever. We have more immediate concerns to address regardless."

The statement offered graceful retreat from territory that had perhaps been explored further than either of you had initially intended.

"Mueller's banking connections being primary among them," you agreed, accepting the shift back to business.

Lewis nodded, reaching for his laptop again though not immediately opening it. "Get some rest if you can. We land in just over an hour, and tomorrow will likely be demanding."

You recognized the gentle conclusion to a conversation that had revealed more than perhaps either of you had planned. "Good advice. I think I will."

As you reclined your seat and closed your eyes, not actually expecting sleep but welcoming the opportunity to process without observation, you found your thoughts considerably clearer than before the conversation. Whatever developed between you and Lewis, at least it would be based on direct communication rather than assumption or manipulation.

*******************************************************

Geneva greeted you with crisp autumn air. Lewis's security team had traveled ahead, establishing protocols before your arrival, so when you emerged from customs, the transition was seamless—black Mercedes waiting, driver holding a discreet sign, no names required.

The city gleamed under moonlight as you were driven from the airport—old money and new power coexisting in architectural harmony, the lake reflecting lights like scattered diamonds across its surface. Everything pristine, everything controlled, everything operating according to precise rules that were never overtly stated but universally understood.

Lewis spent the drive exchanging texts with his advance team, the blue glow of his phone illuminating his profile in brief flashes as you gazed out at the passing scenery. Despite the eleven p.m. arrival, he looked unfazed by travel—the same controlled composure he maintained regardless of circumstances. You wondered, not for the first time, what it would take to truly disrupt that legendary control. The bloodied knuckles had been one glimpse. Perhaps there were others to discover.

The hotel—a discreet five-star establishment that catered to wealth that preferred anonymity—welcomed you with the particular deference reserved for guests who paid in cash and required no credit check. The lobby was a study in understated luxury, nothing so gauche as gold fixtures or other displays, just perfect proportions and materials that whispered rather than shouted their quality.

"Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton," the concierge greeted you, his English impeccable, his eyes professionally warm without being presumptuous. "Welcome to La Réserve. We've been expecting you."

Lewis placed a protective hand at the small of your back as you were escorted to a private elevator—a gesture that could have been performative for watching eyes but felt oddly genuine in its subtle pressure. The flight had shifted something between you, the direct conversation about potential consummation of your arrangement clearing air that had grown increasingly charged with unspoken possibilities.

The penthouse suite occupied the building's entire top floor, its windows offering panoramic views of the lake and mountains beyond. A security sweep had already been completed, Jensen nodding confirmation to Lewis as you entered, before discreetly retreating with the remaining hotel staff. Within moments, you were alone in the expansive space, the door closing with a soft click that emphasized the sudden privacy.

You moved further into the suite, noting the elegant furnishings, the fresh flowers arranged with Swiss precision, the bottle of Dom Pérignon chilling in a silver bucket—all the expected luxuries for guests of your presumed status. What caught your attention, however, was the bedroom visible through open double doors—specifically, the single king-sized bed that dominated the space.

One bed. Not the two you'd anticipated based on your careful maintenance of separate sleeping arrangements in London.

Lewis followed your gaze, a momentary frown crossing his features as he registered the same detail. Without comment, he moved to the house phone, dialing with controlled precision.

"This is Hamilton in the penthouse," he said when someone answered, his tone polite but carrying that edge of authority that expected immediate resolution. "There seems to be a misunderstanding regarding our accommodation requirements."

You couldn't hear the response, but Lewis's expression tightened incrementally as he listened.

"I specifically requested a two-bedroom suite or connecting rooms," he continued. "This arrangement wasn't part of our agreement."

Another pause, longer this time, his fingers tapping a controlled rhythm against the polished desk surface—the only visible indication of his displeasure.

"Until Monday?" he repeated, glancing in your direction with a question in his eyes. "That's four nights."

You moved closer, the telephone exchange now audible as you approached—a professionally apologetic voice explaining that the hotel was fully booked due to an international banking conference, that no other suites were available until early next week, that they deeply regretted the inconvenience but could offer no immediate solution beyond a substantial rate reduction for the trouble.

"It's fine," you said, the decision made with practical ease. After all, it was hardly the most complicated situation you'd navigated in recent weeks. "We can manage."

Lewis studied you for a moment, clearly gauging the sincerity of your acceptance before returning to the call. "Thank you for checking. We'll make the current arrangement work." He paused, listening to further apologies. "Yes, that rate adjustment would be appropriate. Thank you."

He replaced the receiver with the same careful control he applied to all movements, turning to face you fully. "I apologize for the mixup. I was very specific about our requirements when making the arrangements."

"It's not a problem," you assured him, moving toward your luggage to unpack essentials. "We're adults, not teenagers at prom. I think we can handle sharing a bed for a few nights."

"I'll take the couch," Lewis said immediately, nodding toward the living area with its admittedly luxurious sofa. "You take the bedroom."

The offer was entirely expected—the gentlemanly solution to an awkward situation, precisely what etiquette demanded from a man of his position. But something about the automatic distancing struck you as unnecessary after the directness you'd established on the plane. If anything, the separate spaces in London now seemed like artifice maintained out of habit rather than necessity.

"Don't be ridiculous," you replied, moving to the bed and grabbing one of the many pillows from its elaborate arrangement. You placed it lengthwise down the center of the mattress, creating an improvised boundary. "There. Now we have space."

Lewis stared at your solution for several beats, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. "Interesting," he finally said, the single word carrying layers of potential meaning.

"Practical," you corrected, though you couldn't quite suppress the small smile that tugged at your lips. "And considerably more comfortable than that couch."

Something that might have been amusement flickered across his features—there, then gone, controlled as always but not completely extinguished. "Practicality does appear to be a shared value."

You grabbed necessities from your suitcase—silk pajamas, toiletries, the small handgun Lewis had given you earlier that day—and moved toward the bathroom. "I'm going to shower and change. It's been a long day."

Lewis nodded, already turning his attention to his own luggage. "Take your time. I have calls to make regarding tomorrow's meeting anyway."

The bathroom was a marble-clad sanctuary larger than some New York apartments, with a rainfall shower and a soaking tub positioned to capture views of the mountains through privacy glass. You turned the water as hot as you could stand it, letting steam fill the space as you stripped away clothes that carried the staleness of travel and the weight of the day's tensions.

As water sluiced over your skin, you found your thoughts drifting to the man in the next room and the strangeness of your evolving situation. Not just the marriage itself—though that remained surreal enough, but the unexpected developments within it. From strategic arrangement to potential partnership to whatever liminal state you now occupied, with shared beds and direct acknowledgment of possibilities.

The pillow barrier was childish, perhaps, a symbolic division that would do nothing to address the actual complexities between you. But symbols mattered in your world. They established boundaries and expectations, created frameworks within which negotiations could occur. The barrier wasn't about physical separation so much as psychological space—acknowledgment that whatever might eventually develop between you would happen by choice rather than circumstance.

You emerged from the bathroom wrapped in one of the hotel's robes, hair damp and curling around your shoulders, to find Lewis speaking quietly into his phone near the windows.

He ended the call as you approached, tucking the phone away with practiced ease. "Everything alright?" he asked, his eyes making a quick assessment that felt professional rather than invasive.

"Fine," you assured him, gesturing toward the bathroom. "All yours. There's enough hot water for a small army."

Lewis nodded, gathering his own necessities before disappearing into the steamy bathroom. The door closed with a decisive click, leaving you alone in the suite with thoughts that refused to settle into orderly patterns.

You changed quickly into silk pajamas after blow drying and wrapping your hair. The gun went under your pillow, old habits from the Ricci household transferring seamlessly to this new context. In your world, weapons during sleep were as essential as teeth brushing before bed—just another routine of self-preservation.

You'd just settled on your side of the pillowed barrier, checking emails on your phone, when Lewis emerged from the bathroom. Unlike your robe-wrapped transition, he was already dressed for sleep—dark pants that might have been either expensive loungewear or athletic gear, and a simple white t-shirt that did nothing to disguise the muscular definition beneath. More tattoos were visible now—the intricate linework extending down both arms in patterns too complex to decipher from a distance.

He paused briefly, taking in your position on the bed, before moving to his own suitcase to secure something inside, likely a weapon similar to the one beneath your pillow.

"Jensen reports no unusual activity around the hotel," he said, the security update offered as neutral conversational territory. "Additional personnel are stationed on the floor below and in the lobby. Naomi will join us for breakfast to review tomorrow's schedule."

Lewis settled on his side of the barrier, his movements economical as he arranged himself against the headboard, close enough for conversation but carefully observing the boundary you'd established. The king-sized bed was large enough that you weren't truly crowded, yet the awareness of his presence carried a charge that made the space feel more intimate.

"May I ask you something?" you said, curiosity overriding caution.

"Of course." His tone suggested openness, though his posture remained carefully controlled.

"The tattoos," you gestured toward his arms and what was visible of his chest beneath the white shirt. "They're more extensive than I realized. Do they have significance?"

Lewis glanced down at his forearms, as if briefly seeing them through your eyes rather than his own accustomed perspective. "Most have specific meaning, yes. Milestones, reminders, certain principles I choose to keep literally close."

"The compass?" you asked, recalling the design you'd glimpsed through the connecting door.

"Direction," he replied after a brief hesitation, one hand unconsciously moving to his chest where the tattoo lay beneath fabric. "A reminder to maintain course regardless of external pressures or distractions."

"And the rose?" The question pushed further into personal territory, acknowledgment that you'd seen more of him than perhaps he'd intended through that partially open door.

Something shifted in his expression—surprise giving way to understanding. "The connecting door," he said, neither accusatory nor embarrassed. "I didn't realize it had opened."

"Just a glimpse," you clarified, not wanting him to think you'd been deliberately watching. "While talking to my sisters."

Lewis nodded, accepting this without apparent concern. "The rose represents beauty with defense—thorns necessary for survival in hostile environments." His hand moved to his side where you'd seen the flower design wrapping around his ribs. "Beauty alone is vulnerability; defense alone is isolation. The combination creates sustainable strength."

The philosophy revealed more about Lewis Hamilton than perhaps he intended, values encoded permanently in skin, carrying meaning beyond mere decoration. Not the crude symbology of traditional mobsters with their misspelled Latin phrases and religious iconography.

"Do you have any?" he asked, turning the question back to you with genuine curiosity. "Tattoos?"

You shook your head. "My father considers them common—beneath a Ricci's dignity. My sisters and I were forbidden from getting any."

"And now?" Lewis raised an eyebrow. "Your father's prohibitions no longer apply to your choices."

The simple observation carried more weight than its surface suggestion about body art—acknowledgment of your shifting status from daughter under paternal authority to wife with autonomy within new parameters. The transition was still ongoing, boundaries still being established between old identity and new reality.

"I haven't given it much thought," you admitted. "There's been rather a lot happening lately."

That almost-smile appeared briefly. "Fair point."

Silence settled between you—not uncomfortable but charged with awareness of the unusual intimacy of your position. Two people legally married yet practically strangers, sharing a bed divided by pillows rather than walls, navigating territory neither had fully anticipated when signatures formalized your union.

"We should get some rest," Lewis said finally, reaching for the lamp on his bedside table. "Tomorrow's meeting with Mueller will require focus."

"Of course," you agreed, settling further beneath the covers on your side of the barrier.

Lewis turned off his light, the room plunging into near-darkness broken only by city glow through partially drawn curtains. You followed suit, switching off your own lamp and adjusting to new shadows in unfamiliar space.

For several minutes, silence reigned, broken only by the distant sounds of occasional traffic below and the subtle rhythm of two people breathing in careful awareness of each other's presence. Despite exhaustion from travel and the day's tensions, sleep remained elusive—too many unprocessed thoughts circling your mind.

"Lewis?" you said quietly, uncertain if he was still awake.

"Yes?" His response came immediately, suggesting he'd been equally unable to find sleep.

"Thank you for being direct on the plane. About everything."

The darkness concealed his expression, but his voice carried a warmth rarely present in daylight conversations. "Directness seems to work well between us. Better than alternatives."

"It does," you agreed, finding unexpected comfort in this simple shared understanding.

Another silence, this one softer somehow, settled between you. Just as sleep began to pull at the edges of your consciousness, Lewis spoke again, his voice low in the darkness.

"For what it's worth, I respect the barrier. Both what it represents and what it potentially allows."

The statement carried layers of meaning—acknowledgment of boundaries established and possibilities left open, respect for choice without presumption of outcome. It was perhaps the most perfectly calibrated communication yet from a man who specialized in precise calculation.

"I know," you replied simply, the words carrying more certainty than you'd anticipated. Whatever else remained uncertain between you, Lewis's respect for your autonomy had been consistently demonstrated through actions rather than merely words.

Sleep claimed you shortly after, the strange intimacy of shared space somehow less disruptive than expected. Your last conscious thought was recognition that danger and desire continued their parallel trajectories in your new life—both requiring careful navigation, both carrying potential for either destruction or something unexpectedly valuable.

Tomorrow would bring Mueller and banking arrangements and the continued strategic dance of your unconventional marriage. But tonight, for the first time since arriving in London as Lewis's wife, you slept without Roscoe's watchful presence or security personnel patrolling outside your door—just the measured breathing of the dangerous, controlled man beside you, separated by pillows but increasingly connected by something neither of you had fully anticipated when signatures sealed your arrangement.

*************************************************

Consciousness returned in layers, warm and hazy around the edges as morning light pressed against your closed eyelids. Something felt different—the weight of covers, the texture beneath your cheek, the subtle rhythm against your ear that wasn't quite the sound of your own heartbeat.

You opened your eyes to find yourself not on your designated side of the bed, the carefully arranged pillow barrier long abandoned during the night. Instead, you were curled against Lewis's side, head resting on his chest, one arm draped across his torso in unconscious intimacy that sent a jolt of surprise through you.

You jerked upright, disoriented by the unexpected closeness, only to hear Lewis's voice—deeper, slightly rough with sleep, yet still carrying that fundamental control that never quite left him.

"Don't worry about it," he murmured, making no move to shift away despite your sudden movement.

Your eyes found his, one arm casually positioned behind his head as he regarded you with surprising nonchalance given the circumstances. No sign of discomfort or awkwardness, just calm acceptance of waking to find his strategic wife cuddled against him like a lover.

"I'm sorry—" you began, embarrassment heating your cheeks.

"Don't," he interrupted gently. "It's fine. You talk in your sleep sometimes... did you know that?"

Embarrassment deepened, your mind racing through potential revelations you might have unknowingly shared while unconscious. Growing up in a household where information was currency and vulnerability was weakness had made you pathologically private, even in sleep.

Lewis's expression softened, a hint of amusement warming his usually reserved features. "It wasn't anything serious. You didn't reveal anything vital to destroy an empire, if you're worried about that."

You couldn't help but return his half-smile, surprised by the light-hearted reference to your shared world of secrets and power. "Good to know my subconscious isn't committing treason."

A low chuckle rumbled through his chest, the sound still touched with sleep. "Sounded like you had a nightmare... so I pulled you closer to me."

You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion, the statement so at odds with the controlled, calculated man you'd come to know. Lewis, deliberately drawing someone closer during vulnerability rather than maintaining careful distance? The revelation felt more intimate than the physical closeness itself—a glimpse behind carefully constructed walls that few were likely permitted.

"Come 'ere," he said, the words carrying the unmistakable weight of command despite their quiet delivery, brooking no argument or hesitation.

You found yourself complying without conscious decision, moving closer until you were near but not quite touching as you had been moments before.

"More," Lewis prompted, a teasing lilt warming his voice that you'd never heard before—playfulness from the man who approached even casual conversation with strategic precision.

Drawn by something that felt like gravity, you shifted until your head rested in the crook of his arm, the position deliberate rather than accidental this time. His arm wrapped around you with surprising naturalness, hand settling against your upper arm with gentle pressure as his other arm completed the embrace.

You inhaled deeply, his scent filling your senses—that expensive cologne now mingled with the warmth of sleep, creating something more intimate than the carefully curated presentation he maintained in public. The combination was unexpectedly appealing, triggering responses you hadn't anticipated when placing that now-forgotten pillow barrier between you.

Lewis sighed, the sound carrying contentment rather than resignation. "I enjoy cuddling," he revealed, the simple admission somehow more surprising than if he'd confessed to complex criminal operations.

The idea of Lewis Hamilton—the dangerous, controlled crime lord who ordered executions between wine selections—being someone who "enjoyed cuddling" created cognitive dissonance so profound it almost made you laugh. Yet here was evidence in the form of strong arms holding you with gentle but definite intention, his body relaxed against yours in a way that suggested genuine comfort rather than strategic performance.

"Your skin is so soft," he murmured, his voice dropping to a lower timbre that sent an involuntary shiver through you. His hands skimmed delicately over your arms, the touch light but deliberate, somewhere between affection and assessment.

The observation immediately transported you back to your conversation on the plane. His tone carried the same quality now, appreciative without demanding, noting without claiming.

"Thank you," you replied, the response automatic though hardly adequate for the complex moment unfolding between you.

"You're welcome," Lewis said simply, seemingly content with both your response and the continued physical contact that neither of you appeared inclined to end.

Silence settled comfortably around you, allowing space to absorb the strangeness of this new intimacy—strategic partners becoming something less defined yet more connected, the carefully maintained distance of previous days giving way to whatever this tentative embrace represented.

You listened to birds calling outside the windows, watched as early sunlight strengthened across the room. Lewis's heartbeat maintained its steady rhythm beneath your ear, his breathing even and calm as if this level of physical closeness were commonplace between you rather than unprecedented.

"I've been attracted to you since our first meeting," Lewis said finally, his voice quiet but clear in the morning stillness. "Not just for strategic advantage or family connection, though those factors were certainly relevant to the arrangement."

The revelation caught you by surprise, though in retrospect, it shouldn't have. Lewis approached most matters with calculated precision—once a decision was made to address a topic, he did so without unnecessary pretense.

"Your father showed me the notes," he continued, his hand still moving in gentle patterns against your arm. "The ones Suarez sent with his flowers. The presumption, the crude possessiveness disguised as courtship. It was... illuminating."

You stiffened slightly at the mention, unaware that Lewis had seen the messages the Cuban had sent—increasingly threatening "romantic" overtures your father had apparently shared during negotiations without your knowledge.

"I didn't realize," you said, uncertain how to feel about this exchange of information about you without your participation.

"Your father wanted me to understand what I was potentially standing against," Lewis explained, sensing your discomfort. "Though I suspect his intent was more to gauge my reaction than out of concern for your feelings about Suarez's attention."

The assessment aligned with your understanding of your father's methods—using information as both test and manipulation, revealing vulnerabilities to assess responses rather than from genuine concern.

"What was your reaction?" you asked, curious despite yourself about how Lewis had responded to seeing another man's presumptuous advances.

His arms tightened fractionally around you, the only indication that the memory triggered something less controlled than his usual presentation. "Professional outwardly. Your father needed to see reasoned strategic assessment, not emotional response."

"And inwardly?" you pressed, somehow knowing there had been more beneath the surface.

Lewis was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing small circles against your shoulder as he considered his answer. "Inwardly, I found myself... unexpectedly territorial about someone I hadn't yet met. It wasn't strategic. It was visceral."

The admission carried weight beyond its simple words—Lewis acknowledging emotional response that transcended calculated advantage, revealing layers beneath controlled exterior that few likely witnessed.

"Seeing you bandage my hand that night after the intruder," he continued, his voice taking on a quality you hadn't heard before, "watching you think through strategic countermeasures when most would have been focused solely on the danger... it did something to me."

His hand moved from your arm to your shoulder, then traced a path down your back with deliberate slowness, the touch firm enough to be intentional but gentle enough to allow withdrawal if unwanted. "Your intelligence, your composure under pressure, the way you see through performances to underlying motivations—those qualities are intriguing beyond any physical attraction, though that certainly exists as well."

His hand continued its careful exploration of your back, not straying beyond appropriate boundaries but making its awareness of your body unmistakably clear.

"I'm not going to push," Lewis said, his voice carrying absolute certainty. "That isn't how this works between us. But I find myself... anticipating possibilities. Savoring moments like this in the interim."

His hand stilled against your lower back, pressure firm but not restrictive. "Imagining what it might be like to hear you, to feel you... to watch you come apart before pulling you back together." The statement was delivered with the same measured control as business assessments, yet carried heat beneath its precision. "But patience has always been among my stronger qualities."

As if to emphasize this point, his hand lifted from where it had been creating distracting patterns against your body, the withdrawal of contact almost as potent as its application had been.

You glanced up, needing to see his expression, to read whatever might be visible in features that typically revealed only what he deliberately allowed. You found his eyes already watching you, intense focus softened by something that might have been genuine affection. His lower lip was caught briefly between his teeth—a rare display of even minor loss of control that drew your attention with unexpected force.

"Yes, babygirl?" he asked, the unexpected nickname sending a jolt of something electric through your nervous system.

The term of endearment—possessive yet affectionate, dominant yet caring—highlighted how rapidly territory was shifting between you. From Mrs. Hamilton to given name to this new designation in the span of weeks, each step changing the landscape of your arrangement in ways neither of you had fully anticipated.

Your eyes dropped briefly to his lip, still caught between teeth in uncharacteristic display of actual human impulse, before returning to meet his gaze directly. "You said you liked control," you reminded him, referencing the conversation in your father's garden where he'd first alluded to preferences that transcended business interactions.

"I do," Lewis confirmed, something darkening in his expression that wasn't quite dangerousness but carried similar intensity. "In certain contexts, control is... essential to my satisfaction."

The deliberate phrasing didn't disguise the fundamental meaning—Lewis preferred dominance in sexual encounters, requiring surrender from partners in ways that aligned with his carefully controlled approach to all other aspects of his existence.

"It's not about degradation or inequality," he clarified, reading potential concern in your expression. "It's about trust. About someone choosing to surrender control rather than having it taken. About creating space where submission becomes strength rather than weakness."

The philosophy revealed more than perhaps he intended—values that extended beyond bedroom preferences into fundamental worldview, approach to power that differed from men like your father who equated dominance with negation of others' agency.

"I would never do anything you wouldn't like," Lewis continued, his tone carrying absolute certainty. "That's not the point of control. It's about maximizing pleasure through structure and boundaries, not imposing unwanted experience."

The detailed explanation was both reassuring and intriguing, the implications of what such dynamic might entail in practice rather than theory.

"How would I know if I like it?" you asked, the question emerging from genuine curiosity rather than challenge or evasion.

Instead of answering directly, Lewis's expression shifted into something that could only be described as smugly confident—a smile that contained certainty born of experience rather than mere theory. The expression was so unlike his usual controlled presentation that it caught you off-guard, revealing yet another facet of the increasingly complex man whose ring you wore.

Before he could respond verbally, a sharp electronic tone cut through the moment—his phone signaling priority communication that couldn't be ignored regardless of personal preference. The sound broke the intimate bubble that had formed around you, reality reasserting itself with typical inconvenient timing.

Lewis sighed—a rare display of actual frustration—before reaching for the device on his nightstand. "Hamilton," he answered, professional mask sliding seamlessly back into place despite the lingering effects of your conversation.

You shifted away, using the interruption as opportunity to collect thoughts scattered by the unexpected intimacy. Whatever had been developing between you would need to wait—business calling as it always did in your world, possibilities deferred but not forgotten as you both returned to the roles that had brought you together initially.

Strategic partners first and foremost, regardless of what else might be evolving beneath that fundamental arrangement.

Lewis's expression hardened as he listened to whoever was on the other end of the call, the intimate warmth from moments ago replaced by the calculated focus of a man handling business complications. "Send me the details. I want the complete file before the meeting," he instructed, rising from the bed in a single fluid movement. "And double the surveillance on Mueller's associates. If he's meeting with Castellano's people, I want to know why."

You slipped from the bed as well, giving him privacy for the call while gathering clothes for the day. The transition felt abrupt but familiar—moments of personal connection inevitably interrupted by business demands, the constant rhythm of life in your world. That fundamental reality hadn't changed with marriage, just the specific players and territories involved.

"Bloody hell." Lewis ended the call with terse efficiency, setting the phone down with controlled precision that didn't quite mask the tension radiating from him. He turned to find you watching him, his expression softening fractionally when your eyes met.

"Problem?" you asked, practical rather than disappointed about the interrupted moment.

"Potential complication," he clarified. "Mueller's been meeting with representatives from a rival banking group with connections to certain Italian interests in Milan."

The careful phrasing didn't disguise the actual concern—potential compromise of your banking arrangements through competing criminal organizations. The Swiss financial world operated within careful parameters, maintaining neutrality while still facilitating transactions other institutions wouldn't touch. Loyalty wasn't guaranteed to the highest bidder, but alliances shifted based on calculated advantage.

"Castellano?" you asked, the name triggering recognition. "As in Giovanni Castellano?"

Lewis raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by your familiarity with what should have been an obscure connection. "You know the family?"

"My father considered an alliance with them three years ago," you explained, memories surfacing of overheard conversations and files you weren't supposed to access. "The negotiation broke down over territorial disputes in Newark."

Lewis's expression shifted from surprise to something closer to genuine appreciation. "That information wasn't in your father's briefing materials about your family connections."

"It wouldn't be," you acknowledged. "The discussion never reached formal negotiation stage. But I remember my father mentioning their Swiss banking arrangements were particularly sophisticated, especially regarding digital assets."

Lewis studied you with renewed intensity, that focused assessment that made you feel simultaneously examined and valued. "The Castellanos have been strengthening their European operations, particularly in fintech. If they're meeting with Mueller before our appointment—"

"They could be positioning to block our access," you finished, mind already analyzing potential countermeasures. "Or at minimum, raising Mueller's expectations regarding compensation for his services."

Lewis nodded, something like genuine partnership passing between you—shared understanding of the complex chess game your world operated within, mutual recognition of threats and opportunities without need for simplified explanation.

"I need to make some calls," he said, reaching for his phone again. "The meeting's been moved up to eleven rather than afternoon—Mueller's office 'apologizes for any inconvenience' but claims scheduling conflicts."

"Convenient timing," you observed dryly. "Almost as if someone wanted to limit our preparation."

"Exactly." Lewis was already scrolling through contacts. "This changes our approach. Instead of separate meetings, I want you with me for the Mueller discussion."

The statement caught you by surprise—not because of inclusion itself, which aligned with your emerging role in his operations, but because of its implications for strategy. "You want to present unified front rather than using me as unexpected asset later?"

Lewis paused, giving you his full attention despite pressing concerns. "I want Mueller to understand exactly what he's dealing with—not just another criminal with money to hide, but a partnership with complementary capabilities. Your understanding of the Castellano connections creates leverage we didn't know we had."

The assessment was both practical and oddly gratifying—recognition of value beyond decorative accessory or symbolic alliance. "What's our angle, then? Good cop, bad cop? Sophisticated couple? Business partners?"

Lewis considered this, his expression thoughtful despite the time pressure. "Executive team, I think. Professional, knowledgeable, with clear division of expertise but unified direction." His eyes held yours with unwavering focus. "No pretense of traditional marriage roles—Mueller needs to see you as equal strategic partner, not wife along for decorative purposes."

The approach differed markedly from how your father would have positioned you in similar circumstances—as silent ornament whose occasional intelligent comment would surprise by contrast with assumed decorative function. Lewis was suggesting something fundamentally different.

"I'll need information on what we know about Mueller's digital banking operations," you said, mind already shifting to practical preparation. "And the specific services we're seeking from his institution."

Lewis nodded, reaching for his laptop. "I'll have Claire send the complete file immediately. We have just over two hours before we need to leave for the meeting."

The next ninety minutes passed in focused preparation—files reviewed, strategies discussed, contingency plans established for various potential complications. The intimate moment from earlier remained unacknowledged but not forgotten, its implications temporarily set aside rather than dismissed as you both channeled energy into the immediate challenge.

You emerged from the bathroom dressed for battle in your own way—charcoal pencil skirt and burgundy silk blouse that managed to be simultaneously professional and striking, heels adding height without sacrificing mobility should circumstances require quick exit. Not dramatically different from your usual business attire, but selected with particular attention to the impression it would create on Swiss bankers with traditional expectations constantly at war with reality of their clientele.

Lewis looked up from his laptop as you entered, his eyes making a quick but thorough assessment. "Perfect," he said simply, the single word carrying more weight than elaborate compliment.

He had transformed as well—the relaxed, cuddling man from earlier morning completely replaced by the dangerous, controlled crime lord his reputation described. His suit was flawlessly tailored black with subtle gray pinstripe, white shirt providing stark contrast to the deep blue tie secured with mathematical precision. The tattoos were once again hidden beneath formal armor, the only hint of their existence the edges visible at his wrists when his cuffs shifted and the markings on his hands.

"Mueller has particular views about appropriate business attire," Lewis explained, making a final adjustment to his tie. "Traditional to the point of anachronism. It's one battle not worth fighting if we want his cooperation."

You nodded, understanding the strategic concession. In your world, adapting to certain expectations created space to challenge others more central to your objectives. Conformity in surface matters often facilitated deviation in more substantial ones.

"The car will be ready in twenty minutes," Lewis continued, closing his laptop with decisive click. "Naomi and Jensen are already downstairs coordinating security for the route."

"What about the gun?" you asked, pointing to the Glock still sitting on the nightstand. "I'm guessing Swiss bankers aren't big fans of armed clients, no matter how nicely we dress."

Lewis's mouth quirked up slightly. "Jensen took care of it. Apparently 'clients of Mueller's particular specialization' get diplomatic courtesy for their security measures."

You couldn't help but smile at the delicate phrasing—"clients of particular specialization" instead of just saying "criminals with enough money." The Swiss had turned discretion into an art form long before modern organized crime even existed.

Lewis moved closer, near enough that you caught his cologne but not so close it felt like he was crowding you. "There's something else you should know before we meet Mueller," he said, his tone more serious now.

"What is it?" you asked, immediately on alert.

"Mueller's got this thing about marriages in our world," Lewis explained. "He sees them as proof of stability and succession planning. His best deals go to clients whose family setup looks like it'll last."

That made immediate sense. "So our honeymoon cover actually serves a real business purpose."

Lewis nodded. "Exactly. Mueller likes dynasty-building—banking relationships that'll continue through generations instead of ending when one person dies or goes to prison."

"So he'll be sizing up our marriage as much as our business," you translated. "Looking for signs we're actually partners and not just a convenient alliance."

"Yes," Lewis confirmed. "Which means we need to... perform a bit differently than your standard business meeting."

The meaning was clear—to convince Mueller, we'd need to show a connection beyond just strategic arrangement, suggesting something with a future. Not fake romance exactly, but definitely showing a united front beyond just business.

"So we need to act like a real couple, not just business partners," you clarified. "What, should I call you 'darling' while we talk about blockchain?"

That drew another brief smile from him. "Nothing that over-the-top. Just... being comfortable around each other. Familiar with each other's movements. The little tells of people who actually share a life, not just a business card."

The irony wasn't lost on you, given how this morning you'd woken up cuddled against him after crossing the pillow barrier in your sleep.

"I think we can handle that," you said, feeling oddly confident about this particular act. The pillow barrier had been abandoned in more ways than one, making space for whatever was developing between you.

Lewis studied you a moment longer, as if checking that you were really okay with this. "Good. But if anything crosses a line you're not comfortable with, just say 'Geneva protocol' and I'll back off immediately."

That consideration—setting up a safety word for something as simple as physical closeness—told you volumes about Lewis's approach to your partnership. Consent mattered to him in ways that stood out among powerful men, creating a foundation of respect regardless of strategic needs.

"I appreciate that," you said sincerely. "But I don't think it'll be necessary."

Lewis nodded, accepting your word without pushing. "We should head downstairs. Naomi will want to brief us on security before we leave."

As you gathered your things, you caught Lewis watching you with an expression that wasn't entirely professional. The look disappeared quickly as his usual control took over, but that brief glimpse confirmed what your morning conversation had established—Lewis was interested in you beyond just strategic advantage, creating possibilities neither of you had expected when you signed those marriage papers.

Those possibilities would have to wait, though. Mueller and his banking empire came first—another move in the complex game that defined your shared existence, another piece on the international chessboard of power and influence.

You followed Lewis toward the door, mentally reviewing key points from the files while thinking about how to show the right level of marital connection that Mueller would expect. The double performance felt strangely fitting—operating on multiple levels at once had always been a survival skill in your world.

At least with Lewis, you weren't carrying the strategic burden alone. For the first time in your experience with powerful men, you had a partner who saw your mind as an asset rather than an inconvenience, who treated you as an equal player instead of just decoration.

Whatever else might develop between you—whatever that heated look and your morning conversation might lead to—that fundamental respect created a foundation unlike anything you'd experienced in your father's world of traditional power structures.

The thought brought an unexpected warmth as you stepped into the elevator beside Lewis, his hand resting briefly at the small of your back in a gesture that could have been just for show but somehow felt more genuine than calculation alone would explain.

****************************************************

Banque Privée Genève occupied a discreet limestone building that managed to project both historical gravitas and understated wealth without resorting to the ostentatious displays that characterized newer financial institutions. No gleaming steel and glass here, no modern architectural statements—just three centuries of accumulated power disguised as conservative respectability.

The car dropped you at a side entrance where private clients could avoid the public lobby, a concierge in impeccable formal attire greeting you by name without consulting any visible record. Such flawless execution spoke to thorough preparation—Mueller's operation had been studying you both well before your arrival.

"Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton," the man said with perfect Swiss precision—not too warm, not too distant. "Herr Mueller is expecting you. If you would follow me, please."

The corridors you traversed could have belonged to an exclusive museum rather than financial institution—antique furnishings that were clearly original rather than reproduction, oil paintings by masters whose works rarely appeared at public auction, display cases housing historical documents that traced the bank's lineage through European wars and financial crises it had weathered with characteristic neutrality.

Lewis walked beside you, close enough that your shoulders occasionally brushed—establishing the comfortable physical proximity your strategy required without overplaying the connection. His hand rested briefly at the small of your back as you entered an elevator requiring key card access, the touch feeling less calculated than previous similar gestures. Whatever was developing between you had begun bleeding through the performance, creating something that felt increasingly genuine despite its strategic foundations.

Mueller's office occupied the building's top floor, a space that managed to be both grand and understated—old money that had no need to announce its presence with flashy displays. The man himself embodied similar contradiction—mid-sixties with silver hair and patrician features, his suit so perfectly tailored it appeared molded to his frame.

"Mr. Hamilton," Mueller greeted, extending his hand with precisely calibrated pressure in the handshake. "A pleasure to finally meet in person after our extensive correspondence."

"The pleasure's mine," Lewis replied smoothly. "Thanks for accommodating our schedule change."

Mueller turned his attention to you, his assessment quick but comprehensive—taking in every detail from your carefully selected attire to the wedding band on your finger. "And Mrs. Hamilton. A delightful addition to our meeting. I was unaware you would be joining us today."

"My wife has a unique perspective on digital currency integration that's particularly relevant," Lewis explained, the word 'wife' somehow sounding natural in his British accent. "Her financial tech background has given our operations an edge I've come to rely on."

Mueller's eyebrows rose slightly, clearly reassessing initial assumptions about your presence. "How fascinating. The younger generation's embrace of technology provides critical advantage in evolving markets. Please, both of you, be seated."

The chairs positioned before Mueller's massive oak desk were deliberately placed, close enough to suggest unity between occupants while maintaining clear sightlines for all participants. You took your seat with practiced grace, crossing your legs at the ankle in the conservative posture your mother had drilled into you for such situations.

"I understand congratulations are in order," Mueller continued, gesturing toward your wedding rings. "A recent union, yes? You're in Geneva for your honeymoon, I'm told."

"Thank you," Lewis replied, his tone warming slightly. "Yes, we're combining business with pleasure while in Switzerland. Geneva has special significance for both our families."

The careful phrasing established both personal connection to the location and hint of generational ties, exactly the type of dynastic implication Mueller reportedly valued in clients. Your briefing materials had emphasized the banker's preference for family operations over individual entrepreneurs, his belief in bloodlines and succession as indicators of reliable long-term partnerships.

"The most successful unions in our world balance both practical alliance and personal compatibility," Mueller observed, his gaze moving between you with evaluative precision. "Particularly across traditional territorial boundaries. Quite progressive, bringing American and British operations together through marriage."

"The old geographical divisions don't really matter in digital markets anymore," you replied, joining the conversation naturally. "Strategic positioning across financial systems matters more than physical location now."

Mueller's attention sharpened at your contribution, his assessment visibly adjusting. "Indeed. A perspective many of my more traditional clients struggle to embrace." He leaned forward slightly. "Your father's operation maintains more conventional territorial focus, if I recall correctly."

The direct reference to your family connection confirmed what you'd suspected, Mueller had thoroughly researched both your backgrounds, understanding exactly what alliance your marriage represented. No point in pretense with someone so well-informed.

"My father's good at what he does within established boundaries," you acknowledged diplomatically. "Lewis and I see opportunities in pushing beyond them."

Lewis's hand moved to rest lightly on your forearm—a subtle gesture of approval that felt warmer than mere performance would justify. "Her insights on regulatory adaptations have already given us an edge in our European expansion. Especially with integrating blockchain and traditional banking systems."

The discussion shifted into technical territory—Mueller probing your combined knowledge of financial systems, testing both expertise and unity of vision through increasingly pointed questions. You and Lewis responded with natural coordination, each covering areas of strength while supporting the other's perspectives.

The banker's skepticism gradually transformed into genuine interest as the conversation progressed, particularly when you outlined how digital currency conversion could address traditional banking vulnerabilities.

"Your approach is more sophisticated than I anticipated," Mueller acknowledged, making notes in an actual leather-bound ledger rather than electronic device—old-school methods for old-school power. "Most clients in your... particular industry... focus exclusively on concealment rather than legitimate integration opportunities."

"Hiding money only works for so long in today's world," Lewis responded. "We're more interested in building systems that work across different regulatory environments, not just hiding assets."

"A longer-term perspective," Mueller noted with approval. "Generational thinking rather than quarterly objectives."

"Exactly," you confirmed, seeing the perfect opening to appeal to Mueller's known preferences. "We're building foundations that will last well beyond our lives."

Mueller's eyes moved meaningfully between you, the implication clear without being stated directly—foundations that included potential heirs, succession planning, dynasty-building that appealed to his traditional values despite your modern methodologies.

"I believe we can establish arrangements that would serve your particular requirements," he said finally, closing his ledger with deliberate precision. "Though certain additional verifications will be necessary before accounts can be fully activated."

"Of course," Lewis agreed easily. "We expected thorough due diligence. My team has prepared all the documentation you'll need."

Mueller nodded, apparently satisfied with both your professional presentation and the subtle but consistent indicators of genuine partnership. "Excellent. My assistant will coordinate the next steps with your team. I anticipate we can have preliminary accounts established within forty-eight hours, with full functionality following verification protocols."

The timeline was significantly accelerated from typical banking procedures—clear indicator that your combined approach had successfully convinced Mueller of your value as clients. Lewis's hand found yours briefly, a gentle squeeze communicating shared victory without need for words.

"We appreciate your efficiency," Lewis said, rising as Mueller did to indicate the meeting's conclusion. "And your flexibility regarding our accelerated timeline."

"Honeymooners should focus on pleasure rather than extended business negotiations," Mueller replied with surprising hint of warmth. "Geneva offers much to appreciate beyond banking facilities."

You stood as well, smoothing your skirt with practiced grace. "We're looking forward to exploring the city more once the business matters are settled."

Mueller extended his hand to you, the gesture conferring equal professional respect rather than merely ceremonial acknowledgment. "A pleasure, Mrs. Hamilton. Your contributions to today's discussion were most illuminating."

"Thank you," you replied, accepting the handshake with precisely the right balance of firmness and feminine grace your mother had taught you for dealing with the traditional European businessmen. "We look forward to a productive relationship with your institution."

The practiced phrases carried weight beyond their surface courtesy—establishing expectations for ongoing connection rather than merely transactional interaction. Mueller's approving nod suggested the message had been received exactly as intended.

Lewis's hand returned to the small of your back as you prepared to leave. Something was shifting between you with each such contact—boundaries slowly dissolving.

"One moment," Mueller said as you reached the door, his tone suddenly more cautious. "I should mention that an associate of yours is currently in the building. Giovanni Castellano arrived for his appointment earlier than scheduled. I believe you may know each other?"

The name hit you like an unexpected punch despite your earlier discussion of potential Castellano connections. Giovanni's presence immediately following your meeting couldn't be coincidence—the timing was too perfect to be anything but a deliberate power play.

Lewis's expression remained controlled despite the obvious provocation, only the slightest tightening around his eyes betraying his recognition of the competitive challenge. "We know each other," he acknowledged neutrally. "Though it's been a while since we've crossed paths directly."

Mueller's careful neutrality couldn't quite disguise his awareness of the underlying tension. Swiss banking thrived on maintaining relationships with competing interests, providing services to rivals without becoming entangled in their conflicts. "I mention it only as professional courtesy," he explained. "To avoid any... awkward encounters in the lobby."

"Appreciated," Lewis replied smoothly. "Though I don't have any problem greeting a colleague if needed."

The diplomatic phrasing barely disguised the underlying reality—neither man could afford to appear intimidated by potential confrontation, not with Mueller observing their respective responses. Backing down or avoiding contact would signal weakness neither could strategically afford.

"Your wife is welcome to make her own assessment," Mueller said, turning to you with a carefully neutral expression. "Given certain historical connections, I understand."

The reference to your father's previous negotiations with the Castellanos further confirmed your earlier suspicion—Mueller knew exactly who you were and what complex alliances your marriage represented. His seemingly casual mention of Giovanni's presence was actually calculated test of both your individual reactions and your unity as a couple.

"Family connections often go beyond business complications," you replied with the diplomatic smile your mother had perfected through decades of navigating your father's complex allegiances. "I'd be happy to say hello to Signore Castellano if we run into each other."

The response struck a perfect balance—acknowledging the relationship without overstating its significance, maintaining professional courtesy without suggesting actual alliance.

As if on cue, a knock at the office door preceded the entrance of Mueller's assistant. "Herr Mueller, Signore Castellano has arrived for his appointment," he announced.

"Thank you, Klaus," Mueller replied. "Please show him in. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton were just leaving."

The timing couldn't have been more perfectly orchestrated if planned in advance—which, you suspected, it very well might have been. Mueller's seemingly coincidental scheduling created an opportunity to observe direct interaction between competing interests.

The door opened fully to reveal Giovanni Castellano in all his traditional Italian glory—Brioni suit in charcoal gray, Ferragamo shoes polished to mirror shine, gold Rolex peeking from beneath French cuffs secured with diamond links. At sixty-five, he remained handsome in that distinctly Mediterranean way that aged like fine wine—silver threading through still-thick black hair, lines around his eyes speaking of laughter rather than hardship, the overall impression one of vitality rather than diminishment.

His eyes widened slightly at the sight of you—genuine surprise not quite masked by practiced social grace. Then a smile spread across his features, transforming serious business demeanor into something warmer and distinctly more Italian in its expressiveness.

"Madonna mia," Giovanni exclaimed, spreading his arms in theatrical gesture of delighted surprise. "Piccolo fiore! Is it really you?"

The childhood nickname—bestowed during a summer gathering at your father's Hampton estate when you were barely ten—carried uncomfortable weight given your current position as another man's wife. Lewis remained perfectly still beside you, his physical presence somehow intensifying without any visible movement.

"Uncle Gio," you replied, using the familial designation despite lack of actual blood relation—the traditional form of respect in your world for older family associates. "What a surprise to see you in Geneva."

Giovanni moved further into the room, his attention focused entirely on you as if Lewis and Mueller had temporarily ceased to exist. "Look how you've grown, piccolo fiore. A woman now, and such a beautiful one." His eyes moved deliberately to your wedding ring, expression shifting toward something less warm. "Though I must say, I was disappointed to learn of your marriage. Especially to..." his gaze finally acknowledged Lewis's presence, "...someone outside our traditional circles."

The implied criticism—Lewis lacking proper Italian heritage—carried deliberate provocation beneath its surface courtesy. Giovanni had always been among the most traditional family leaders, placing enormous value on bloodlines and ethnic connections despite his organization's international operations.

"Lewis and I just click," you replied simply, stepping closer to your husband in a subtle but visible show of unity. "Some traditions are worth moving beyond."

Giovanni's expression registered both surprise and something closer to grudging respect at your direct response—clearly having expected the silent deference traditional wives displayed in your world. Lewis's hand settled at your waist in quiet show of support, the touch feeling protective without being possessive.

"Stefano was quite upset to hear the news," Giovanni continued, referencing his eldest son with deliberate emphasis. "He always had special fondness for you, piccolo fiore. Such a shame timing didn't align differently."

The implication was clear—your father's failed negotiations with the Castellanos might have resulted in very different marriage arrangement had circumstances developed differently. Stefano Castellano's "special fondness" had always left sour taste in your mouth—his attention during family gatherings carrying entitled presumption that had made your skin crawl even as a teenager.

"Please give Stefano my regards," you replied carefully, avoiding the implied romantic connection. "It's been a few years since we saw each other at my father's Christmas party."

"Too many years between our families," Giovanni agreed, his attention finally shifting more directly to Lewis. "Business complications create unnecessary divisions where alliances would be more productive. Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Hamilton?"

Lewis's expression remained controlled, his response measured. "Partnerships work when they're built on shared values. The right foundation matters for anything that's going to last."

The professional phrasing couldn't quite disguise the underlying message—some divisions existed for substantive reasons beyond mere territorial competition. Giovanni's smile tightened slightly, recognition flashing beneath practiced cordiality.

"Of course, of course," the Italian agreed with theatrical wave of his hand. "Values, traditions, foundations of family operations. Speaking of which," his attention returned to you, "we've been watching your family's recent developments with great interest. Particularly the expansion into new territories through... unconventional alignments."

The indirect threat was thinly veiled—surveillance of your family's operations wrapped in seemingly casual observation. Lewis remained outwardly relaxed beside you, though you could sense the heightened alertness.

"How nice of you to keep such close tabs on us," you replied, deliberately emphasizing the word 'close' to acknowledge awareness of the surveillance without showing concern. "Of course, Uncle Gio. Our families have always kept an eye on each other's activities."

Giovanni's eyes narrowed slightly at the subtle countermove—your acknowledgment transforming his implied threat into mutual observation rather than one-sided vulnerability.

"Indeed," he agreed after brief pause. "Family connections transcend temporary business complications. Speaking of family," his tone shifted toward seemingly casual inquiry, "how is your lovely sister Gabriella? She must be, what, twenty now?"

The question carried weight beyond surface curiosity—Giovanni's well-known preference for strengthening alliances through marriage making his interest in your unmarried sister's status unmistakably strategic rather than merely conversational.

"Nineteen," you corrected. "And doing great. She's actually mentioned wanting to spend some time in Milan. I think she's been texting with Marco fairly regularly."

The reference to Giovanni's younger son—dropped casually as if it wasn't calculated—landed exactly as intended. Giovanni's expression shifted toward genuine interest, business maneuvering temporarily superseded by parental curiosity.

"Marco? My Marco has been speaking with Gabriella?" The surprise seemed genuine rather than performative. "He didn't mention this development."

"Young people and their private communications," you replied with a conspiratorial smile.

The implication was masterfully structured—suggesting potential romantic interest between Giovanni's son and your sister without making claims that could be directly verified. The "connection" was technically true—Gabriella and Marco had exchanged a few text messages following a charity event both had attended—but substantially exaggerated in its significance.

Giovanni processed this information with visible calculation, his strategic mind already incorporating potential new alliance pathway into existing plans. Despite past differences with your father, the Castellano patriarch had always been among those who placed highest value on uniting powerful families through marriage especially those with strong Italian bloodlines on at least one side.

"How interesting," he said finally, his tone warming considerably. "Young people finding their own paths while still honoring traditional connections. Perhaps we should arrange a family gathering when you return from your... honeymoon." The slight pause before the last word carried clear acknowledgment that your current marriage represented obstacle to a potential Castellano alliance with your sister.

"That would be lovely," you replied with practiced social grace that committed to nothing concrete. "Once our current business matters are settled and we've returned to London, of course."

Lewis chose this moment to re-enter the conversation, his tone balancing professional courtesy with subtle assertion of position. "We shouldn't keep Signore Castellano from his appointment with Herr Mueller any longer. Banking matters wait for no one, as we've just discovered ourselves."

The gentle redirection was masterfully executed—acknowledging Giovanni's status while establishing clear conclusion to the unexpected encounter. Mueller, who had been observing the entire exchange with careful neutrality characteristic of Swiss bankers witnessing potential conflicts between valued clients, nodded in agreement.

"Indeed, schedules remain tight today," the banker confirmed. "Though this unexpected reunion has been most... illuminating."

The final word carried knowing weight, Mueller clearly cataloging the complex dynamics he'd just witnessed for future reference regarding all parties involved. In the Swiss banking world, such intelligence often proved as valuable as financial assets themselves.

"Of course, of course," Giovanni agreed, though his attention remained primarily on you rather than the men. "We mustn't delay important financial matters. But piccolo fiore," he stepped closer, taking your hand with old-world formality, "it truly warms my heart to see you again. You've grown into a magnificent woman, just as your mother once predicted."

The reference to your mother—subtle reminder of Giovanni's longstanding connections to your family that predated current business complications—created another layer of complexity.

"Thank you, Uncle Gio," you replied, accepting the hand clasp with appropriate respect for his age and status despite your marriage to someone he clearly viewed as competitor. "Please give my regards to Aunt Nina and the family."

"I shall, I shall," he promised, finally releasing your hand with reluctant formality. "And we will be watching your progress with great interest. Both of you," he added, finally acknowledging Lewis directly again. "The banking world presents unique challenges for newcomers to its particular traditions."

The subtle warning—Castellano connections potentially influencing your banking arrangements—hung in the air between you as Giovanni stepped back to allow your departure. Lewis's hand returned to its now-familiar position at the small of your back, the touch carrying more definite pressure than in previous similar gestures.

"Until next time, Signore Castellano," Lewis said with perfect professional courtesy that didn't quite mask the underlying steel. "I'm sure our paths will cross again soon enough."

"In our world, they always do," Giovanni agreed, the seemingly casual observation carrying weight of both promise and potential threat. "Safe travels, Signore e Signora Hamilton. Geneva can be treacherous for unwary visitors."

You maintained perfect composure as Lewis guided you from the office, the practiced social mask never slipping despite the multiple layers of threatening subtext beneath seemingly cordial exchange. Only once the elevator doors closed, leaving you momentarily alone in the confined space, did you allow yourself to exhale fully.

"Well," you said quietly, aware of potential surveillance even in private banking elevators, "that was unexpected."

"Was it?" Lewis asked, his voice equally low though his expression remained neutral for any watching cameras. "Mueller strikes me as someone who creates opportunities to observe client interactions rather than leaving such intelligence to chance."

"True," you acknowledged. "Though Giovanni's presence itself might have been a coincidence. The Castellanos have maintained Swiss banking relationships for generations."

Lewis's hand found yours, fingers interlacing with deliberate intent that felt more protective than performative now that you were beyond Mueller's direct observation. "There are remarkably few coincidences in our world, particularly involving banking arrangements and family rivalries."

The elevator reached the ground floor, doors opening to reveal the discreet private lobby where Mueller's special clients could exit without being seen. Lewis's security team waited with their usual vigilance, Jensen stepping forward immediately.

"Car's ready, sir," he reported crisply. "Route's secure, no unusual activity."

Lewis nodded, his hand still holding yours as you moved toward the exit. The touch felt different now—a connection born from navigating those tricky waters together rather than just putting on a show for watching eyes.

"Meeting with Mueller went well," Lewis told Jensen as you approached the waiting vehicle. "But we've got a complication with Castellano showing interest. Keep surveillance up until we're clear of the banking district."

Jensen took this with professional calm, already activating his comms to alert the others. "Understood. Adjusting now."

As the car door closed behind you, creating a bubble of privacy, Lewis finally let his controlled expression relax slightly. "You were amazing in there," he said quietly, genuine admiration in his voice. "Mueller was impressed by your technical knowledge, but how you handled Giovanni was something else."

The compliment felt different from the usual male appreciation focused on looks or charm—he actually recognized your strategic skills, and that hit differently.

"The 'Uncle Gio' thing definitely caught him off guard," you acknowledged, remembering the surprise on Giovanni's face. "He's used to throwing around family connections to intimidate people, not having it turned back on him."

"It divided his attention perfectly," Lewis added, clearly appreciating your tactical thinking. "He couldn't focus solely on competing with us anymore."

This felt like real partnership, not just an arranged alliance—recognizing how your different skills created something better than either of you could manage alone.

"Mueller will approve the accounts," Lewis said, shifting to practical matters. "Our unified front was exactly what he wanted to see."

"Funny how our honeymoon cover story actually served a real purpose," you noted with a touch of irony.

Something changed in Lewis's expression, shifting from purely professional assessment to something more personal. "Sometimes strategies work out better than we plan," he said quietly. "Creating value we didn't expect."

As the car moved through Geneva's elegant streets, Lewis's hand found yours again. The contact wasn't necessary for show anymore, but he maintained it anyway. Something was shifting between you with each moment like this—boundaries fading not through violation but through mutual recognition of a connection developing beyond what was in the contract.

The famous lake gleamed outside your window, mountains rising majestically in the distance, beauty that had witnessed centuries of alliances made and broken, while Swiss neutrality provided a safe harbor regardless of who won or lost. Your own situation seemed both significant and tiny against this backdrop—personal changes playing out where generations had navigated similar waters before you.

"I believe that calls for celebration," Lewis said once you'd returned to the hotel suite, loosening his tie with uncharacteristic casualness. "Mueller's approval typically takes weeks, not hours. And I still can’t get over the way you handled Giovanni. Brilliant."

The suite felt different somehow upon your return—the morning's unexpected intimacy having shifted your perception of the space. Lewis moved to the bar, selecting a bottle of champagne with the efficient precision you'd come to expect from him.

"Mueller definitely didn't expect us to tag-team him like that," you acknowledged, slipping off your heels with a sigh of relief. "Though I bet Giovanni showing up was Mueller's idea all along."

"No doubt," Lewis agreed, opening the champagne with a controlled pop. "Swiss bankers love to watch how their clients handle pressure. Two birds, one stone kind of thing."

He poured two flutes and handed one to you, his eyes warmer than usual. "To kicking ass in banking negotiations."

"And surprising the hell out of Italians," you added with a smile, clinking your glass against his.

The champagne was excellent—crisp and not too sweet. You moved toward the window, enjoying the view of Geneva while allowing yourself a rare moment to actually feel satisfied about something.

"That Castellano move was smart," Lewis said, joining you at the window. "Bringing up Gabriella and Marco was a nice touch too."

"Giovanni's always thought of himself as everyone's Italian patriarch," you explained, remembering summers where he'd dispensed unwanted advice to all the younger generation. "He can't resist the chance to play matchmaker, even when he's supposed to be threatening us."

Lewis watched you with that intense focus that still sent an unexpected warmth through you. "You know, most people would've gotten defensive when he brought up your marriage. But you turned it around on him completely."

The compliment felt different from the usual male appreciation focused on appearance. He actually respected your mind, and that hit differently than you expected.

"My mother would say I just applied her lessons on handling difficult men," you replied with a half-smile.

"She taught you well," Lewis said, that rare smile briefly appearing. "But I think you've got natural talent."

You settled onto the window seat cushion, relaxing in a way that would have been impossible in public. Lewis remained standing, still carrying that readiness that never fully left him.

"Do you ever actually relax?" you asked. "Even now, you look ready to take down a threat at any second."

Lewis considered this, his expression thoughtful. "Hard habit to break," he admitted. "Survival mode becomes your default setting after a while."

"Even with champagne and a win this big?" you pressed, sensing a rare opportunity to see behind his carefully maintained facade.

Something shifted in his expression—a decision to let you see a bit more than usual. "Especially after a win," he said quietly. "That's when you're most vulnerable. When you think you're safe... that's usually when everything goes sideways."

The insight felt personal rather than theoretical. You found yourself genuinely curious about the experiences that had shaped him, what had created both his controlled precision and those glimpses of warmth you'd been seeing more frequently.

"Sounds like you learned that the hard way," you observed.

Lewis moved to join you on the window seat, reducing the physical distance between you. "Yeah," he acknowledged, setting his champagne aside. "Experience is a hell of a teacher. Especially when the lessons involve blood rather than just bruised pride."

His simple statement carried the weight of history you'd only glimpsed in fragments. The scars on his knuckles and forearms told stories his carefully measured words typically concealed.

"I got too comfortable after some early successes," he continued, surprising you by elaborating without further prompting. "Let my guard down. Started celebrating before I should have. And it cost me... more than I was prepared to lose."

The clinical way he said it couldn't quite hide the emotion underneath—personal pain transformed into hard principles through self-discipline. For the first time, you wondered about Lewis's life before he became the powerful, controlled man you knew—what relationships he might have had, what connections might have been severed.

"I'm sorry," you said simply.

Lewis looked momentarily surprised by your response, as if he'd expected something more strategic. "It was a long time ago," he replied, though his expression suggested the impact hadn't faded with time. "Made me better at what I do now, anyway."

Even personal loss became strategic advantage with Lewis—pain recalibrated into useful principles. Yet this glimpse of vulnerability felt like trust extended rather than weakness revealed.

"To lessons learned," you said quietly, raising your glass.

Lewis's expression softened as he picked up his champagne to meet your toast. "And doing better with them going forward."

The conversation drifted to more practical matters—next steps with Mueller, security plans, how to handle the Castellanos. Yet that underlying current remained, your connection subtly transformed by this shared moment into something more substantial than professional alignment alone.

When Lewis's phone eventually interrupted with a call that couldn't be ignored, you felt an unexpected disappointment. The realization itself was surprising—that you'd started to value these quieter moments with him.

"I should take this," Lewis said, genuine regret in his tone as he checked the caller ID. "Claire wouldn't call unless it was important."

"Of course," you said, professional understanding replacing personal disappointment with practiced ease. "Business never waits. Mueller taught us that much today."

Lewis stood with his usual grace, but paused before moving away to take the call. In a gesture that felt both calculated and spontaneous, he leaned down and pressed a light kiss against your forehead—brief contact that felt warmer now that no one was watching to make it necessary.

"Thanks," he said simply. "For everything today."

Then he was moving toward the office space, already shifting into business mode as he answered Claire's call, transforming from briefly relaxed to fully operational despite the champagne and momentary lowering of guards between you.

You remained at the window, watching Geneva spread out before you while your thoughts circled this latest evolution in your relationship with Lewis. Not quite a traditional marriage, not merely a business arrangement, but something developing its own unique shape, a connection building itself rather than following any predetermined pattern.

The celebration had been brief but genuine, the victory truly shared. Whatever developed next would build on the foundation being established through moments like this—trust extended through both professional respect and personal confidence, understanding built through actually seeing each other rather than just the roles you played.

Your wedding ring caught the afternoon light as you finished your champagne, the diamond's sparkle a reminder of a binding that had begun as strategic necessity but was evolving into something neither of you had anticipated. Not quite love in the traditional sense, but a connection increasingly substantial beyond mere convenience.

Lewis's voice carried from the office, handling whatever complication Claire had identified with his usual efficiency. The sound reminded you of the reality underlying your shared existence—danger and strategy never truly gone.

.............tbd

#quainwritings #blood oath #lewis hamilton fanfic #lewis hamilton fic #lewis hamilton fanfiction #lewis hamilton #mob!boss lewis hamilton #mob!lewis hamilton #lewis hamilton x black oc #lewis hamilton x black reader

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leighsartworks216 · 18 days ago

Note

hi again leigh!! I really enjoyed your rainy day prompt! this time I was wondering if I could request a birthday comfort fic with Sylus please? Smth like reader/MC doesn't really go out of her way to celebrate her birthday since she thinks it's not worth it (me tbh) but Sylus proves her wrong? Another hurt/comfort fic, basically. It's my birthday on the 13th haha

Feel free to ignore this request if it's too much, just let me know <3 thank you so much in advance!!!

Greedy

Sylus x gn!Reader

IM SO SO SO SORRY THIS TOOK THIS LONG TO WRITE. AN ACTUAL MONTH OVERDUE OMFG

Anywayyyy I hope this was worth the wait 😭

Warnings: hurt/comfort, fluff, birthday, self-worth issues, kissing, food, teasing, established relationship

Word Count: 2,166

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First - Second - Third - Fourth LADs Masterlists

AO3

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“Going to bed already, kitten?”

You blink at him, mid yawn and stretch. Arms reaching overhead, your shirt lifts up to reveal a little bit of tummy. His eyes catch it immediately. Flick down a couple more times until your arms flop down by your side. “Yeah, I have work tomorrow.”

Sylus quirks a brow up at you. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” you laugh. “Why?”

“Well, I was under the impression that tomorrow was your birthday.”

Your heart spikes. You shrug, playing nonchalant, glancing away to scratch your cheek. “Yeah, it is.”

“But you're not taking the day off?”

You shrug again. “It’s not that big a deal.”

He scoffs, crossing his arms. “If I’d said that on my own birthday-”

“That’s different.” He shoots you a look, demanding for you to elaborate just how his own birthday is more important than yours. You huff. You feel antsy under his stare.

You always hate when this comes up. When a friend gushes over you, wondering just how you’ll celebrate your big day. And the way their entire attitude changes when you say you aren’t doing anything, and that you don’t want to do anything. Like you not wanting to celebrate is a burden on all of them.

As a kid, it wasn’t much different. Yeah, you wanted to have those big parties and events like the other kids. Your friends’ parties that brought you to fun pizza palaces and trampoline parks. Or at-home celebrations with games and pool parties. But something about it always felt… wrong. Like those places and games were made for them, but not for you. You didn’t deserve to have parties like they did. Didn’t earn the right to celebrate another year of life.

You cross your arms in turn. “I just don’t want to make a big thing out of it, okay?”

He stares at you a moment longer. Reads your body language, all tense and closed off, as easy as an array of Mephisto’s code. You think he’ll give you that look - the look they all give you. Keep arguing about how it should be a big thing because you’ve survived another year around the sun. Bring up that if you were going to make such a fuss about his birthday, shouldn’t he make a fuss about yours? Throw out suggestions and ideas for “fun” things you could do. And look like a kicked puppy when you reject him.

But he doesn’t. He just gives a nod, uncrosses his arms, and stands up. “Alright,” he says.

You squint up at him suspiciously. “Alright?”

“On one condition.”

You groan. “What.”

He smiles. “I make you dinner.”

“... What?”

“After work, come back to the base,” he elaborates. “I’ll make us dinner and we can do or watch whatever you want for the rest of the night.”

Your mind is already racing, thinking up all the ways this can turn sour. You have images of Luke and Kieran jumping out at you with party poppers and cone hats. A giant 7 tier cake. A pile of presents that reaches the ceiling. If there’s two things you know about Sylus: 1. He doesn’t do things by halves, and; 2. There is no such thing as too much.

“Just us? No Luke or Kieran?”

He shakes his head. His bangs swish over his eyes. “Not even Mephisto.”

“And just dinner?”

He quirks a brow, but he nods. “Just dinner.”

You stare up at him, searching for any budding scheme he could be coming up with. But you know he wouldn’t lie to you. It wouldn’t be like your 15-year-old surprise party that your friends threw, despite telling them all repeatedly that you didn’t want a party. You almost cringe just remembering it. “Really?”

He scoffs. You’d think it was out of annoyance if it weren’t for the amused grin creeping along his lips. “Really. You have my word.”

Your shoulders finally relax, arms drop back down to your side. He bends down and scoops you up, carrying you with one arm. You scramble to hold on. He carries you off to bed like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And you - you rest your head on his shoulder, like that’s exactly where you belong.

“Now let’s get you to bed,” he says. “Wouldn’t want you to be exhausted at work tomorrow, would we?”

All day, you’ve dodged well wishes and “Why are you here? You should be celebrating!”s and the awkward staredown while you read store-bought cards. Of course your boss sent out a mass email letting everyone know it was your birthday; she did it for every one of her employees. And of course everyone went all out to make sure you knew it was your “special day”. Your only saving grace is that you weren’t forced to sit and stare at your coworkers as they sing you Happy Birthday and watch you “make a wish” on a candle.

During your breaks, you use the Birthday Discount emails you get sent and Sylus’ black card to buy clothes, games, craft supplies - anything and everything you could. It’s not like he minded, especially when he’s usually begging you to use his card no matter how small or large the price tag is.

By the time you’re on your way back to the N109 Zone for Sylus’ supposed dinner-date, you’ve uttered about a million prayers hoping he truly doesn’t have anything else up his sleeves.

You wander through the base toward the kitchen, scanning every room you pass for any sign of Luke and Kieran, banners, party poppers, and presents. You love those kids, but if you see them tonight, you might just explode on them.

Strangely enough, you manage to reach the kitchen without any glimpse of the twins. And the kitchen is lacking in decorations and monstrously sized cakes, too. Instead, all you find is Sylus with an apron tied in a little bow at the small of his back, an array of messily-iced cupcakes, and an absolutely divine fragrance. He glances over his shoulder when he sees you.

“How was work today, sweetie?” he greets casually, before turning his attention to the food sizzling in the pan on the stove.

You frown at his back. “It was…” You sigh. He glances at you again as you step past the cupcakes on the island and come to his side. Up close, the aroma of a home cooked meal hits all your senses, making your mouth water and stomach grumble. “A lot.”

He hums. You poke his side playfully and tug on the strap of the apron. “Since when have you had this?”

“I bought it today,” he admits, flicking your forehead in retaliation. “I didn’t want to mess up my clothes while I cooked for you. Why? Is it not to your tastes?”

“Just thought you’d get one in black. Or one that says ‘kiss the cook’ on it, or something.”

He chuckles. “I’ll keep it in mind for next time.”

You wrap your arms around his, holding onto him. He doesn’t stop you. He even transfers his utensil to his other hand so he can continue to cook without disturbing you. You can’t help looking around again. You look at the cupcakes all lined up on the counter. At the entrances to the kitchen. Through the doorway leading to the dining room. He lightly nudges you.

“Something on your mind?”

“No,” you answer too quickly. “Just, wondering where Luke and Kieran are.”

He raises an eyebrow at you. “I thought you didn’t want them here tonight,” he teases. “They’re restocking my safe houses tonight. Once they’ve finished, I’ve told them they can do whatever they want. Most likely, they’ll run off to an arcade.”

You nod, trying to play it cool. “And Mephisto?”

“Keeping an eye on the twins, to make sure they actually finish their jobs before they play games.”

So… it really is just you and him here tonight?

“Go sit down,” Sylus says, breaking you from your thoughts. “This is almost finished.”

Dinner is better than you expected. Sylus always said that he could only cook so long as he had a recipe to follow, but every bite tastes like it was professionally crafted by a master chef. You savor each flavor. Try to chew slower so you can really relish the care he put into it. By the end, you’re genuinely scraping your plate for every last morsel.

He doesn’t judge you for it either, even when you look up at him all embarrassed. No, he just smiles. One of those soft smiles that makes him seem harmless, that brightens his eyes. He would be preening if he were a bird, so proud of himself for making something you enjoy so much.

“There’s cupcakes, too,” he reminds you after a sip of wine.

You smile wryly at him. “I thought you said just dinner.”

He chuckles, but shrugs. “Then I’ll throw them out.”

“Hmm, I better have a taste before you do. Just to make sure.”

He watches you get up and go over to the array of cupcakes. The frosting is messy, but with an intent to look nice. Or, at least, look edible. You pick one up and glance his way as you peel off the paper wrapping. He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, waiting for your reaction as casually as he can. You sink your teeth into the soft cake and-

“Oh my god,” you moan around the bite. A dab of icing gets on your nose, but you can hardly care when it tastes this good. It practically melts on your tongue. You look up at him again, wide-eyed, as though searching for any hint that he knew it would be as delicious as this. “Sy, you should become a baker.”

He stands from his seat with another chuckle, plucking his wine glass from the table to carry with him as he joins you at the kitchen island. You take another bite. “Is it that good?”

You nod, licking your lips of crumbs and icing as you peel away more of the paper and hold it out for him to try. He eyes the cupcake for a moment. Then he takes your wrist and guides it away, bending down to your height, leaning in so his face is inches from yours. You gulp down the bite, trying to remember how to breathe when he’s looking at you like that.

His eyes flicker down to your lips multiple times as he leans in closer. Sharing your air, breathing in the sweetness of the dessert. And then-

Lick.

His tongue swipes up the icing from the tip of your nose and he’s standing at his full height, touching his lip. “Mm, yeah. It’s sweet.”

You groan. “Bastard.”

“What? Were you expecting something else?” he asks, though the teasing lilt in his voice betrays the honesty of the question.

“You know what you did.” You glare at him and turn away, taking another big bite of your sweet treat. “No more cupcake for you.”

His arms wrap around your waist and pull you back into his chest. He rests his chin on your shoulder. Nuzzles his nose against your cheek, where he can feel you fighting not to smile as wide as you want to. “That’s alright. I’ve got something sweeter.” He kisses your cheek. Along your jaw. Down your neck. Kisses you slow and delicate, closing his eyes like he’s savoring the taste of your skin, even after your long day. He hums, a sound that rumbles in his chest and vibrates against your back. “Happy birthday, sweetie.”

You swallow. The cake turns sour in your mouth. “I’m sorry for all the trouble,” you murmur.

He pulls away slightly to look at you, a frown of his face to match yours. “Sorry?” he asks. “Why are you sorry?”

“Well, ‘cause you made me dinner and cupcakes and everything.”

He huffs an astonished, confused laugh. “That’s hardly any trouble. I would cook dinner and bake cupcakes for you every night if I got to see you smile like you did tonight.”

The thought twists your stomach. He flicks your forehead before the thoughts can spiral.

He says your name sternly. “If you think you’re a burden because I want to take care of you, you’re wrong.”

You turn around in his arms and rest your back against the counter, the last couple bites of your cupcake held between you. “I just… It’s a lot of effort just for me.”

“And you’re worth every second of it.” He kisses your forehead. “For one day, let yourself deserve everything.”

“With you, I gotta get used to every day…”

He grins. “Eventually. We can start small for now.” He grabs hold of your wrist again and lifts the cupcake to his lips. He takes a generous bite and licks the icing from his lips. “One day, you’ll be as greedy as me.”

---

Tag List:

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#request #requested #fanfic #fanfiction #sylus #sylus x reader #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #lnds sylus #love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #lads #lads x reader #lnds #lnds x reader #gn reader #x gn reader #gender neutral reader #x gender neutral reader

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h0pela · 7 days ago

Text

✦ The landing level of love | CL16

– clumsy! reader x neighbor! charles ; strangers to lovers –

When a stormy night of summer brings you closer to Charles – the guy living across your flat. This occasion would never come twice, right?

words counting: 5.5K

includes: summer romance, depictions of injury, mentions food, neighbors, stranger to lovers, storm and thunder, comfort fic,

author's note: I have so many things to write but my brain could only focus on Charles being the perfect boy next door??? Here is a comfort fic for the summer, I hope you will like it :)

+ quick reminder that english is not my first language, so if you find any mistakes let me know nicely pls 👉🏻👈🏻

songs inspo: 𝅘𝅥𝅮 kiss me 𝅘𝅥𝅮 - sixpence none the richer ; 𝅘𝅥𝅮 mon soleil 𝅘𝅥𝅮 - Ashley Park ; 𝅘𝅥𝅮 finally // beautiful stranger 𝅘𝅥𝅮 - Halsey

Friday, Summer 2025

You had a terrible day, to say the least. First, you woke up late to work and got to prepare yourself in the rush all because of the heat of summer striking over Monaco. Your shift at work was even more chaotic since you had to carry all the tasks your colleagues were incapable of doing by themselves.

You sighed with relief, as you walked towards your building. It’s finally the week-end, which means you will absolutely do nothing this afternoon. You typed in the security code and took the elevator. As you were heading to your floor, you looked for your keys in your bag, at their usual spot where they are supposed to be.

A wave of panic rushed over you. “Please, please, please not this” you sighed.

You fumbled in your bag desperately. Every pocket, every corner, yet nothing was there. Then, you remembered. Earlier, this morning, when you were getting ready, you forgot your keys inside. The worst part of it is that you remember exactly where they are.

“As if I didn’t already have enough today” you mumbled. You grabbed your phone, trying to reach for someone that could help you from this situation. You first called your mom. Now that she is retired, she could help you soon since she has a double of your keys. Yet, throughout the call, she told you she can’t make it. In fact, she reminded you that she went visiting your grandparents in Nice. How lucky you are.

Your one last option before calling the locksmith, is your best friend. You know she was probably still at work since it’s 4pm right now, but she would probably answer your call, right? You didn’t think twice about it, you were too tired, so you hit the button call.

“Hey sweetie! Are you free right now? Because I need your help” you demand her without sounding too stressed, to not worry her.

She sighed “Girl it’s past 4pm, I’m at work right now. What do you want?” She asks you suspiciously.

“Well, it’s a very funny situation” you pause, taking a deep breath. “I’m actually locked out of my flat, so I need your wonder woman's help and the double of my keys-”.

“AGAIN?”

You rolled your eyes.“No they’re not lost, they're inside my apartment this time” you precise.

“I’m so tired of you” she mumbled. “Well, you’ll have to wait, I end my shift at 6pm”.

You smiled at the news “I know you love me, thank you so much”.

As you were ending the phone call, you heard the elevator’s door opening which caught your attention. You looked over your shoulder to take a glance of the person heading your way.

It was a young man of your age. A handsome man, if you were honest, he looked calm, composed as he was focused on his phone. Then, he noticed you. His eyes lingered on you, from head to toes, brows furrowed.

It made you cautious about how you looked. Your hair was tied up in a messy low bun with rebellious strands. You were still wearing your nurse’s uniform. Not as if you cared about your looks or the attention of men in general, but well this man - yeah definitely.

The stranger keeps walking towards you with a look of concern “Hey, do you need help?”

You fully turned yourself, to face him. “Oh thanks for asking but I’m just waiting for someone to bring double of my keys” you smiled at him. His brows furrowed, like he was genuinely interested in what you were saying. And you’re quick to realize how doubtful you can sound to him.

You raised one of your hands in the air, the other rested on your heart “I swear I’m not a robber” you chuckled.

He smiled back, clearly amused. And wow, you were stunned by his dimples. “Glad to know that my new neighbor is secretly a robber” he smirked.

Your eyes widen at the realization. “Wait, you're my new neighbor?”

He nodded.“Well, actually you are, I was here before you”.

You furrowed your brows, curious and quite taken aback from the information. “But I've never seen you before?” you tilted your head.

He was surprised by your question. Usually, people in Monaco recognize him, every time. It felt new and pleasing to him that for once, he doesn’t need to wear a mask.

“It’s because of my work. I’m Charles by the way”, he handed one of his hands to you. You took it as you flashed a smile at him. His palm felt warm against your

You were about to free your hand from his, when you heard you got a message notification. “Excuse me one second”.

You turned backwards, reading the text your best friend just sent to you, which mentions that she could not make it for 6pm because of her boss. You wondered what you have done wrong to deserve that bad luck.

You sighed softly, wondering how you could make it to your apartment without paying the locksmith.

Phone now tucked in your uniform, you turn your attention back to Charles. “Charles” you call after him. His eyes drifted from his phone back to you. “I’m sorry to burden you with my problem, but do you know by any chance, if your keys could open my door?”, you asked, fidgeting with your fingers. You were a little ashamed that your first encounter with him was to ask for his help.

But, Charles is quick to erase those thoughts.“No, no it’s okay, I really don’t mind” he rushed to say as he shook his head.

He left his luggage in front of his door before following your steps towards your locked door. You noted that his apartment was across from your; door 007. Walking next to each other, you could feel his gaze on you, but you didn't say anything about it; too focused on trying to not stumble on your feet.

Now in front of your door, you silently pleaded to the gods – it has to work. When Charles fumbled his pocket to grab his keys, he looked at you like he held your fate in his hands, which is true in fact. You watched Charles’s hands working on the lock from the back. Then, you shut your eyes, too stressed to know your actual fate. You were holding your breath for a second, when you heard – the click.

You sighed of relief, hands clapping on his shoulder without thinking twice. “Thank god you’re here”.

He looked over his shoulder and grinned. The kind of smile that hits you straight in the chest. Then, he fully turned himself before bowing to you. “Any time”.

You managed to chuckle, but then, there was a moment of pause, when he really looked at you. His eyes flickered over your face, as if he tried to remember it. “I think I should go now”, he muttered.

You softly smiled, eyes on him while you fidgeted your fingers. “Thank you again, I owe you”.

He smirked, hands behind his neck “Don’t worry about it. Though… I wouldn’t say no for a meal one time”.

Caught off guard, from his bluntness you don’t know if he was joking or being sincere. You mentally weighed up the pros and cons of this dinner. And then, it hits you. There was no problem at all. Let’s be honest: Charles has been nice to you and helped you, and obviously – he’s hot as hell.

So, you nodded, cheeks creeping shades of pink because of him. “Noted for the chef”. You grinned, and when you looked at Charles. You could notice he was happy about that. “Then see you again Neighbor” he waved goodbye at you, before entering inside of his flat, as you did too.

Sunday, Friday 2025

You hate doing groceries throughout the week. When people go there on Saturday, you prefer staying at home instead of being surrounded by people. So your only option left is Sunday early in the morning because you know people are lazy.

You gathered your purse and everything you needed. You now make sure to have your keys in your bag. As you left your building, you got hit by the heat of summer in Monaco. But, what caught your attention was the puppy wandering in the street.

Brows furrowed, you took a look at your surroundings to find someone near; with that kind of temperature it could be dangerous. Yet, no one came in your sight, so you decided to walk carefully towards the puppy.

“Hi buddy” you squat down to greet him carefully, trying to not scare him. You noticed that he was wearing a red collar; which means he has an owner and that he probably ran away. He seemed pretty calm for someone being lost.

As you were raising your hand to the dog, so that he could smell you and calm himself, you heard someone running towards you and calling his dog.

- “Oh Leo there you are”, the man sighed in relief.

As he approaches the dog, scolding him from running away, you quickly realise who’s voice it is. It’s Charles – the hot neighbor next door.

You raise yourself ready to greet him. But as you glanced at him, your breath hitched. He really was damn fine. He was wearing a grey thigh shirt, where you see his muscles flexing, but now wet from his sweat because of the running workout. His cheeks were red and his hair was messy. His chest was rising fast, out of breath. It’s unfair to be that handsome.

You managed to smile looking at the dog “Hi Charles, he’s yours?”

Charles finally glanced at you and flashed you a warm grin when he recognized you. “Oh Hi Neighbor, yeah thank you for checking on him” he said, still trying to catch his breath.

You brushed it off “It’s really nothing”. You squat down again, now petting Leo. “I think he was just escaping from your intense workout”, you joked.

He lifted his hands “Guilty” he chuckled. “Where are you going?” he asked curious.

“Heading for groceries chore” you raise yourself looking at him. He seemed to be thinking about something. You were about to say goodbye when he finally spoke again.

“Forget that and come with me, I’ll treat you something… as a thanks” he suggested, smiling.

You focus your attention on him, wondering if you've heard well. “You really don’t have to, I mean I still have to treat you to dinner after all” you teased.

He chuckled, looking at his feet. “Now, you’re giving me one more reason” he smirked. “Come on, it’s the least I could do” he says trying to convince you.

You bite your lips, containing your smile.“Fine, but only for Leo”. You said smiling at the dog, who was now resting at your feet.

Charles gasped. “Ouch, and here I thought we were getting along” he faked a heartbreak.

You ended up walking side by side, under the warm sun of Monaco, leo trotting ahead like he was on a mission to find the best spot. Charles suggested a tiny bakery across from a fountain. Promising they have the best chausson aux pommes ever. Actually wherever he leads you, you’ll probably follow him blindly. It might be weird to trust someone that easily, but with Charles it felt different.

You found time passing by quickly with Charles and Leo. You were having fun with him, your conversation drifted from jokes and getting to know each other. It felt easy. As if you've been friends with him for a long time.

He opened the door for you and grinned when he found you smiling from the smell of sugar and butter. “Told you” he whispered proudly.

You rolled your eyes playfully.“I still have to taste it though”, you smirked at him, making him chuckle.

Now with your order, you walked out from the bakery leading towards the fountain square. You both sat at the bench across the fountain in the shade, where you could see people passing by and Leo playing with some pigeons.

You take a bite of the famous apple turnover as Charles was glancing at you, trying to decipher any reaction. The taste of sweetness hit you right away. “Okay I admit, you weren’t lying”.

“Told you so”. He nudged your shoulder. “How long have you been in Monaco?” he asked, interested.

“Only one year” you answered, taking another bite of your pastry.

His eyes widened. “And you never tried this?” he asked, shocked.

You laughed knowing well he was going to tease you about it. “Well I was waiting for an expert's recommendation” you shrugged playfully, looking at Leo who was in front of you playing with a wooden stick. But, you still caught him smiling from the corner of your eye, as he watched Leo.

He darted his gaze back to you, planning to say something, but then stopped. “Wait you have something on your face”. It caught your attention right away, your eyes looking directly to his green ones.

“Oh where?”you raise your hand close to your mouth. Eyes questioning Charles.

“There, let me just-”. Oh.

He leaned in, eyes focused on your face. Your heart was pounding fast, and you were sure your cheeks were bright red because of his sudden closeness. His thumb brushed over your cheek, taking away the pastry’s crumb. Your breath caught in your throat as his eyes lingered over your face.

He finally pulled back, “All good now” he smiled softly, eyes locking with yours. You blinked, still stunned from the softness of his gesture.

He’s already back to sipping his water, like nothing happened – while you’re trying very hard to not combust. Spoiler : you already are.

Saturday, Summer 2025

The week passed by slowly with your daily routine at the pharmacy. You sometimes met Charles jogging in the morning as the weather wasn't suffocating, while you were heading to work. But, what mostly caught your attention was that damn lamp in your bathroom that had been flickering throughout the week.

You had to fix it when you were sure to have time for it, so that he won’t ruin your makeup routine or whatever. Now that you have free time, you thought it was the right moment.

You reached for your stepladder hidden behind your washing machine. And fixed it on the ground, making sure it was safe. Then, you went to find the light bulb you bought today around your flat.

Ready to work, you stepped on the stepladder, eyes focused at the ceiling, looking at the spot you had to work on and not the spot your foot had to be; causing you to miss a step and fall from the stepladder.

You groaned from the pain in your ribs. You tried massaging your right foot when you heard someone knocking loudly at the door.

“Hey, is everything alright there? I heard someone falling”. It’s his voice.

You hissed as you tried moving your foot “All good, I’m in the bathroom” you called back.

“I’m coming in” you heard him entering. No hesitation, his footstep rushed in. He was worried about something happening to you. And that simple thought warmed you.

You winced as you tried to sit up, suddenly aware of your thin tank top and the way your shorts had ridden up – not exactly the outfit you’d want to be seen in… especially not sprawled on your bathroom floor.

When he made his entrance to the bathroom, you’re quick to notice his worried eyes. “Hi neighbor," you greeted him warmly.

His gaze softened at the sight of you sitting on the floor, your back resting against your sink. Charles didn’t even blink, he was already kneeling beside you, brows furrowed in concern. “What happened?” he questioned you softly.

You pointed to the stepladder “I missed a step” you managed a small smile, looking away trying to avoid his gaze. Shame was understatement

Charles, soon realised your discomfort. “Hey, it could happen to anyone” he reassures. “Can I touch it?” he asked, eyes focused on you for your approbation. You slowly nodded. His fingers gently touched your foot, checking it. “Can you move it?”.

“No way you're staying here in the bathroom, like this” he stated.

You furrowed, “Wait what do you m-”. You didn’t have enough time to finish your sentence that you were trapped in his arm. Charles literally lifted you. As if you weigh nothing. “Charles you don’t have to” you whined, red creeping your face at the sight of Charles, carrying you like a bride.

He shrugged with a dumb smile. “First I opened your door, now I’m carrying you like a bride, I wonder what’s next” he joked trying to ease the moment. You punch his chest with your hand, laughing about his implied comment.

Making his way to your living room, you could smell his cologne. You can’t deny that it was comforting. Being in his arms, the fact he’s wandering in your flat as if he always had been there. And then, he carefully rested you on your sofa, making sure your foot was alright. “There you go”. You almost missed his warmth.

“Thank you… again”, you gently said, fidgeting with your fingers.

He hummed in approbation, heading to your fridge looking for the pack of ice that you mentioned earlier. He came back to you, and squatted next to you, gently placing the pack over your hurt foot.

The sight of him nursing you was warming. You weren’t used to someone taking care of you, you’re actually the one that looks after people. And it felt nice.

“I feel like I have forced you to look after me” you sighed looking at him sitting across from you on a chair.

Charles’s gaze softened “You didn’t force me, I volunteered and that’s different” he smiled at you.

“I guess I have to do more than a dinner to pay back” you joked.

He chuckled and raised on his feet. “Can I have your phone?” he asked you.

You furrowed your brows “Yeah Sure.”

He typed quickly on your phone.”Here my number if you need anything” he handed back your phone. “Take care huh? And don’t hesitate to call me” he insisted.

You nodded, waving goodbye.“See you Neighbor” you grinned.

“See you Neighbor” he smirked, before heading through your door.

You heard the door shutting behind him. Now your heart is full of warmth even though the pain is still remaining – Charles was better than any painkiller after all.

Sunday, Summer 2025

The next morning, as you woke up you could tell that your foot had gotten better, but you still tried to be careful knowing well that it was still bruised from yesterday. You may not have had a great night, but it could have been worse. You didn't even have to call Charles.

Speaking of him, you were still trying to figure out a way to thank him for yesterday. You felt grateful because it’s the least you could do for him after he took care of you and made sure you were safe.

You didn’t know him well enough to buy something for him personally as an inside joke or what else, so you opted for something you could manage – baking. You knew making apple turnover was way out of your league as a beginner. Then your thoughts came back to those pastries your mom once prepared for you, crepes

You grinned remembering those warm moments shared with your mother. You recalled this pure act of love from your mother. The way a simple plate of pancakes could lift your spirit after a hard day at school or just after you fought with your friends. You wanted him to feel cared for. Maybe it was just a thank you. Maybe it was something else entirely. You weren’t sure, yet you still wanted to try.

You made sure to follow every step of the recipe carefully, not wanting to mess it up. You worked meticulously pouring your thankfulness in. The smell of the batter hit you softly as your hands worked over the pan. You smiled when you looked over the pile of crepes you made. You still saved some for yourself; after all you still deserved some treat.

"Just to make sure to be back on my feet as soon", you told yourself.

You changed your clothes and dressed comfortably, took the plate aimed for Charles and left your flat. Now on the landing floor, you took a deep breath as you knocked at Charles’s door. You waited a second before the door was opened by an older woman. You mentally cursed yourself for your bad luck.

You shifted awkwardly, not expecting someone else other than Charles. “Hi, I’m the neighbor across and I-I just thought he might like pancakes”, you showed her the plate.

She has blond hair and wide green eyes, you could tell she's familiar to Charles. She flashed you a warm grin, showing off her dimples. The same as Charles's. “You thought right, dear” she said, silently inhaling the sweet smell of your sweet treat.

And then, Charles's voice rose from the back of the flat asking who was there. You bit your lips avoiding looking at her even though you still caught her smirking in the corner of your eye. “It’s your neighbor Charlie”, she called back as you could hear his footsteps rushing on the wooden floor.

You could hear his quick footsteps on the wooden floor making you feel like a teenager again. Those times when you had to greet parents of your past boyfriends, amused by the sight of you embarrassed. Themselves, trapped in the nostalgia of being young and careless.

The door widened showing Charles now, hair messy, but looking pleased to see you as he gave you a wide smile.

“I think it’s my cue to leave” the woman beside Charles says, winking at you.

You cough lightly, cheeks now pink. “It’s probably nothing from the help you gave me yesterday, but I still wanted to give you this” you handed him the plate of crepes still warm.

His hands brushed yours as he grabbed the plate, making your heart skip a beat. “You didn’t have too” he grinned softly showing off his dimples that could kill you immediately. “But, I’m still glad you did it”.

Your eyes locked with his at the last comment. It lasted a few seconds before you broke it, affected. “Think it as a preview of your diner” you said, eyes avoiding him, though Charles’s eyes never left you.

Charles didn’t expect you to come by and thank him. For him it was normal to help people in need and the people you care about. He still cannot explain himself, how in such little time he came to look after you, even though he didn’t plan it at all. It just came out naturally, as if he was meant to be there, near you.

“Then, I’ll make sure to address my compliments to the Chef” he teased, making you laugh softly.

Your eyes darted back on him, and he was now leaning on the door frame, eyes still on you. You could faint just from the view and no one could save you.

“I think I should go now,” you pointed towards your door.

He nodded “See you neighbor" he told you, eyes soft as he watched you get into your flat. You offered your smile as you closed your door slowly. Finally alone, you leaned back on your door, heart menacing to explode in your chest. You’re so screwed.

Wednesday, Summer 2025

“I think I’m about to pass out Anna” you sighed as you stepped into the pharmacy already drenched in sweat from the extreme heat.

Anna, your colleague now camped in front of the fan, drank down a bottle of water like her life depended on it.

“And it’s just the beginning of the day” she groaned. “The weather forecasts announced 36 degrees this afternoon” she dramatically collapses onto her stool behind the counter.

You rolled your eyes from exhaustion, your ponytail sticking to your neck, despite your attempt to cool off

The day at the pharmacy went on, you continued to advise the few customers who came to face the weather and recalled them to drink water. Through the window shop you could see the emptied street. You really thanked god for having air conditioning at your work.

Today’s heat made yesterday feel like a mild summer breeze. The air felt: thick, heavy, almost suffocating. Even the breeze from the Marina couldn’t bring freshness. Everybody chose to stay at home behind closed windows, escaping the sun.

Yet from where you were, you could see the sky turning grey slowly as time passed by. As you left the pharmacy by the end of your shift, you noticed quickly the subtle change in the weather. What felt like an oven in the morning, switched into something heavier even though the sun was now hidden behind dark dense clouds.

Afraid to be drenched from a possible rain, you rushed to get into your car, wanting to get home as soon as possible. As you drove to Monaco you could see palm trees down the avenues shaking when the wind raised. Only seconds were needed before the rain started pouring, calm first then relentless, even your windscreen wiper couldn’t help you much. Slowly, but surely, you made your way to your building safely.

On the landing floor, you could perceive dazzling lightning when you get into your flat. You found yourself wondering what Charles was doing. Was he outside? Was he at home? Yeah you could text him, but for what? Embarrassing yourself? No need to. What you needed was something relaxing that could ease your body. And what’s better than a bath for? Your body craved it after the constant sweating of today.

Sitting comfortably in the tub, warm water around you, soothed you, massaging your muscles after a long day. You smiled at the agreeable sensation. You didn't even notice your surroundings anymore like the rain beating against the window or the wind blowing outside. Until everything stops the moment a loud thunder urges, sending you into the darkness.

“You’ve got to be kidding me”, you groaned, annoyed by the eruption. Carefully climbing out of the tub, you wrapped yourself in a towel and grabbed your phone to use it as a flashlight. You wandered around your flat, searching for those scented candles you always kept “just in case”. Soon enough, little flames flickered across the room, enveloping it in a comforting atmosphere, despite the torrential rain striking Monaco. It felt cozy.

Until you heard a knock at the door. Confusing, you headed to the door, looking through the peephole to guess who it was. Your breath hitched when you recognized it was Charles using his phone as a flashlight too in the dark landing floor.

“Shit” you muttered to yourself as you looked at your reflection in the mirror, still wrapped in a towel. You took a breath before opening the door.

"Oh hey-" Charles started, but the second his eyes landed on you, his words got stuck in his throat. His gaze dropped before he immediately looked away, eyes wide and ears turning red.

"I– uh I just came to check on you. With the blackout going on.” he cleared his throat, stuffing his hands into his pockets “But, yeah looks like you’re doing fine".

That piqued your curiosity. “Wait, I thought it was just my flat-”.

You didn’t even finish your sentence when a loud crack of thunder echoed outside making you both glance instinctively at the window on the corridor.

“Nope. The whole building’s out without power,” he confirmed, eyes still avoiding your bare shoulders.

You nodded, a little surprised. It was not common for buildings in Monaco to lose power. And knowing Charles, you’re sure he didn’t have any candles or anything that could help him.

“Do you want to come in?” you offered casually, heart pounding “I have a thousand candles and still a diner to honor”.

His lips curved into a smirk, pleased by your sweet proposition. “Yeah sure, it might be a smart idea. You know… just in case you set the place on fire” he joked.

You gasped in mock offense. “Hey, I’ve never done that”.

“Yet” Charles teased, clearly amused.

You narrowed your eyes, arms crossing “Alright, you’ve got five minutes to bring Leo. Otherwise, this offer expires”.

“Give me three”, he grinned, already halfway down the landing floor.

You had enough time to change your clothes, opting for something more comfortable than a towel. When he came back to your place with Leo, you couldn’t help but soften at the sight of that domestic scene playing – as if it was supposed to be like this. You and him.

Looking for your apron, you move through the kitchen, while Charles leaned against the door frame, admiring you. “Let me help you with the dinner”, he proposed.

“You don’t have to, it’s my due, remember?” you smiled softly, tying your apron and doing your hair in a messy bun.

Charles shook his head in disagreement. “With the power off? Nah. Not on my watch hon’ ”. You didn’t expect a nickname to casually leave his mouth, and you tried your best fighting the urge to smile.

He made his way next to you in front of the kitchen counter, elbows on it, his face turned to you. “So what do we do, chef?”.

You opened the kitchen cabinet door looking for a box of pasta. “We need to lit up the hotplate, I have a match and a lighter near”

The process of cooking pasta has never been harder than this. Charles struggled with the hotplate, making you burst in laughter at the sight of that poor man fighting for his life. After many attempts counted, the pasta was now cooking as you prepared homemade steak while Charles was preparing the table.

Everything felt warm and comforting, while outside the door, the wind blew roughly against the window of your place, reminding both of you of the chaos outside. Your place felt like a bubble where everything else doesn’t matter if Charles was there.

Once the meal was ready, you carried the casserole in your hands, walking towards the table, grinning. As you sat across from him, you could sense his gaze following every movement you were making when you served him pasta onto his plate. “It’s not the best dinner that I made, but here we go”.

Charles’s eyes lingered on you, full of adoration. “No you’re wrong..it’s way more” he said, hand brushing yours.

It caught your attention right away, your eyes meeting his. You were probably blushing right now as you drowned yourself in his eyes. The moment was intimate, and words were useless to describe the sensation you felt in your chest. Then, a dazzling thunder came out loudly, bringing you back to earth. You mentally cursed the gods for breaking the moment.

Both of you continued eating, sharing anecdotes of your life. When you introduced the topic of work, Charles shifted his posture on the chair. His gaze remained on you, but you could tell he was lost in his thoughts.

You looked at him with concern. “Is everything alright?”.

He managed a small smile, eyes softening at the sight of you being worried. “I have to fly away for a race next week-”. Oh-. You haven’t realised that it’s been two weeks you and Charles have met and became close. And, it hurts to know that you will be separated, when you were just getting used to the routine.

His hands find yours, steadying himself for what he’s about to say. “I just realized… it’s not only you I'll miss. It’s this. All of it”.

His confession hits you right in the chest, making your breath hitch in your throat. You can’t be a part of him right now, you have to be closer. You didn’t need to think further when you left your chair to sit next to him.

This time, you’re the one who takes his hands into yours, in an attempt to grounding yourself. “Please tell me you mean it” you muttered, heart pounding in your chest.

His thumb brushed over your knuckles, forehead pressed against yours. “I mean it and I want to make it work”.

Those simple words were enough for you to yank him by the collar, and kiss him, as if it was the only way to show him that you care too. He didn’t react at first, too caught up by what’s happening. It’s when you pull away, searching for air that his hands finally find your waist. It was sweet and light, almost innocent.

You pulled away, forehead still pressed together and both grinning like fools. “I really want to make it work too, even if you have to be away” you confessed.

At first, Charles didn’t plan to spend the whole night at your place, and neither did you. It came out naturally, between soft laughter, burning candles and shared glances over board games rules. The rain never stopped, but neither did the warmth between you two. Both of you fell asleep peacefully on your sofa, curved together as the storm was still striking Monaco. Funny how it took a storm to bring Charles to your door – and maybe, into your life for good.

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