#their dynamic isn’t easy to out a label on

[blaithnne]

Menaces when they team up. Need to find a dynamic name I can tag them with that doesn’t sound shippy. Does Kaisen work

[alive-gh0st]

❝Marked❞

⋆｡˚✴︎⋆Veil!Mark Grayson x Trouble!Reader⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

•. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˚₊‧⟡꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ⟡‧₊˚ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.•

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

★ summary: he’s supposed to be your handler. a monitor. a leash. but mark grayson doesn’t follow orders—not when it comes to you. when they tried to reassign you, he rewrote the rules. now you’re stuck with him: veiled, violent, and watching you like he already owns you. you don’t play well with others. he doesn’t care. because underneath the blood, the missions, the slow obsession—he isn’t trying to control you. he’s trying to keep you. marked as his.

‪‪★ contains: nsfw (18+). enemies to feral co-dependents. handler x operative dynamic. forced partnership. obsession disguised as protection. surveillance with feelings. feral!mark. dangerous!reader. veil!mark. veil!invincible. slow burn to full meltdown. soft dom vibes. unhinged loyalty. post-mission patchups. emotional warfare disguised as flirting. “say that again and i’ll ruin you” energy. knifeplay (non-lethal, very hot). panty stealing. couch sex. praise kink. sacred-name usage. quiet confessions. dirty mouths, softer hearts. extremely earned smut.

★ warning: graphic violence. blood/injury. canon-typical trauma. stalking (narratively intentional, obsessive-not-malicious). emotional volatility. intense possessiveness. nsfw content (oral + penetrative sex). manipulation of power dynamics (non-abusive). toxic attachment themes. unhealthy coping. emotional depth. explicit devotion. mark being insane about you in every way.

‪‪★ wc: 8437

ᯓ★ requested by: @hyunniestharr (your idea haunted me. now it can haunt you, too)

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: this isn’t a love story—it’s a security breach with a heartbeat. a warning label on loyalty (also yes. he absolutely came untouched. twice.)

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

The knife slid in easy.

Too easy, honestly—especially after chasing this bastard across rooftops, sewer grates, and at least two levels of transit. Your lungs still burned, your shoulder throbbed, and your mood? Absolutely shot to hell.

The blade found its mark between his ribs, sliding in with that soft, sickening give that muscle memory never forgot. The target gurgled—wet, startled, pathetic.

“God, you’re dramatic,” you muttered, yanking the blade out with a practiced twist.

It splattered red across your boots.

“I mean, if you were gonna be this squishy, you could’ve just surrendered ten blocks ago and saved me a goddamn headache.”

He dropped like a ragdoll, face-down into the filth-streaked alley and joined the others in the room that already smelled like copper and regret. The puddle beneath him spread slowly, sluggish in the midwinter air. You stood over the corpse with a scowl, sweat slicking down the back of your neck. The quiet buzz of adrenaline had barely started to fade.

“Stubborn little shit. Had to bleed like a faucet.”

Blood—most of it not yours—stuck to your gloves, smeared across your thigh where the asshole’s last desperate swing had caught you.

“Perfect,” you sighed, inspecting the ruined leg of your suit. “Because what I really needed today was another reason to explain why my laundry bill rivals a war crime.”

The sting of shallow wounds tugged at your nerves. But you didn’t flinch. You never did.

“You better have intel worth all this laundry,” you muttered before crouching and rifling through the dead man’s pockets—only pulling out a charred disk drive and a mangled transponder. Useless. Still, protocol said bring everything, so you stuffed it into your pouch and rose.

“Dumbass bled out for nothing,” you muttered. ”Bet his last thought was about that ugly-ass tattoo he was so proud of. Shame.”

You rolled your shoulder, muscles groaning in protest, and started trudging toward the exit.

The concrete was slick from the mess. You didn’t bother avoiding the blood trail. Let Forensics earn their paycheck.

“This is what I get for volunteering for ‘cleanup duty,’ huh?” you grumbled. “Next time I see Dispatch, I’m stabbing them with this knife. Gently. Lovingly. But repeatedly.”

Your comm crackled.

You froze. Then sighed. Of course.

Swiping the screen open mid-step, you expected a location ping or evac window. Maybe even a rare “good job” if someone up top was feeling generous. Instead, you got flagged.

PRIORITY. LEVEL SIX.

UNSCHEDULED MEETING. MANDATORY.

FILE ATTACHED.

“Yeah,” you muttered. “That’s not ominous at all.”

The folder had your name stamped on it—but nothing else. No briefing, no subject tags, just a sealed file and an address string embedded in the encryption. You squinted at the coordinates.

Underground.

Of course.

You barked a humorless laugh. “Meeting in the bunker. Creepy as hell. Classic you, Command.”

Without even trying to clean up, you took a turn off the main street, ducking into a nondescript elevator shaft hidden behind a disused courier hub.

One retinal scan and two sarcastic clearance swipes later, you were riding down into the belly of the beast.

── .✦

The bunker hadn’t changed since the last time you broke into it. Still dusty, still freezing, still lit with that flickering LED buzz that made you want to file a complaint and commit arson at the same time. You moved through it like muscle memory: two lefts, a keypad, retinal scan. A hiss of doors unlocking.

No guards. No eyes on you.

Just one metal table, and a single paper folder sitting at its center like a damn horror prop.

“Oh, great,” you deadpanned. “We’re going analog. That’s never shady.”

You peeled your gloves off with your teeth, slapping them on the table before flipping the folder open.

“Really setting the mood,” you muttered. “All that budget, and they still print shit on recycled office supply.”

The folder wasn’t marked with anything obvious—just your designation and a date. No mission summary. No ops plan. Just bureaucratic psych jargon. Something about “disciplinary structure,” “high-risk autonomy,” “unstable behavioral metrics.” You rolled your eyes so hard your neck nearly cracked.

“Jesus,” you muttered. “Next thing they’ll say I’ve got commitment issues.”

Then—tucked at the very bottom—you saw it.

Reassignment. Oversight. Immediate effect.

You blinked.

And blinked again.

Your lips parted, half-laugh, half-scoff forming in your throat when—

The door hissed open behind you.

Footsteps. Heavy. Even. Slow.

You turned, instinctively reaching for your knife.

Then paused.

Because the man in the doorway?

Blue and yellow. No cape. No insignia. A form-fitting suit that clung to muscle and violence, with a strange veil that obscured his face like a curtain of secrecy—thin, sheer, barely hiding the line of his jaw.

His eyes glowed behind narrow goggles—calm, calculating.

You never heard him speak. Not really.

You’d seen him before—that’s for sure. Not clearly. Just flashes on rooftops. A distant signal you weren’t cleared to track. Everyone called him something different, if they talked about him at all. You never paid attention to other people anyway.

Until now.

He stepped inside like he owned the room—and maybe he did—and said nothing. Just looked at you. Sized you up.

He looked at you like he already knew how you fought. How you bled. Like he knew where to land a punch—or where it would really hurt.

You looked back.

What was his alias again… ?

You hated that it made you curious.

A beat lagged. Then two. No one said anything.

And then you looked back at the file, still open on the table. Read the fine print. The line that had made you scoff but hadn’t sunk in until now.

“Assigned to field partner. Behavioral reassessment ongoing. Expect prolonged oversight.”

You opened your mouth. Then shut it again.

“Oh, you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆

Invincible—or just Mark, depending on who was stupid or familiar enough to call him that—watched from the far end of the room.

Arms crossed loosely, leaning back against the wall like he didn’t have half a dozen other places to be. Like he wasn’t technically two hours behind on a recon run he’d already lied about completing.

But whatever.

You were here.

Pacing the concrete floor, muttering darkly under your breath, covered in blood that wasn’t yours. Eyes sharp. Shoulders tight. Currently ignoring him like he didn’t just walk in like gravity answered to his name.

Mark watched. Quiet. Still.

He liked watching you.

More than he should’ve. More than he’d ever admit out loud, even if someone held a railgun to his skull and promised painless disintegration.

Call it stalking, surveillance, an unhealthy attachment—he didn’t care. Not really.

It wasn’t just the way you moved—though that was part of it. You walked like you were daring the ground to talk back. You held tension like it was a weapon and he hadn’t been able to look away since the first time he saw you gut a guy without blinking.

Even now, you stalked around the empty room like you were half a second from breaking the table in two just because it dared to exist.

It made something in his chest tighten.

You didn’t know he’d been watching for a while. Not just today. Not even just this mission.

He checked in on you often. “Checked” was a generous word. It was bordering on surveillance. Okay, it was surveillance. He had a whole folder stashed away with flagged reports from your last five deployments. A few audio files. Maybe a grainy clip or two.

It wasn’t creepy. He wasn’t a creep.

He just needed to make sure you were okay.

(You kill people for a living.)

Still. He liked knowing where you were. So yeah. He watched. Checked in. Every day.

You were reckless. You didn’t follow orders. You acted on gut instinct, and half the time, it worked, which only made it worse. Because one day it wouldn’t work, and they’d send him in too late.

He’d seen the file before you did. Your reassignment.

They were going to put you under some no-name enforcer from another sector. Someone who thought “discipline” meant obedience and “partnership” meant paperwork.

So he said no.

Correction—he said: “If you send her to anyone else, I’ll break your fucking spine and write my resignation on the wall in your blood.”

Direct quote.

So now here he was. Assigned. Official. Watching you sulk around a room you clearly hated.

It should’ve been annoying. You hadn’t even acknowledged him properly yet. Just marched in, read your little file, stared at him for solid 6 seconds before muttering like the universe personally offended you.

He could name a dozen ways to silence you. He just didn’t want to.

He should’ve said something sooner.

But damn, you were beautiful when you were pissed.

Especially when it came with that cute little crease between your brows—like the universe had personally offended you.

Before you could actually spiral into something truly destructive—like ripping out the lights or kicking a chair through a wall (you’d done both before)—he finally decided to speak.

“Y’know,” Mark drawled finally, voice smooth, low, and way too amused, “for someone who just got a promotion, you complain like you got dumped via sticky note.”

You stopped mid-step.

Didn’t turn. Not yet.

He could see the tension coil in your spine like a loaded spring.

“You,” you said flatly. Like it was a diagnosis.

Even your voice sounded like a threat—like it could cut.

Mark’s grin sharpened under the veil.

“Me,” he confirmed.

A beat of silence.

Then, you turned to face him, arms crossed, blood still drying on your collar. “You’re my new ‘handler’?”

“I prefer ‘charming work husband’ but sure,” he said, lifting a shoulder. “Let’s go with that.”

No reaction.

(Okay. An eye twitch. That counted.)

He was delighted.

“I didn’t ask for this.”

“I know,” Mark said, smile curling under his breath. “That’s the best part.”

He stepped forward, slow and unhurried, until he was just a few feet away. Close enough to see the faint smear of ash on your jaw. Close enough to catch the faint chemical tang of blood and steel clinging to you like armor.

Blood, smoke, and a faint scent of whatever damn soap you use to scrub crime off your skin—it drove him fucking insane.

“You’re pissed,” he observed lightly. “That’s cute.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you trying to get stabbed?”

“Debatable,” he said. “Depends where.”

Another twitch. His grin widened.

He didn’t mean to flirt—okay, he did. But not too much. Not yet. You were still dangerous, still vibrating with aftershock fury, and the last thing he needed was for you to go fully feral.

Not until you liked him more, at least.

“I’m not here to babysit you,” he said after a moment. “Not in the way you think.”

You arched a brow. “No?”

“I’m here because I’m the only one who knows what it’s like to do what you do and still not break.”

A beat.

“I don’t break,” you said evenly.

“No,” Mark agreed, his voice softer now. “But they’re afraid you might. And you know what they do to things they think are broken.”

That hit.

You didn’t reply. Just stared at him. Longer. Slower. More like a threat than a conversation.

He could live with that. For now.

“Look,” he said, stepping even closer now, “I didn’t come here to coddle you. I came because if someone’s gonna keep you from getting killed, it’s gonna be me. No leashes. No lectures. Just… you and me. Doing what we do best.”

You said nothing.

Mark waited.

Then, quietly, with something almost close to sincerity—he muttered his final words.

“You can hate it. But you won’t hate me.”

Your eyes darkened. But your silence wasn’t as sharp as it should’ve been.

And Mark smiled.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆

The rain was coming down in sheets, hammering the rooftops like it had a personal grudge.

You gritted your teeth, one arm tucked tightly around Invincible’s waist as you half-dragged, half-guided him down the dim corridor. His weight leaned into you shamelessly—dead weight, if dead weight had a smug attitude and a pulse like a drum in your ribs.

You didn’t say a word.

Not when he groaned dramatically into your ear, not when he stumbled a little more on purpose, not when you almost slipped trying to keep his dumbass from kissing the floor.

“You can walk,” you muttered through clenched teeth.

“I could,” he agreed, tone so casual it made your blood pressure spike. “But then I’d miss this beautiful team-building moment.”

You didn’t bother answering. You just pulled him harder, jostling his bruised ribs enough to earn a soft grunt from behind the veil.

Good.

His suit was streaked in blood—most of it his, some probably yours, and none of it helped your growing migraine. You were soaked to the bone, adrenaline long gone, fury in its place. The blast that tore through the wall back there should’ve hit you.

He’d made sure it didn’t.

And now you were stuck playing support for the goddamn golden boy of masked arrogance.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you hissed, not looking at him.

“Do what?” His voice was pure innocence. “Save your life?”

You scoffed. “I had it handled.”

“You were standing in front of a literal antimatter core.”

“I was moving out of the way.”

“Sure you were.” He leaned in, shifting more of his weight onto you, his breath warm behind the thin fabric of your collar. “Besides, you look better in one piece.”

Your fingers tightened where they gripped his side, and you seriously considered dropping him face-first into the nearest wall.

You didn’t.

But it was a close thing.

By the time you reached the medbay—a low-lit, sterile chamber lined with supply cabinets and outdated tech—you were seething quietly. You kicked the door open with your boot and hauled him inside like a sack of problematic groceries.

“Bed. Now.”

Invincible opened his mouth—about to reply with some flirty comeback—but one sharp look from you made him retreat.

He moved—slowly, with all the theatrical flair of a dying star—and flopped onto the metal exam table with a groan that would’ve convinced any sane person he was about to flatline.

You weren’t convinced.

“You’re not dying,” you muttered, already rifling through cabinets.

“Didn’t say I was,” he mumbled, watching you over the edge of the table. “But if I do… can I haunt your apartment?”

You threw a roll of gauze at his face.

It hit him square in the goggles.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

You turned away before he could catch the twitch in your expression.

Because pain or not, the image of him stepping in front of that blast—of the way he threw you to the side like it was instinct—was burned into your memory. You were furious.

You were also, maybe, a little bit shaken.

Not that you’d ever admit it.

Not even to yourself.

You found the antiseptic, grabbed a few packs of gauze and tape, then returned to his side. You didn’t bother asking if he wanted your help. You didn’t wait for a nurse.

You’d stitched your own thigh shut in the back of a stolen van once. Wrapped a shattered wrist in duct tape and finished a mission. You weren’t squeamish.

His suit was torn apart—and underneath—muscle, blood, bruises. He was a mess, but he’d live. Unfortunately.

You dabbed antiseptic into the worst of it without mercy. He hissed.

“Don’t be a baby.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“I’m tolerating this.”

His eyes caught yours—bright and unreadable under the goggles.

“You could’ve let me bleed out,” he said, voice lower now.

“I considered it.”

“Mm. That’s fair.”

You said nothing, focusing on a gash along his ribs. He didn’t flinch. But his gaze didn’t leave you.

“You’re pissed.”

You pressed harder.

“I told you I had it,” you said, quieter now. “You shouldn’t have stepped in.”

“I wasn’t going to let you get hurt.”

Your hands paused.

“I don’t need protecting.”

“I know.”

More silence.

Then, softer—closer, “But I like putting my hands on you. Even if it means getting thrown across a warehouse.”

You looked at him then. Really looked.

His veil was torn at the corner. Blood trickled from his temple, and his ribs looked like someone had caved them in with a wrecking ball. And for the first time, he wasn’t grinning. Not cocky. Not smug. Just—there. Honest.

You ignored the way your stomach twisted.

You ignored that it landed somewhere deep.

And worse—you hated that part of you was glad he did it.

Even if you’d never say it out loud.

So instead, you went back to cleaning him up. And he let you.

Touch lingering just a little longer than it needed to. His eyes stayed on you, quiet for once.

But of course, it couldn’t last.

“You know,” he said, voice low, teasing—dangerous, “if you keep touching me like that, I’m gonna pop a boner.”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆

The city sprawled beneath, a mosaic of lights flickering in the night. A hundred thousand lives in motion, none of them looking up.

The hum of distant traffic and the occasional siren were the only sounds accompanying the two figures perched on the ledge, threading through the darkness like familiar ghosts. While the rooftop offered a vantage point—both strategic and serene, if you let it be.

You rarely did.

This wasn’t your kind of quiet.

You didn’t like silence—not when it meant being left alone with your thoughts. Not when it reminded you that most of your work ended with blood on your hands and no one waiting for you when it was done.

You were good at what you did, but it came with solitude. That was the tradeoff. Had been, for a long time.

You sat with your knees drawn up, arms resting atop them, eyes scanning the horizon like something out there might change.

Invincible sat beside you—close enough that you could feel the heat of him even with the night air biting through your suit. He didn’t speak. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t even try to make himself useful. He was just there.

And strangely, that made it easier to breathe.

It wouldn’t last. It never did. But maybe tonight, it didn’t have to.

The surveillance gear nearby blinked and pulsed, quietly recording—but neither of you looked at it.

For once, it could wait.

“You ever think about what it’d be like to just… disappear?” you asked suddenly, the question slipping out like breath. Like you hadn’t meant to say it, but couldn’t help yourself.

Invincible turned his head, veil fluttering slightly in the breeze. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But I think I’d miss the chaos.”

A quiet chuckle escaped you. Dry. Amused. “Figures.”

Silence settled again—but not heavy. Not cold. Just… still. You rarely got stillness that didn’t come with tension coiled in your gut. This was different.

And that scared you more than it should have.

“You know,” he said after a beat, voice quieter now, almost careful, “we’ve been through a lot together… and I don’t even know your real name.”

You glanced at him, surprised—but not defensive. Not tonight.

You hesitated for half a second, then gave it to him. Just your name. Nothing fancy, no ceremony. Like offering up something small and fragile just to see what he’d do with it.

He nodded. A small, rare smile played at the edge of his mouth. “Mark.”

Simple as that. And somehow, it meant something.

The name felt strange coming from him. Not because it didn’t suit him—it did. More than you expected. But because no one ever shared real names with you unless they were bleeding out or trying to make peace before dying. It had weight. It had risk.

You tilted your head slightly. “Nice to meet you, Mark.”

His gaze lingered on you a second longer than necessary. You felt the heat of it, sharp and warm, brushing your cheek like a touch he hadn’t made. Then, low and easy, ”Likewise, sweetheart.”

Your heart hiccuped in your chest—and you hated that it did.

He’d called you worse. He’d called you better. But something about hearing him say it now—gentle, sincere—made your stomach twist in a way no battlefield ever had.

You looked away, pretending to study the skyline again—even though you hadn’t really been looking at it for a while.

You were thinking about the last time you sat this close to someone without bracing for betrayal.

You were thinking about how you always worked alone because it was safer that way.

You were thinking about how, for the first time in what felt like forever, being alone didn’t feel so absolute.

He wasn’t touching you. Wasn’t even looking at you anymore. But he was there. And that mattered more than you wanted it to.

The city lights shimmered below, reflecting off wet rooftops and glass towers like starlight that had forgotten its way home. And for one small, stolen moment, you didn’t feel like a weapon in waiting. You didn’t feel like the monster they kept on a leash.

You just felt… seen.

You didn’t say thank you.

But maybe you didn’t have to.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆

Mark hadn’t meant to watch you.

Not like that.

Not in the beginning.

It started with a glitch in his comms. A rerouted signal. Someone else’s mission logs bleeding into his HUD. A red flag tagged with your designation, blinking across rooftops he wasn’t supposed to care about.

He should’ve ignored it.

He didn’t.

Instead, he paused mid-flight—just above Sector 4, the skyline burning behind him—and turned his attention to a grainy security feed from a busted drone two miles off-grid.

And there you were.

A blur of movement. Blood on your knuckles. Fire in your mouth.

He watched you take down five armed enforcers in less than a minute. Watched you move like violence was a second skin, like your bones had been carved to fit inside chaos.

He felt something shift in his chest.

It wasn’t lust—not at first. It wasn’t even admiration.

It was obsession—quiet, still, and cold.

It was yours.

── .✦

He told himself it was curiosity. A one-time thing. Professionals did that. Kept tabs. Cross-referenced reports.

But the next night, he checked again.

And the next.

And the next.

── .✦

You never noticed. Or if you did, you never said.

And god, that just made it worse.

── .✦

You drank your coffee black. No sugar. No milk. Always scalding.

He knew this because he’d watched you order it, three mornings in a row, from a corner shop you never paid for—just flashed a fake badge and walked off like you owned the world.

You untied your boots with your teeth sometimes—bit the laces, spat them out. It was feral.

You hummed under your breath when you cleaned your knives. Always the same tune. Off-key. He found it… endearing.

He memorized it.

── .✦

Mark knew your name before you even said it.

It was in your file—buried under layers of redacted bullshit, buried deeper than it had any right to be. But Mark had access. Mark was access.

He read it once, then never again.

He didn’t need to.

It was already carved somewhere behind his ribs.

── .✦

He knew your patrol schedule. Your blind spots. He knew which rooftops you liked. Which ones you avoided.

He knew you slept on your side, curled like you expected someone to stab you in your sleep.

He hated that.

He wanted to tell you that you didn’t have to sleep like that anymore. That he’d sleep beside you. That he would take first watch.

Every night. For the rest of your life.

── .✦

The first time he broke into your apartment, it wasn’t for anything weird.

Just to look.

Just to… be where you were when you weren’t there.

It was quiet. Small. Clean in some places, messy in others. Coffee cups on the counter. A half-assembled gun on the table. A pair of boots by the door.

Your scent clung to the air—warm, sharp, metallic, with the faintest sweetness underneath.

He stood in your living room for almost an hour.

Didn’t touch anything. Didn’t breathe too loud. Just existed in your space.

And then he left.

But he came back.

Again.

And again.

── .✦

Once, he barely made it out.

The click of your front door lock. The soft thud of your boots. He didn’t breathe until he was four rooftops away.

Heart racing. Hard. Excited. Terrified. Alive.

This wasn’t like how his father loved.

It wasn’t control.

It was gravity.

And you were the only thing keeping him from flying straight into the sun.

── .✦

Eventually, he started touching things.

Your mugs. Your books. Your hoodie.

Once, he sat on your couch and imagined you curled up beside him. Hair damp from a shower. Feet in his lap. Trusting him.

He got hard just thinking about it—and cursed himself for it.

But he didn’t stop.

── .✦

Then came the laundry.

Folded in a neat little basket by the window.

Fresh. Still warm. He touched a pair of panties—just brushed his fingers over the edge. Then brought them to his face.

He didn’t moan. Didn’t jerk off. Didn’t cross that line.

But he did smile, dark and private.

Murmured to himself, “Honestly? These feel way better than my veil.”

He left them exactly where they were.

Mostly.

Sometimes, he took one. Just one. Wore it like a badge under the suit—close to his skin. A reminder. A promise.

And then brought it back.

Washed. Pressed. Folded better than you ever did.

Because he wasn’t a monster.

He was just yours.

Even if you didn’t know it yet.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆

The air was thick with smoke and the metallic scent of blood. Neither one of you saw it coming.

Not the punch, not the burst of kinetic force that ripped through the alley like thunder. Not the split-second shift in Invincible’s stance that changed everything from strategic to savage.

The mission had been simple: recon and retrieve.

Minimal force. Bring the target in alive.

No one said anything about bait.

No one said anything about them using you.

But the second the bastard dropped your name—the second that oily voice curled your real name like venom in the air—it all went to hell.

“You really think she’s worth it?” the target had sneered, blood leaking from his mouth, grin jagged where a tooth used to be. “All that power, and you’re playing guard dog to a broken bitch with a kill streak.”

You froze, not from shock—but calculation. How close was Invincible? How fast could you—

Too late.

You barely got a word out before Invincible was on him.

You didn’t even see the punch. Just the aftermath.

The target’s body hit the wall like a meteor. Cracked brick. Concrete dust in your lungs. Something crunched that definitely wasn’t supposed to.

And Invincible—Mark—wasn’t stopping.

Not with protocol screaming in your earpiece. Not with the command feed blinking red in your HUD. Not even when you grabbed his arm and shouted his name like it was the only thing you could do.

His fist was cocked back, trembling. Veins bulging under torn sleeves. Breathing like he’d just run through war.

“Mark,” you snapped again, sharper this time, like a blade.

His eyes—those glowing, untouchable things—locked on you.

You saw it hit him then.

Not guilt.

Something deeper.

Like the thought of someone using you, threatening you, daring to speak your name out loud—was worse than death.

“Alive,” you said, jaw tight. “We need him alive.”

It took everything in you not to flinch when he finally stepped back.

The target coughed blood, slumped in a crater.

── .✦

You didn’t speak the rest of the mission. Neither did he.

The silence between you buzzed louder than the comms.

And when the drop team arrived, you didn’t look at each other. Not once.

But you felt him watching.

Still burning.

Still ready to kill the next person who dared say your name like it wasn’t something sacred.

── .✦

You didn’t storm off.

You didn’t say a word when Command debriefed, when the team cleaned up the mess, when the target got dragged off in a body bag instead of a prisoner transport.

You just stood there, fists clenched at your sides, your shadow overlapping his as you waited for someone to say it.

They didn’t.

They didn’t have to.

You could feel the way they looked at you now—like you were collateral. A variable. The reason their best weapon nearly lost control.

Again.

── .✦

You could still hear it.

Your name.

Twisted in the mouth of someone who wasn’t supposed to know it. Someone who used it like a curse—like a weapon.

And it worked.

Invincible—no, Mark lost it. You watched it happen in real time.

Not calculated. Not clean. Just rage. Unchecked. Unleashed.

And it scared you—not because he was angry, but because it felt like it was for you.

Like he would’ve killed a man for the crime of knowing you existed. And worse…

Some ugly, buried part of you wanted to let him.

── .✦

You didn’t sleep that night.

You sat on your windowsill in silence, one leg propped up, eyes on the skyline you usually found comfort in. It didn’t work tonight.

Because a small part of you knew he was out there.

Watching. Hovering. Probably furious that you stopped him.

Probably furious you had to.

But you weren’t sorry. Not really.

You’d gotten where you were by staying sharp. Staying smart. Staying in control.

And tonight?

He wasn’t.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆

Mark noticed how you didn’t look at him once.

Not when they ran your vitals. Not when they shoved the corpse into containment with a glare like it was his fault the bastard’s skull split open like overripe fruit.

He stood back—arms crossed, jaw tight behind the veil.

He didn’t say anything either.

Not when you passed by. Not when you shouldered past the medic—like you were afraid to stop moving. Like if you did, you’d shatter.

He hated that.

He hated that silence lived between you now, not comfort. Not tension. Not heat.

Just cold.

── .✦

He heard it on loop.

Your voice—sharp and panicked, calling his name like a lifeline.

Not “Invincible.” Not “hey.”

Just… Mark.

It made something in his chest twist.

Made his hands curl at his sides. He could still feel the way your fingers had dug into his wrist.

Not gently. Not soft. But grounding.

It was the only reason he didn’t finish the job.

He didn’t regret it.

But he hated the look you gave him after.

Like you didn’t know who he was anymore. Or maybe like you finally did.

── .✦

He didn’t go home.

He hovered three blocks from your apartment, high enough to be unseen, low enough to feel you through the walls.

He didn’t expect to see the light in your room flick on.

He didn’t expect to see you—barely out of your gear, face hard, eyes darker than he’d ever seen them—leaning out the window, staring dead into the dark.

He stayed still. Barely breathing.

You didn’t see him.

But maybe—just maybe—you knew he was there.

Because after a long moment, you whispered to the night.

“Next time you lose control like that… I’ll stop you harder.”

It wasn’t a threat.

It was a promise.

And fuck—he’d never wanted anything more.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆

They were doing it quietly. Behind walls. Sealed files. Passive phrasing and polite lies.

���Operative instability,” they’d said. “Emotional volatility.” “Unpredictable attachment to assigned partner.”

They meant him.

They meant you.

They meant that moment in the alley when his fist should’ve stopped—and didn’t. When he saw red and acted like a man who didn’t care about consequence.

Because he didn’t.

Because someone said your name and laughed.

Because someone tried to make you a weakness.

Because someone forgot you were his.

── .✦

Mark stood in the center of the server room like a loaded weapon someone forgot to disarm—veil pushed halfway up, breathing like he was trying not to detonate.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

The lights overhead buzzed, flickering under the strain of faulty wiring. Or maybe that was him. Hard to tell.

His voice, when it came, was quiet.

Deadly.

“Who signed off on this?”

No one answered.

Just the soft flick of fingers on tablet screens. The nervous shift of boots. Everyone pretending not to feel the pressure in the air—like something was about to crack.

Mark didn’t repeat himself.

He didn’t have to.

Because the next second, the console nearest him exploded. Shattered metal and sparks.

A handprint embedded in the wall behind it.

“You don’t get to move her,” he said, voice sharp as razors now. “You don’t get to touch her file. You don’t get to breathe near it.”

A senior director tried to speak. “Invincible—this decision came from—”

“Say that name again. Go ahead. Say it like it doesn’t mean something,” Mark interrupted. “Say that designation. I dare you.”

He took a step forward. The floor groaned under his boots. Not because of weight. But pressure. Because he wasn’t holding back anymore.

Because he was done playing soldier. Handler. Puppet on a leash.

He wasn’t Invincible here.

He was yours.

And they were trying to steal him from you.

They just didn’t know it yet.

The man tried again, slower this time. “You need to understand the optics. She’s compromised. She compromised you.”

Mark’s laugh was low. Joyless. A hollow thing cracked open in the dark.

“She didn’t compromise me,” he said.

“She saved me.”

He stepped in close.

Close enough that the lights flickered again.

“I was ready to kill a man for saying her name. And you think I’m going to let you erase her?”

The air pulsed. No one moved.

“Try it,” Mark whispered. “Try touching her file again. I will wipe your existence so clean no one will remember you were ever born.”

Silence.

Then, slowly, he leaned in. Veil brushing the shoulder of the man in charge. And in a voice made of smoke and control, he whispered his final words.

“She’s not the dangerous one… I am.”

── .✦

He left the room in ruin.

Half the lights were blown. Several systems fried. Three agents too shaken to speak. And when he disappeared from camera range, no one followed.

Because everyone knew where he was going.

Straight to you.

Because if they wanted to take you away—

They were going to have to kill him first.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆

The window rattled before the door slammed open.

You were on your feet before your brain caught up—knife in hand, blade drawn, feet planted. No hesitation.

No fear.

And then you saw him.

Mark.

Standing in your apartment doorway like a storm that forgot where it was supposed to break.

Hair damp from the wind. Veil twisted, torn halfway up. Blood running in a thin, angry line down his throat—from the blade you were still holding to his neck.

You hadn’t even realized you’d moved that fast.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop. Didn’t speak.

He just stepped closer.

Closer, until your knife dug deeper, a warning meant to halt.

But he didn’t stop.

Instead, he leaned in—slow, steady, unshakable—and rested his forehead against yours.

He was trembling.

Not from pain.

From relief. From rage still clinging to the edges of his breath. From the panic you hadn’t seen on him before—not like this.

You lowered the knife, slowly.

Confused.

“Mark—” you started, voice too soft.

But his hand was already reaching for yours. Gripping it—not hard, not desperate, but anchoring. Like you were the last solid thing in a world gone sideways.

You didn’t pull away. Didn’t speak.

You just led him to the couch, never letting go.

He dropped onto it like his knees gave out—but still kept hold of your wrist.

You started to pull back—maybe to grab water, a towel, anything—

But his hand caught yours again. Tighter this time. And when he whispered, it was raw and cracked.

“Don’t go. Please.”

You didn’t.

You sat beside him.

Quiet. Still. Warm.

And for the first time in days, he exhaled.

Like the war ended. Like he finally made it home.

Like you were it.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆

After that, things shifted between you two.

Not drastic. Not loud. Just enough to feel it.

A new gravity.

You joked more. He smiled more.

The air felt less like a battleground. More like a fuse, waiting. The silences weren’t sharp anymore—they held something warmer, heavier.

And when he touched you—guiding you around a corner, brushing against your arm during recon—you didn’t pull away.

Not once.

He still called you ’sweetheart.’

But now? You didn’t roll your eyes.

You answered him back—with something that sat halfway between sarcasm and a dare.

And Mark…

He took it.

Every word. Every smirk. Every sharp little comment that should’ve meant nothing—but didn’t.

You didn’t know how much it was driving him insane.

Or maybe you did. Maybe you saw the way his jaw clenched when you called him lover boy under your breath. The way his breath hitched when your hand lingered on his thigh for just a second too long in the drop ship.

You played with fire.

And he let you.

For a while.

── .✦

Until one night—

You were both heading back from an op. Low stakes. No injuries. Just exhaustion in your bones and grit in your teeth.

You made a comment—half-flirt, half-threat, maybe something about handcuffs.

You weren’t even trying to tease him. Not really.

But then—

He stopped.

Suddenly, you were pinned.

Like gravity finally decided to snap its fingers.

Your spine hit the wall with a soft thud.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Didn’t speak. You just looked up at him.

Chin tilted. Breath steady. Like this wasn’t new. Like you weren’t caught off-guard—like your heart wasn’t hammering under your ribs like it was trying to tell on you.

Mark’s hand was beside your head, fingers curled against the concrete like he was keeping himself from touching you. His body was so close you could feel the heat radiating off of him—his chest rising and falling like every breath cost him.

His eyes dragged over your face—slow and dark and deliberate. From your mouth to your eyes, then back again.

“Say something smart now,” he murmured.

His voice was velvet laced with warning. And that was all the invitation you needed.

You didn’t smile—but the look in your eyes said enough.

“You always this worked up when someone flirts with you?” You tilted your head slightly, like it was an honest question.

“Or is it just me?”

Something flickered across his bare face—heat, restraint, hunger—and then disappeared again, smoothed out like it had never been there.

“It’s just you,” he said, voice lower now.

“Always you.”

You felt it then.

The slow shift. The quiet unraveling.

His knee brushed your leg—just barely—but it was enough to remind you he could close the space between you in half a second.

He didn’t.

You leaned in, just slightly. Testing him. Letting your lips part, gaze heavy as your voice dipped.

“You gonna kiss me, Mark?”

He didn’t answer. Not with words.

He tilted his head. Slowly. Deliberately.

The space between you collapsed inch by inch, your breath catching as his eyes dropped to your mouth, lingering like he was counting your heartbeats.

You leaned in, too.

Half a breath away.

The heat between your mouths? Maddening.

His lips barely parted—his hand flexed beside your face—and your eyes fluttered shut—

But he stepped back.

Just enough to break contact. Just enough to make it feel like a fucking cliff-drop.

You blinked—slow, disoriented, like a dream just dropped you.

And when your eyes met his again—steady, unreadable, calm as sin—he smiled.

“Not yet.”

His voice was silk. Smug. Dangerous.

“You like pushing? Good.” He stepped back fully, leaving your body cold where his heat had been. “Because now I’m going to push back.”

You stayed against the wall, breath shaky, throat tight, skin burning.

Mark turned and walked away like he hadn’t just wrecked the room with a look.

Like he didn’t know you were seconds away from grabbing him by the collar and pulling him back in.

And god, that’s exactly what he wanted.

Because now? He wasn’t going to touch you.

Not until you begged him to.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆

It didn’t happen after a mission. It wasn’t triggered by adrenaline, or blood, or fury.

It happened on a quiet night.

No danger. No drama. Just you. Him. Silence.

The kind that didn’t feel sharp or heavy, but warm. Dense with everything neither of you had been saying.

You were sitting too close on the couch. Again.

Shoulders brushing. Fingers almost touching. Breaths syncing like they were conspiring against you.

The TV was on, volume low—some movie you’d both ignored since minute five. You weren’t looking at the screen.

You were looking at him.

And he was already looking at you.

── .✦

It didn’t start like a mistake.

It started slow. Desperate, but slow. Like two people who’d spent too long circling each other finally crashing in the middle.

You didn’t know who kissed who first—maybe it didn’t matter.

One moment you were breathing each other in, and the next, your mouths crashed together like you’d been starved.

Mark kissed like he fought—focused, consuming, always a little cocky. But there was something different this time.

Something fragile under all that control.

His hands didn’t grope—they cradled. His body didn’t press to dominate—it folded into yours like it belonged there.

And you let him.

Because right now, you didn’t want to be dangerous.

You wanted to be wanted.

You barely registered how you ended up on your back—couch creaking beneath you, clothes stripped away like memories he didn’t need anymore. His hands roamed like he was trying to memorize, to prove something. Not just to you—to himself. His mouth trailed heat down your throat, his hand sliding under your shirt like it belonged there.

Like he belonged there.

“You know how long I’ve waited to do this?” he murmured against your skin. “How many nights I had to stop myself?”

You didn’t answer. You just pulled him closer.

He growled—actually growled—and you could feel how hard he was already, grinding against you like he couldn’t stand the space between your bodies. Your clothes were in the way. Everything was in the way.

He kissed you harder.

Then slower. Then deeper. Like he had time to worship and ruin you all at once.

His mouth kissed down your stomach, slower than you expected. Watching you. Waiting. Not asking for permission. Just offering the space for you to stop him.

You didn’t.

You curled your fingers in his hair and impatiently pushed him lower.

When he finally got between your legs, he didn’t rush. No—Mark watched you. Settled between your thighs like he’d been dreaming of it. His hands curled around your knees, pressing them apart, and he groaned like the sight of you could end him.

“Fuck,” he muttered, dragging his thumb over the wet spot in your panties. “Look at you.”

You burned under his gaze.

“Say it,” you rasped. “Say what you’re thinking.”

Mark didn’t hesitate. “I’m thinking I’m never gonna stop doing this.”

Then—his mouth was on you.

He took his time. He devoured. But gently—like worship, not conquest.

Every movement of his tongue against your panties was deliberate, controlled, cruel in its patience. He hummed against your core like it gave him oxygen. You arched off the couch, hand flying to his hair, and he moaned into you like he liked it. Like you were feeding some part of him he kept locked away.

And below, as his mouth worked you over—he was grinding into the cushion beneath him. Slow. Needy. Unapologetic. Desperate.

You felt it. The tension. The line he was walking between control and chaos.

It snapped when you said his name. “Mark—”

He tore your panties in half. His eyes didn’t even blink.

His tongue worked you open with slow strokes, teasing flicks, and just when your breath caught—then he gave you more. His fingers joined in, sliding deep and curling with impossible precision, like he already knew what would ruin you.

And ruin you, he did.

You didn’t mean to gasp. Didn’t mean to arch your back or claw at his shoulders or chant his name like it meant something more. But you did.

You shattered under him—legs shaking, hands trembling, the world breaking open as pleasure crashed through you like a flood. You didn’t expect the way your body reacted—too much, too fast.

And when it happened—really happened—when everything clenched and poured out of you, when you heard yourself cry out his name like it was sacred—

Mark groaned against you, loud, eyes fluttering shut. His hips bucked one final time against the couch.

And just like that… he came. Hard. Without you even touching him.

You blinked, dazed.

Tried to say something snarky, maybe smug. But all you could do was stare at him, lips parted, chest rising and falling like you were still mid-fall.

He hovered over you now, flushed, panting, eyes blown wide. His expression was something you’d never seen before—half in awe, half in love, and still burning with want.

And then he kissed you.

You tasted yourself on his tongue—hot, sweet, raw—and it made your stomach twist in a way no one ever had. You moaned into the kiss without meaning to, fisting the front of his shirt as if letting go would send you spiraling again. He whispered into your mouth between kisses.

“Filthy little goddess,” he breathed. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

Your hips rolled up against him, greedy now. Unspoken things passed between you—need, trust, maybe something scarier.

Then he was inside you. Slowly. Deeply. The stretch made your back arch, your breath catch, your hand reach for something—anything—to ground yourself. But he was already there.

Gripping your waist like you were breakable, kissing your jaw, your mouth, your throat as he filled you, inch by aching inch.

He cursed under his breath, voice ragged and worshipful. “God, you feel better than your panties ever did.”

You would’ve teased him. Called him insane. But you couldn’t. All you could do was whimper as he moved—slow, smooth, deep enough to bruise. He took his time. Let you feel every inch. Let you cling to him like he was the only thing that made sense.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned into your ear. “Made for this. For me.”

His thrusts started patient. Deep. His breath stuttering against your skin every time your body clenched around him. But he couldn’t hold back.

Not for long.

He gripped your hips and snapped into you—again and again—driving into you like he’d finally given up on pretending he could play it cool. You wrapped your legs around him. Let him have you. Let him ruin you.

And god, he did.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he panted. “You hear that? That’s you. That’s how wet you are for me.”

You couldn’t answer. Could barely breathe. He kissed you through it. Sloppy, possessive. Full of need. And when you came—tight and gasping—he whispered more, somewhere near your ear. Praise. Promises.

Worship disguised as filth.

And when it was over—when he shuddered inside you, spilling so much it left you dizzy, when he dropped his forehead to yours and held you like he’d never let go—

Silence. Just your breaths. Your heart. His weight against you. Real. Heavy. Home. Neither of you moved for a long moment. When you finally found your voice—raw and quiet—

“This doesn’t change anything,” you whispered, breathless. The words weren’t cold. Just scared. Just stubborn. Just you.

Mark didn’t argue. He just nodded. Kissed your collarbone.

“Sure, sweetheart.”

But between the way he held you, the way your fingers tangled in his hair, the way neither of you moved to let go—

Hadn’t it changed everything?

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

•. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˚₊‧⟡꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ⟡‧₊˚ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.•

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌Months later…

The apartment was warm with the kind of quiet that didn’t need to be filled. The living room was dim, lit only by the soft flicker of a paused screen and the lazy sprawl of citylight bleeding through half-closed blinds.

The couch sagged under both your weights—you were curled into one side of the couch, socks mismatched, hoodie too big, legs draped across Mark’s lap.

There were pizza crusts on the coffee table. A half-finished soda on the floor.

It was perfect. Stupidly, quietly, mundanely perfect.

And it made you itchy in a way you didn’t hate.

Mark reached for another slice without looking, eyes on the screen. “You’re not even watching this, are you?”

“I am,” you said, then paused. “Well, I was. I just blacked out for a few episodes.”

He snorted. “We’ve been watching this for three weeks.”

You shrugged, chewing. “I was distracted.”

Mark raised an eyebrow. “By what?”

You side-eyed him over the crust. “Mostly your thighs.”

That earned a grin. “That’s fair.”

You glanced at him—barefoot, scruffed, hair tousled like he’d just rolled out of bed and never quite bothered to fix it—and smiled. Leaning back, you let your head drop against the cushion.

“Still can’t believe this is where we ended up.”

Mark didn’t look away from the screen. “What, the couch?”

“No. I mean… this,” you said, gesturing vaguely around the room. “Living together. Sharing pizza. Watching a show we’ve both pretended to like for five episodes.”

Mark didn’t answer. Just turned. Looked at you. Offended.

“You saying this is beneath you?”

You blinked. “What? No, I just—”

“You saying I’m not a good reward?”

You opened your mouth. “Mark—” But it was too late. He pounced.

“Mark—MARK—”

You shrieked—half-laughing, half-cursing—as your plate toppled, pizza slice flopping face-down on the carpet. Your back hit the cushions, his weight pressing down, hands braced beside your head. He was smirking. Infuriating.

You glared up at him, breathless.

“I dropped my pizza,” you hissed.

His grin widened. “You’re about to drop a lot more than that, sweetheart.”

“You’re an asshole,” you wheezed, pinned.

“You’re mine,” he said, nipping your jaw. “Big difference.”

And then he kissed you. Right there—on the couch, under the hum of a half-watched show and the sound of grease soaking into the rug.

You didn’t push him off. Didn’t want to.

Not when he kissed you like that. Not when you could still taste pepperoni on his mouth and feel his heartbeat against your ribs. Because this?

This was exactly where you wanted to end up.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

[austinbutlerslovers]

Hideaway

Label Mature 18+

Summary After a long press tour and back to back filming schedule Austin goes completely off grid. He takes you with him to a secluded mountain town where he temporarily recharges in solitude away from the spot light.

💝Romantic Smut💝 Austin sweet • calm • affectionate • overworked • hiding away • at peace • couples dynamics• passionate p in v • cream pie • aftercare

Inspo Based on his last sighting in Colorado-written in a few hours bc he’s officially Missing 😭

Hideaway

It’s quiet in Colorado.

The kind of quiet that fills your lungs with crisp mountain air, where the only sounds are the rustling of trees and the distant rush of a river somewhere down the valley.

Austin wanted this, a break from the flashing cameras, from premieres and press tours, away from always having to be “Austin Butler” instead of just… being Austin.

A secluded mountain town in Colorado is where he decided to temporarily slip out of the spotlight of fame.

Here, he’s just your boyfriend.

The two of you have fallen into an easy rhythm, waking up slow, cooking breakfast in the rental villa’s cozy kitchen, running errands like any normal couple.

He pulls on an old hoodie and a well worn pair of jeans, his trucker hat perched low over his blue eyes as he blends in with the locals.

No one recognizes him when you stop at the little general store or have a fresh pressed juice from the small town café.

It isn’t until you’re at a major grocery store, wandering the aisles hand in hand, that someone finally clocks who he is.

A fan stops mid-aisle, her eyes going wide.

“Oh my god,” she breathes, looking between the two of you. “You’re Austin Butler.”

Austin, ever the gentleman, grins warmly, tilting his head slightly. “I am,” he admits, his voice as soft and easy as ever. “Nice to meet you.”

She fumbles for her phone, nearly dropping it in her excitement. “I—um—can I get a picture? I’m such a huge fan.”

“Of course,” he says without hesitation. —He always obliges, he always makes time.

He takes the photo with her and even asks if she wants to check it to make sure she likes it before flashing her another easy grin.

“Thank you so much.” she says clutching her phone looking up at him star struck.

As she leaves practically beaming you shake your head, watching him with fond amusement. “You really are the nicest person ever aren’t you,” you tease.

Austin grins slinging an arm around your shoulder as you head for the checkout. “I figure, if I can leave someone feeling better than before they met me, I must be doing something right.” He says giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze.

Back at the secluded rental villa, nestled against the mountains, you finish putting the groceries away while Austin stretches with a sigh, rolling his shoulders before plopping down to lay on the oversized couch.

“You look so comfortable,” you tease, as you sit beside him, tucking your legs under you.

He hums, tilting his head back against the cushions, his blue eyes half-lidded in pure contentment. “That’s because I am,” he says, his voice low and lazy.

You slowly lay on top of him, running your fingers through his hair, the shaved cut from his last role finally growing back, thick and soft.

He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch, a low, satisfied hum sounding from his chest.

“How does it feel having a little hideaway?” you ask quietly.

Austin exhales slowly, like he’s actually taking in the question, considering it.

Then he opens his eyes, looking at you with that wise, thoughtful expression of his.

“Like I can breathe easier,” he says. “Like I don’t have to be anything but here with you.”

His words melt something inside you, and you lean forward, pressing a soft kiss on his lips. He kisses you back, slow and unhurried, like he has all the time in the world to do nothing but give you his affection.

Later at night, the two of you make drinks—whiskey for him, something a little sweeter for you—and you slip into the hot tub outside.

The villa sits at the base of the San Juan Mountains, the jagged peaks stretching into the endless star scattered sky, the dark silhouettes vast against the deep blue.

Austin leans back, stretching his arms along the edge of the tub, his head tilted up as he takes in the view. The steam rises around you both and he sighs, glancing over at you with a lazy smile.

You lean toward him, your legs brushing his under the water. “You glad we came here?” you ask.

He reaches for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. “I’d go anywhere as long as I’ve got you,” he grins, squeezing your hand gently. “But yeah… I love it here— I love being with you.“

Your heart swells at the sincerity in his words. “I love being here with you too,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss him again.

This kiss is longer, deeper, his hand coming up to cradle the back of your neck as he tilts his head, drawing you in closer.

The warmth of the water, the crisp night air, the way he kisses you, it all becomes intoxicating.

You pull back slightly breathless. “You want go inside?” you ask.

He smirks slow and teasing “Yeah” he says his eyes heavy with desire for you.

You head to the master bedroom, the glow of starlight spilling through the windows, casting soft shadows across the room.

Your wet swimwear is discarded and forgotten on the floor as Austin lays on top of you, his body warm and solid against yours.

His lips move over yours, deep and unhurried, his hands cradling the back of your neck as he presses closer, kissing you like he never wants to stop.

His breaths grow heavier, his chest rising and falling against yours as he nudges your legs apart, making space.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to look down at you as he lines himself up. “Look at me,” he whispers, his voice low and thick.

You do, and the moment your eyes meet his, he pushes in slow, filling you inch by inch. His lips return to yours as a soft needy moan escapes you, captured by his kiss.

His hands trail down your sides, fingers gliding over your soft skin before cupping your breasts, his thumbs teasing your nipples in slow, gentle circles.

He lifts slightly, watching your face as he pushes in deeper, his hips angling just right.

The sensation makes you moan, your hands clutching at his arms, the pleasure building with every slow, measured thrust.

His blue eyes darken, the heat in them making you even hotter, and your moans turn into soft, desperate whimpers as the pleasure inside you reaches its peak.

He feels it, the way your body tightens around him as you come, the way your legs pull him in even closer as you moan his name.

His hand braces against the bed while the other slides under your back, pulling you flush against him with every thrust.

His abs flex as he drives deeper, his rhythm faltering as he nears his own release.

His breaths turn ragged, little moans slipping past his lips, making you gaze up at him in pure wrecked lust.

His focus is entirely on you, his pupils blown wide, his expression raw with need.

And then, with one final thrust, his hips twitch forward, his body tensing as he spills deep inside of you, a low guttural groan rising from his chest.

He lays down heavily on you as he rides it out, pushing into you one final time, his breaths becoming a soft broken moan as he fills you completely.

For a moment, he stays there, chest rising and falling against yours, his skin warm and slick. His forehead rests against your temple, his breaths mingling with your own as he slowly comes back to himself.

Then, with a deep exhale, he presses a soft kiss to your lips before carefully pulling out.

The loss makes you whimper, and he soothes you instantly, caressing your hip as he eases off of you.

He lays on the bed beside you, his body heavy with exhaustion and satisfaction and you shift closer, wrapping a leg over his waist, placing your hand across his chest where his heart beats steadily beneath your palm.

Austin hums, content, his fingers trailing lazily up and down your spine, grounding you both in the quiet intimacy of the moment.

You tilt your head up slightly, pressing a kiss to his shoulder as you can see how at peace he is. “Are we ever going to go back ?” you grin.

Austin lets out a soft, lazy laugh, his fingers slipping into your hair, trailing gently. “We’ll go back.” He smiles.

You kiss his jaw, tightening your leg around his waist a little more as he pulls you closer.

“Let’s stay here just a little longer then,” you smile.

Austin sighs happily, pressing a kiss on your forehead. “Just a little longer.” he agrees softly, his hand still tracing gentle patterns along your back.

As you gaze through the floor-to-ceiling windows together, the stars shimmer brightly above the jagged Colorado peaks, and wrapped in the warmth of Austin’s embrace, you both fall into a deep peaceful sleep.

End 🏔️

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[tongue-like-a-razor]

There Are Limits

Pete "Maverick" Mitchell x F!Reader

Summary: Maverick's new female friend brings out your spiteful nature. And seeing you with a new man is harder on Maverick than he'd like to admit.

CW: age gap, student/instructor dynamic, swearing, drinking, and did someone say bring on the angst?? Because you know I can deliver..

WC: 4000+

This is Part 5 in the There Are Rules universe.

“Captain?”

Maverick looks up when you step into his office. He’s sitting on the edge of his desk and there’s a woman standing between his legs, so close, she might as well be in his lap. When you enter, she steps away half-heartedly, looking slightly annoyed that her conversation with Maverick has been cut short.

Maverick’s cheeky grin falters when he sees you, and he clears his throat as he hops off his desk.

“Lieutenant,” he says. “How can I help you?”

You stare at him in shock, not sure how to react. The last several weeks haven’t been easy; in fact, you and Maverick have barely spoken since your mutual decision to terminate your romantic relationship. But seeing him with another woman is a whole new level of difficult.

“Lieutenant?” he says, lifting his eyebrows worriedly. He doesn’t bother to introduce his companion, with whom he is obviously very familiar.

You swallow around the lump in your throat and exhale slowly. Maverick isn’t the only expert in self-regulation. It’s a skill that’s proven quite useful, if not invaluable, during your tenure in the navy. And, although it’s always come naturally to you, recent events have seen that you receive plenty of practice. “Sir,” you say promptly, saluting Maverick in an entirely professional manner, as if you’ve never even had his tongue down your throat. “It’s about next week’s squadron dinner,” you say.

It's true that you meant to speak about the dinner – about how you were planning on skipping it to avoid an ever vigilant Cyclone who's been watching both you and Maverick like a hawk. Moreover, the less you see of Maverick these days, the better.

But the scene before you has severely shifted the trajectory of your plans. And the next thing that comes out of your mouth is hideously unrehearsed. “I was wondering if we were allowed a plus one,” you blurt out, your eyes darting pointedly between Maverick and his female friend.

Maverick stares at you mutely, as though it’s taking him a minute to process your request. “You want to bring a date?” he then asks, his eyes widening and subsequently narrowing in a matter of milliseconds.

You feel like you might sweat right through your uniform with the way he’s staring you down, but you stand your ground defiantly. “If I may,” you respond unemotionally; the way you’d address any other superior.

Maverick nods slowly, glancing at the woman who’s currently rifling through some papers on his desk. You ignore how comfortable she seems in his office, like she’s been here plenty of times before. “I don’t see that being a problem,” he says. “Who’s the lucky…?” His voice trails off and he lets out a nervous laugh. “Should be fun,” he finishes, giving you a wide, artificial-looking grin.

You smile back at him. “I agree.”

…

“Boyfriend,” Maverick says, his eyebrows shooting upward for a moment before he checks himself and pulls at the collar of his jacket as if it’s suddenly an uncomfortable fit.

You try not to acknowledge his reaction and instead introduce your date to some of your squadron mates. You’re not sure why Sam has decided to put a label on your relationship at this exact moment, but you’re not going to argue semantics in front of the one person you wouldn’t mind buying into this spectacle.

“It’s new,” you hear Sam blurt out, presumably cowering under the scrutiny of Maverick’s gaze.

You make a point not to look Maverick in the eye because you’re still upset about walking in on him last week when he was clearly otherwise engaged. But when Sam walks ahead, busy conversing with the other aviators, you feel a finger brush gently over the back of your hand. You pull both hands behind your back and square your shoulders to face your instructor.

Maverick is watching you solemnly. “This is good,” he whispers, although the tilt of his eyebrows says otherwise.

You can’t express how much it hurts to hear him referring to this situation as good, and yet, you nod, grinning rigidly. “It is,” you say, pausing to give him an opportunity to come clean about his own blossoming relationship.

But Maverick does nothing of the sort. Maverick is as unreadable as ever.

You’re about to walk away when the woman you’d seen in Maverick’s office appears from behind him. She nudges him on the shoulder to get his attention and shoots him a brilliant smile.

Maverick gives her a polite nod before turning back to you. “Lieutenant,” he says. “I’d like to introduce you to an old friend of mine.”

The woman beams at you and holds out her hand. “I’m Charlie,” she says.

You shake her hand and return her smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Charlie,” you say. “Are you an instructor at Top Gun as well?”

She chuckles, throwing Maverick a flirty glance. “Not for a while,” she responds, looking back at you. “Not since this one made me rethink that particular career choice.”

Maverick drops his head with a laugh. “Sorry about that, by the way,” he says.

Charlie shakes her head. “Don’t be,” she replies. “It all worked out.”

Maverick nods, looking at her affectionately. “Charlie went on to bigger and better things. And by bigger, I mean she went on to design rockets.”

“Wow,” you say, both impressed and jealous of the woman who seems to hold a special place in Maverick’s heart.

“And look at how far you’ve come,” Charlie says to Maverick.

Maverick grimaces. “I’m right back where I started,” he remarks. “Full circle.”

“You’re right back where you’re meant to be,” she says earnestly. “And I’m proud of you.”

Maverick shifts his weight uncomfortably, hooking his thumbs through the belt loops of his jeans. “We better grab a seat before Cyclone has an aneurysm,” he says.

You turn to see Cyclone watching the three of you with an irked expression from the table reserved for your group at the restaurant. He shakes his head ominously as you make your way toward the others. When the three of you arrive at the table, he mutters, “How gracious of you to join us.”

Maverick glances at him with a slight smirk but doesn’t say a word while Charlie lets out a small chuckle, taking her place beside Maverick at the table.

You lower yourself into the seat next to Sam, right across from Maverick and Charlie. Cyclone is sitting to Maverick’s right, aggressively perusing the menu.

“I hear the fish tacos are good here,” Maverick notes when Cyclone lays his menu down on the table in frustration.

Cyclone gives him a sour look. “Not a fish person,” he responds tartly.

You stifle a laugh, exchanging glances with Charlie, who is also snickering.

“There are non-fish tacos as well,” Maverick points out.

Cyclone nods grumpily. “Yes, I saw the entire section devoted to the various tacos they serve. I can read.”

Maverick bites the side of his lip to contain a grin. “Enchiladas,” he continues quietly, as if to himself. “Quesadillas, chiles rellenos…”

“I want a burger,” Cyclone declares, flipping through the menu anew.

Maverick shoots you an amused glance. “Let’s start with drinks,” he suggests, sliding a draft beer menu in front of his superior.

“Good idea.” Cyclone sighs theatrically, rolling his shoulders to loosen some tension.

“Hey, d’you want to share a couple of dishes?” Sam offers, tapping you on the arm to get your attention.

You glance over at him quickly, having almost forgotten he was there. “Sure.” You nod enthusiastically, even though it’s the last thing you would ever think to do.

Once all the drinks and food arrive, and you and Sam awkwardly try to allocate your respective shares of the dinner, Charlie pipes in. “How long have you two been together?” she asks, gesturing at you and Sam.

“It’s new,” Sam, the self-proclaimed boyfriend who has yet to work up the nerve to even kiss you, reiterates quickly while you chew on a quesadilla.

You wipe your mouth with a napkin before confirming, “Not long.”

Maverick’s eyes rest on you for a split second before he returns his attention to the ceviche in his bowl.

Meanwhile, Cyclone regards you with a dubious expression. “Where did you meet?” he asks gruffly.

“Through some friends,” Sam responds excitedly, as though it’s the most fascinating fact of the evening.

You take another bite of quesadilla and avoid looking directly at any of the three people sitting before you.

But Maverick cuts the silence short. “Is it serious?” he asks, and both you and Cyclone shoot him threatening glances. Charlie looks up from her plate, trying to interpret yours and Cyclone’s abrupt reactions.

Sam, meanwhile, is smiling blissfully to himself as he pokes at the contents of his fajita before rolling it up. “I’d say it has some potential of getting there,” he says.

You nearly choke on a pepper upon seeing Maverick’s expression transform from mild amusement to unequivocal displeasure. His jaw muscles contract as he forcefully stabs at his dinner with a fork.

Sam clears his throat nervously and speaks in a noticeably higher pitch, “Of course, I can’t predict the future.”

You roll your eyes and put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “It’s none of his business, anyway,” you say.

To Maverick’s left, you see Charlie’s jaw drop slightly in her shock at your informal – bordering on impolite – addition to the conversation with your superior officer.

Cyclone chuckles quietly, finally appeased by your interaction with Maverick. “At last, something we can all agree on.”

Maverick smiles politely. “I was just making small talk,” he says, laying his fork down without finishing his meal.

Cyclone gives him a flat look and leans forward to address his friend. “Charlie, how long are you in town?”

While Charlie and Cyclone engage in conversation, Maverick catches your gaze inquisitively, as if he’s trying to figure you out. His eyes are so penetrating, you feel like he can see right through you. He must know that your relationship with Sam isn’t even close to being serious. He must know that you’re probably going to break it off that very evening. He must know you only brought him because you were hurt and you wanted to hurt him back. Because Maverick has reconnected with someone of significance and is involved in something meaningful.

You tear your gaze away from him irritably. You’re about done letting Maverick stir up your emotions without so much as saying a word. You’re about done caring for a man who’s done nothing but cause you pain.

You rise from your seat and excuse yourself, heading for the bathroom near the back of the restaurant. No sooner do you break through the door, than you collapse onto the nearest sink and break down. You don’t even care that your mascara is leaving streaks down your cheeks, or that the tears are clouding your vision. You don’t even care that your hands are gripping the basin so tightly that your fingers are cramping.

You glance up at your reflection in the mirror; pathetic. How did you let yourself fall this far? This hard? This fast? You run the tap and dab some cool water on your skin, patting at the trails of makeup that your crying spell has left behind.

You take a deep breath, staring at your glistening face with a scowl, preparing yourself for the remainder of the evening. But just as you make your way for the door, it opens, and Maverick enters.

You jerk back in surprise, despite his history of showing up in places he isn’t supposed to be.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

You panic. He knows. He knows that you ran away to cry. And this makes you furious. “I’m fine,” you respond curtly. “You shouldn’t be in here,” you add, gesturing to the door behind him.

He pulls his eyebrows together like he isn’t quite convinced. “You’re not okay,” he says.

You grit your teeth in anger. He can’t just ignore you for weeks and then try to comfort you like he gives a shit about your feelings. “Why are you here, Maverick?”

Maverick presses his lips into a thin line and breathes out steadily. “I was worried about you.”

You scoff resentfully. “Don’t be.”

Maverick sighs and lowers his head. “I can’t help it.”

You attempt to keep your voice even despite all the shaking your body is doing. “You better go, Captain,” you say spitefully. “Before Cyclone finds us. Or Charlie.”

He watches you soberly. “You asked me to stay,” he reminds you.

You stare wistfully into his eyes. He’s right, of course. You’re the reason he’s still here. Your relationship with him has been strained but civil since the incident on the carrier. There has been a mutual effort to avoid unnecessary encounters, and an unspoken understanding that, while romance is out of the question, it will take some time for both of you to move on completely. Obviously, you did not expect him to move on by moving in on someone new. Or old, in the case of Charlie, because the two of them go way back, apparently.

You struggle to remember why you’d wanted this – wanted him to stay despite knowing that nothing would ever come of it. In the moment, you were desperate not to lose him. But watching him carry on as though nothing ever happened between the two of you is absolute torture. You’d rather not witness just how little you actually meant to him.

You shrug. “Error in judgement, I guess,” you respond coldly, echoing his words from the night Cyclone had caught the two of you in the parking lot of the Hard Deck.

Maverick nods. “Been there,” he says pensively before turning to walk out. Just before he does, however, he glances back at you and adds, “I’ll wait out here until you’re ready.”

“Don’t,” you say.

Maverick meets your gaze with a weary look. “I’m not leaving.”

“What’s Cyclone going to think when the two of us come back together from the bathroom?”

Maverick shrugs. “I have no control over what Cyclone thinks.”

“What’s Charlie going to think?”

Maverick pauses in the doorway. “What’s Sam going to think?”

You roll your eyes. “He won’t even notice.”

Maverick watches you quietly for a moment, then says. “I doubt that very much.”

You lick your lips as a fresh round of tears threatens to obscure your eyesight. The fact that Sam isn’t here to check on you but Maverick is has not escaped you. “Go, please,” you whisper.

Maverick wavers slightly on the spot and, after a brief interval, holds his hand out to you. You glance down at it hesitantly as your stomach flips violently at the though of touching him again. Clearly, you’re angry with him, but the part of you that loves him always wins.

Slowly, you step forward and place your hand in his. He pulls you in the moment you make contact, wrapping his arms around you as he releases the door to the bathroom. He lets his face drop, pressing his mouth to the top of your head.

After a prolonged – mostly silent – embrace, you detach yourself from his arms and give him a nod. “I’m ready,” you say.

Maverick nods back without a word and then opens the door for you.

…

It’s past midnight when you hear the knocking, followed by some irregular footsteps and a string of quiet – but still audible – curse words. After a moment of hesitation, you unlock the door.

“Captain?”

Maverick is standing in the corridor before you, although calling it ‘standing’ might be a bit of a stretch. He’s not exactly stable on his feet.

You glance up and down the hallway to make sure that no one has seen him. “What are you doing here?”

Maverick is watching you with a squared jaw, as though he means to keep the purpose of his visit to himself. He breathes his frustration out through his nose before veering right into the doorframe.

“Sir!” you exclaim, grabbing a hold of his arm like you might have any chance of keeping him upright were he to topple over.

“Sir?” he murmurs, and you could smell the liquor on his breath. He catches your gaze now that you’re closer and, in another moment, his eyes begin to slip down your face before they finally close. “I told you,” he says, his mouth twitching as he grimaces. He pushes past you into the room.

You quickly close the door behind him, hoping nobody heard the commotion. Praying he’ll have the sense to keep his voice down.

But Maverick, it seems, isn’t nearly as concerned as you are about disturbing your neighbors. He rounds on you with a resentful expression and shakes his head. “I knew this would happen.”

You blink at him in confusion. “What?” you say. “What happened?”

“You happened,” Maverick says defeatedly. He takes a step toward you, his eyes flitting between yours as if he’s checking to see if you can relate.

But it’s a weekday and you had just drifted off to sleep when he’d started drumming on your door, so you’re not exactly following. You furrow your eyebrows. “I happened to what?” you ask.

Maverick watches you miserably, taking a step back now, as though he can’t decide which is worse: being closer or farther away from the source of all his troubles. “You two make a fine pair,” he manages to say, but not without a break in his voice.

You purse your lips, looking away from him. You’re not going to comfort a man who’s standing in his own way. After all, it was his decision not to be with you. Besides, Maverick brought his own date to the dinner, so you aren’t feeling overly sympathetic.

Maverick tears his gaze away from you and smacks a hand over his face. “What am I doing here, Lieutenant?”

It’s a fair question, to be sure; one you wouldn’t mind knowing the answer to, yourself. But you’re more immediately concerned about the consequences of Maverick’s unsanctioned visit to your quarters than the reasons behind it. “Maverick, it’s the middle of the night,” you say, shocked at how firm you sound despite the tremor travelling through you.

Maverick’s eyebrows converge and he shifts his jaw as his eyes well up with tears. “Yeah,” he whispers, nodding slowly.

“And you’re drunk,” you add when he takes a step toward you again.

“I am,” he admits, still in a whisper.

You ignore the stutter of your heart as he nears. “You can’t be here,” you warn.

He watches you wretchedly, giving his head a subtle shake. “I can’t,” he agrees.

You can hardly breathe when he finally stops before you, his soft eyes trailing down your face. His hand is coasting up the side of your neck before you even know what’s happening, and by the time his fingertips are hovering at the nape of your neck, you’re so lost in his gaze, it’s a miracle you’re still standing. Unsurprisingly, you aren’t in the state of mind to respond.

“I lied,” he says with a slight rasp despite the effort he’s exerting to steady his voice. “I think he’s terrible for you.”

You blink at him, taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“Sam,” he says. “He’s not the one.”

You pride yourself on your patience and understanding, even in trying circumstances; you’re not an unreasonable person by any means. But even you have limits. And, tonight, Maverick is testing every last one. “Are you the one?”

Maverick stares at you, his eyes swimming. Slowly, he shakes his head. “No, I’m not.”

You breathe out forcefully, astonished at his audacity. There is only so much you can let this man get away with. “Then, respectfully, shut the fuck up,” you hiss, pushing past him aggressively. You whip around sharply and point at the door. “Get out.”

…

The following afternoon in the briefing room, Maverick reviews the morning's flight footage with barely a look in your direction. He doesn’t even comment on the impulsive maneuver you pulled that left your partner confused and resulted in an uncoordinated hustle to regain momentum, costing your team valuable seconds that could have ended in tragedy were it a real dogfight.

Once the briefing is finished and the room begins to clear out, Maverick approaches your desk. “Can I have a minute, Lieutenant?” he asks in a subdued sort of tone.

You glance up at him grudgingly but don’t respond until the last of the pilots have left the room. “Is it about the Cobra Climb?” you ask monotonously.

“What?” He quirks his head in confusion before briefly closing his eyes and shaking his head. “No,” he says, and then adds, more emphatically, “No.” He lets out a heavy sigh and lifts a leg over the chair in front of your desk, sitting on it backwards to face you. “I want to apologize to you.”

You groan. “Not again.”

Maverick steals a glance at the door, ensuring that the two of you are still alone, and then he lays a hand over yours on the desk. “I’m sorry about last night. Showing up at your place – less than sober.” Maverick lowers his gaze with a disappointed frown. “I – I had no right. I have no right,” he says, looking back up at you. His eyes flit between yours imploringly, burdened with all the guilt he carries.

“Stop,” you say assertively, pulling your hand out from under his grasp. You can’t listen to another word. This entire relationship has been a series of failures in self-control, each one a ‘mistake’ in Maverick’s eyes for which he subsequently has taken full responsibility. You rise from your seat and gather your things mutely.

“Y/N,” he says hoarsely, standing up after you.

You shake your head. “I don’t need another apology, sir,” you say bitterly. “I just need some space.”

Maverick nods. “Of course,” he says. “And I’ve been denying you that – and I apologize –”

“I said, stop!” you exclaim, shooting him a threatening look.

Maverick trails you as you make your way to the door – the exact opposite of your request. You rush out of the briefing room, and he follows, not far behind. Thankfully, there’s no one in the hallway because he’s behaving irrationally, to say the least. He reaches for your arm and pulls you around to face him.

You gulp, staggering the moment you meet his gaze, the aching in his eyes undermining your determination.

“Let me finish,” he pleads in a whisper.

You exhale sharply. “Finish, then.”

Maverick slowly lets his hand fall away from your arm now that you’re no longer a flight risk and, this alone, hurts, because you want him to hold you forever. Even when you’re fuming, even when you’re yelling, even when you hate him.

“Seeing you,” he says slowly, evenly, as though he’s trying to compose himself as he’s talking. He takes a breath and tries again. “With another man –”

“Come on.” You scoff, even though your heart is already buzzing at the thrill of making Maverick jealous. “You can’t expect me to not date –”

“I don’t expect that,” he says. “Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”

You think about the way you felt seeing him with Charlie and you’re instantly sorry for causing him that much pain, regardless of whether it was intentional or not.

“I was angry,” he says quietly. “At myself, mostly…” he trails off, moving his head to the side and lowering his gaze. “But also at you. And I blamed you for the way you make me feel.” He pulls his bottom lip under his teeth and grimaces. “But that’s not your fault,” he whispers shakily. “That’s on me.”

You bite into your lip to keep it steady. You wish you could look away because the devastation on his face is undoing you, but you aren’t strong enough. You take a step back and take a shuddering breath. “Please don’t look at me like that,” you say, your voice unsteady. You can barely get a grasp on his words because you’re too absorbed in his eyes.

Maverick’s eyebrows lift inward, as if your request has him concerned – or confused. “Like what?”

You roll your eyes – as if he doesn’t know like what. “Like that!” you respond as he takes a step toward you in alarm. “Just stop!” You sigh in frustration, unable to articulate your thoughts because his eyes are still commanding all of your attention.

“Where am I supposed to look?” he asks, agitated.

“It’s the way you’re looking at me,” you explain angrily.

“Are you listening to what I’m saying?” he asks urgently. “I need you to hear me.”

You shut your eyes and shake your head. “Enough, Maverick!” you exclaim.

Maverick stills immediately, watching you uneasily.

“You’ve been tiptoeing around me, treating me like I’m injured or in need of assistance –”

“I’m not –”

“You are and I’m tired of it. Why didn’t you call me out on the Cobra Climb?”

Maverick stares at you like you’re unhinged. “You want me to reprimand you?”

You let out a heavy sigh. “If you’re going to be my instructor – just my instructor – then instruct me. It was an idiot move and I shouldn’t have done it.”

“You were distracted –”

“You’re making excuses for me! Why?”

“Don’t question my teaching methods,” Maverick says in a low voice.

You scoff, shaking your head. “You’re afraid of confrontation so you’ve been avoiding me. You didn’t even think to give me a heads up about Charlie!”

Maverick narrows his eyes. “What about Charlie?”

“Whatever,” you grumble. “Just don’t stand here and proclaim that my bringing a date to the squadron dinner somehow threw you for a loop.”

Maverick studies you silently so you boldly meet his gaze. His jaw is set but there’s a tenderness in his eyes that nearly draws you in.

“Stop coddling me,” you say firmly.

You watch his Adam’s apple rise then fall as he gulps down whatever retort he decides to keep to himself. His jaw muscles contract once more as his eyes settle over your face.

You tear your gaze away. “And quit looking at me like you…” You sigh, unsure how to describe the inimitable combination of exasperation and affection you see in his eyes.

“Like what?” he asks, his voice rising in volume. You can tell that he’s becoming increasingly defensive as your blows continue.

You’re annoyed that he’s annoyed and you blurt the words out before you can stop yourself. “Like you’re in love with me or –”

“I CAN’T LOOK AT YOU ANY OTHER WAY!” he roars.

You freeze. Stunned by the volume of his voice. Stunned by the emphatic delivery. Stunned at his words.

He turns away in a huff, placing one hand on his hip while the other is balled up into a fist at his mouth.

“This was your idea,” you say quietly as he slowly turns back to look at you. You aren’t the one who refuses to even try, and he needs to acknowledge that.

“I know,” he whispers, his eyes brimming with tears.

You clench your teeth to keep your mouth from trembling. “Then stop,” you implore.

He shakes his head, pulling his lips into a rigid line. “I don’t know how.”

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[hannie-dul-set]

heartbeat conquest — day 2.

SYNOPSIS. you’re sucked into a reverse harem otome game, and there’s only one goal— say the right things to conquer as many pretty boys as you can. PAIRINGS. tomorrow x together x reader. TAGS. social media! au, modern fantasy, reverse harem (of fucking course), romance, humor, a whole bunch of weird dynamics maybe HUAHAHAHAHAHHAAH. inspired by the manhwa with the same title, “heartbeat conquest.”

considering the less than bare minimum amount of information you have on your targets, it wasn’t easy to come up with a decision.

of the five, you have managed to unlock three. sanctuary is choi beomgyu. you have no idea why that’s his nickname when the first thing he does is boss you around. his interest is evident in his 0% conquest rate (for now). from what you can surmise based on the description the system gave you— him being an arrogant and egotistical fuck— you believe you might do yourself and him a favor by humbling him a little. in short, you’re not showing up.

another contradictory nickname to the interaction is savior— kang taehyun. now, what is up with this guy? 

admittedly, you might have slipped up, not catching onto the passive-aggression of his first text, but you were going off of no context, so forming a positive response would have been close to impossible. still, from what you know so far, it would be difficult to figure out what exactly is on saturday. hence, it would be difficult to prepare for.

now lover is an interesting guy. choi yeonjun. he texts you that he misses you and is shocked when you respond because…he thought you blocked him? is your ex? a player? he seems to be an attention-seeker, and you have an inkling that making him want your attention would be the best move. therefore, you’re not seeing him this saturday. it seems like he and beomgyu also know each other. picking one over the other might cause some conflicts.

that leaves two targets that have yet to be unlocked: angel and knight.

both appear to be your typical sweet, polite, soft boy love interests from a shoujo manga.yet that’s all you’re working with for now. it would be best to pick one of them. just to dig in deeper and find out more.

though, you’re meeting choi soobin at two in the afternoon, you’re already out and about by 10:00 a.m.

first, to get yourself familiar with the environment, of course. you had the idea that this is some preppy private university, but the scale of TSC is just atrociously large. there are facilities for almost everything, training grounds for every single field and specialization. how you managed to find your way to EB 201 was a revelation.

turns out you— or the character you’re playing— is quite well-known around campus. as a transferee who got admitted late into your second year of university, your talent having been discovered late.

“it’s the first room up the stairs,” jaeyun tells you, one of the students you’d just asked around for directions. he’s bright and smiley and, quite frankly, very good looking that you almost mistook him for a love interest or target. but all your targets so far seem to have known you. and when you tapped on jaeyun’s shoulder thirty minutes ago, armed with a smile and prettily batting eyes, he seemed to be taken and taken off guard right off the bat, and asked for your name and major. “or...or would you like me to accompany you upstairs? let me carry your bag for you!”

the otome effect is quite impressive. “it’s alright,” you smile at him. jaeyun droops and his energy deflates. “i can take it from here. thank you!”

since he isn’t any of your targets, you feel no remorse leaving him behind while you climb up the stairs, shoulder in bag in tow. and just as jaeyun says, you’re met with the door labeled 201. a beat of hesitation creeps up on you. but there seems to be no other options than to just knock and follow your target’s instructions.

so, you do. your knuckles hit the wooden door. once. twice. three times. knock, knock, knock.

a click and a creak. the door opens to another good looking guy. “hi! sorry to interrupt. is choi soobin around?” but he isn’t the one you’re looking for.

in fact, the one you’re looking for is very easy to find. because even when you take a peek into the room and are met with around six, seven other men, your eyes immediately land on choi soobin.

how? 

because he’s the only one with a big purple heart floating right above his head, with a bright and shining 0% right inside it.

“soobin!” the doorman hollers out with a huge grin. “a girl is looking for you!” choi soobin need not that signal to notice you, because he already has, from the moment he caught your eyes, and you greet him with a smile and  wave. you notice a few of the other guys staring and getting flustered a bit, wavering to bump their shoulders and elbow at your target, coughing inaudible whatevers, yet the percentage on choi soobin’s head refuses to waver, even with the faint pink brushing his cheeks, the shaking of his head when he mumbles something inaudible to his friends.

of course, this game wouldn’t give you the grace of an easy difficulty. looks like this guy is deeper than he appears.

“quit it,” you hear him laugh off before jumping to his feet, getting off from his seat. “you’re giving everyone the wrong idea.” 

“i’m sure we all have a pretty good idea of what’s going on here.”

“later, dude! have fun with your assignment.”

his friends’ insinuating remarks aside, you can’t help notice that despite choi soobin’s apparent easygoing air, with each step that he takes to approach you, you can sense his ease slowly disappearing, melting into a jittery nervousness that’s masked by that same charming, boyish smile you saw on his photo.

“did you wait long?” he says, standing right before you now, giving you the privilege to bask in the perfection that the system described. it almost made you miss the hard swallow he forces in�� right in the second before he takes away the weight of your bag from you. “sorry about that. i should’ve waited outside.”

“oooh! choi soobin, quit flaunting your moves!”

choi soobin shushes them. you use it as a chance to get a better look inside the classroom. “not at all,” you reply, and it doesn’t appear as though they were just conducting a meeting. why is he saying that he should’ve waited outside when he instructed you to knock and ask for him? “let’s go?”

he looks at you, smiling ever so perfectly. “sure.”

now, in order to avoid any massive fuck-ups, you made sure to look through all the shit in your dorm room earlier. anything that can provide some hints and contexts of this damned gamed that you got sucked into. you discovered that you were majoring in international relations. you discovered that your class with choi soobin is a just a simple elective on organizational communication, and all there is to your paired assignment is to write a report on max weber and henri fayol’s bureaucratic theory and scientific management, and would take an hour maximum to do so you don’t get why choi soobin was making such a big deal out of it.

he’s hard to understand, that’s for sure. you don’t get what his motives are. especially when he’s pulling out all the fucking stops by opening the large, library door before you could even more your arm an inch, by dragging your chair out for you before you could even reach out for it. “do you want to rest for a but? i’ll cover the sunlight for you,” he says, when he can just pull down the blinds because he led you to the tables next to the window because “the view is pretty here,” he says. and when you suggest to transfer to a less crowded spot because people started pouring in at two-thirty, he strongly went against it.

“it—it isn’t that crowded yet,” cho soobin argued. “do you mind if we transfer a little later?”

how odd. what’s even more odd is despite all of his explicit acts of interest—

“what’s— what’s wrong? is there something in my hair?”

why is that floating thing above his head still at zero?

“nothing,” you hum in response, smiling. choi soobin looks mortified at the prospect of something unbelonging in his hair that he whips out a hand mirror. “will you excuse me for a bit?”

he settles down the mirror, a hesitant hand lowering down to the desk. “o—oh. yeah, sure,” he responds. “will you take long?”

“would it be a problem if i will?” you bounce back. he shakes his head and tells you to go ahead, carry on, attempting to reshape his distraughtness with a practiced smile of ease.

hints? progress? what? you can’t dwell on the sudden updates from this damned system, because when you look up from your phone, you see soobin surrounded by a lot of people. different people. not the same ones you saw from the classroom earlier. “you ditched hanging out with us to work on an assignment?” one of them says, jokingly. soobin denies it with a laugh. “aren’t you working on that new pretty transferee from IR? did she ditch you too?” another one raises. well, you already know that the premise of this game has your name floating around and about. it feels weird to hear it upfront, though.

“haha, no, she just left to answer some texts.”

soobin’s defense sounds weak. he’s brushing them off with the same easygoing attitude. “you really went for it, huh?” one of them hums, nudging him. maybe this is your cue to interrupt. “i told you you two would look together! didn’t i?”

ah. it definitely is your cue to interrupt.

“soobin?”

ding!

“should we get back to work?”

the moment you step in, you see it— that mocking percentage flickering from zero to one. 

1%. huh.

that’s interesting. 

“yeah. good timing.”

choi soobin looks at you with an expression that you can only describe as gratefulness.

“sorry, guys! we still have a lot of work to do.”

this is interesting, indeed. you’re surrounded by a bunch of expectant eyes of bystanders left and right, like they’re watching a movie right before their eyes— and you and choi soobin are the main leads. this is quite the situation. and your co-star appears to be both nervous and relieved: relieved that you showed up, nervous while waiting for you to react or respond.

now, how should you deal with this situation? and how do you settle the other four you just ignored?

NOTE. the questions are a bit abstract this time HUAHAHAHAHHA hopefully they aren’t too difficult to answer 😭 i personally hate the limited response choices in otome games bcs most of the time, i won’t act or say in ways that are readily provided. i hope ur all the same as me so u can enjoy this game too 😞😞😞

also, i’ve received feedback that they’d like their actual names to be put instead of the nicknames, and dw!! i will change it to their real names once all of them have been unlocked HAHAHAH.

as usual, answer the form linked above to progress the story. i will close the form once i’ve reached a consensus in the responses. hope you’re all still having fun!! thank you for joining in!!

DAY 1 | DAY 2 | DAY 3 (LOCKED) . . .

heartbeat conquest. © hannie-dul-set, 2024.

[sleepingdeath-light]

yandere hcs + s/o who is okay with his behaviour hcs ; emmet

requested by ; anonymous (17/07/23)

fandom(s) ; pokèmon

fandom masterlist(s) ; here

character(s) ; emmet

outline ; “I NEED YANDERE EMMET PLEASE RAAAAGH!!! 😭‼️ (and an s/o who’s ok with it because they take it as “awwww he loves me” but they don’t understand that this man is at “I’d kill Arceus for you” levels of love 😂)”

note ; this isn’t as overtly yandere as some of my other posts, but i can’t see emmet going the whole way and slaughtering people for his s/o so much as he just gets a bit obsessive over them (also i haven’t written for him in a while so apologies if this is a bit shaky lol)

warning(s) ; yandere!emmet, obsessive behaviour, possessive behaviour, unhealthy dynamic

emmet had always been a peculiar character in your eyes, even before the two of you became an item, so you never really thought to question some of his more outlandish behaviours when it came to your relationship

his possessive streak and obsession with you were, to you at least, as normal as his unwavering grin or his repetition of ‘i am emmet’ whenever he was speaking to someone — they were just another part of him that you accepted as any loving partner would

(it’s also not the most obvious to others unless they know him extremely well, such as his brother or their mutual best friend, and even then he typically just dismisses their concerns and goes back to being his energetic, ever-smiling set without ever really addressing how different he gets around you)

he still talks about you as his partner to anyone who will listen — and even to those who are very obviously not paying any attention to a word he’s saying — but his remarks take on a much darker and more possessive, even obsessive, tone that’s easy to miss if you don’t pay him much mind during battles

for example, he’s made a great many remarks to other trainers about how he’d do anything to keep you safe and by his side — remarks which include him being more than willing to battle, or even outright kill if it came down to that, any legendary (even arceus himself!) that came between the two of you

(a couple of trainers that managed to see the disturbing genuineness underpinning those statements have gone out of their way to find and warn you about your boyfriend’s obsession, but ended up being even more put-off by your response to their worries — that being anything ranging from neutrality, acceptance, or endearment at his ‘love’ for you)

although he’s still as passionate about trains and pokémon as ever, you’ll find him much less likely to talk about himself with you in favour of just sitting and listening to everything you have to say as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world (even if it’s something as objectively mundane as talking about what you almost had for lunch a few days ago) — he’ll interject every now and then with encouragement and questions that range from cute to concerning (e.g. ‘i am emmet. what did you do after that? i am emmet.’ or ‘i am emmet. that sounds very frustrating. would you like me to talk to them for you? i am emmet.’), but still it’s incredibly rare that you’ll get to hear about his day once his obsession with you has truly taken hold

he only ever addresses you by name or as his spouse (husband/wife/partner/whatever your label of choice is) even though you’re not actually married — legal distinctions don’t matter to him and he already knows that you’re the love of his life so he sees no point in waiting for some ceremony to show you off as ‘his’ to the world

before his obsession set in he was already very comfortable with public shows of affection and wasn’t ever embarrassed to do things like link arms with you, peck you on the cheek/lips, or anything else like that around others unless he was actively engaged in a pokémon battle — but now it’s like he’s gone from an eight to an eleven and you’ll never go long, when you’re around him at least, without him touching you in some way

an arm around your waist, pulling you against his side or chest, linking your arms, holding your hand so tightly you fear it may just break, peppering your face with kisses, etc. — all of those displays are common place for the two of you, and he’s even happier when you’re the one initiating and reciprocating (especially if you’re around others as it appeals to that possessive side of him that likes letting others know that you’re not just taken, but that you’re happily and eagerly taken by him, emmet, and nobody else)

he hasn’t yet been given a reason to kill someone for you, and in the moment he may not even go through with it, but he’s certainly offered to do so on multiple occasions whenever you mention someone annoying you, flirting with you, or otherwise making you uncomfortable — he’s also been known to go harsher on trainers that have shown interest in you in battle whenever you visit him at work (partly to show off to you and partly to put them in their place)

[lovewash3d-doll]

🎀How to Write Complex Characters🎀

………………………………………………………………………….

It’s very easy to get wrapped up in the plot and forget all about characters and their developments. Heroes can morph into perfect Mary Janes and villains can be simply labeled as pure evil and have no perspective in the story. Realistic characters elevate your story, engage your reader, and truly make your writing something worth caring about! Here are tips to help avoid those stereotypic characters and be more authentic in your writing!

1. The importance of character faults

There isn’t a single perfect person in this world; everyone has some kind of fault. Characters are meant to mimic humans and humans aren’t perfect whatsoever. As much as readers don’t like unlikeable characters, it’s hard to like and relate to a perfect one too. The kindest person can be overly envious of others and the bravest person can be brave for some morally grey reason. Negative character traits tend to stem from some inner struggle: a forgotten child may be afraid of being alone and constantly seek out and cling to others, or someone who’s been made to feel insecure may constantly compare themselves. A character doesn’t need a tragic backstory or traumatic occurrence to have a personal struggle!!! Everyone has some kind of complex! Different dynamics in their life, experiences, and social influences may have created it. It’s so important to showcase these traits and vulnerabilities within your story and scenes in which they are applicable. Revealing these negative traits is a great way to start character development.

2. For every good trait, there is a bad one.

“If you go too left, you go right” is an aphorism that even applies to making characters! A character can be a good leader, but they can also be overly controlling or too independent. A kind character can be overly selfless. A smart character can have bad social skills. Every positive personally trait can be inverted into some fault. Whenever I have too many positive traits attached to a character or am just starting developing one, I always make a T-chart. One column is for good traits and the other is for bad. For every good traits, I think of its extreme and fill in the chart to ensure there’s a balance of positives and negatives!

3. Let Your Character React

Sometimes as writers, we take too much liberty over our scenes and forget that for each occurrence, circumstance, or piece of dialogue, there is a reaction. These reactions and the actions and thoughts they manifest in drive your story. To make characters as authentic as possible, make sure to acknowledge the emotions that could occur in the scene. For example, if a character is embarrassed in a significant way, don’t simply describe their cheeks as resending. Do they later ruminate on the embarrassing moment as they walk home? Does it evoke or reinforce any previous thoughts? How would u truthfully react to a situation? My writing improved when I took that into consideration!

4. Incorporate Character Thoughts

Something that really changed the game for my characters is incorporating their thoughts— whether I narrate them or directly include them in italics with a “she thought…” dialogue tag. It simultaneously forces you consider your character perspective and reactions more! It’s very helpful to see into the mind of your characters! Here are some examples:

Alice sat at the kitchen table, chin pressed into her hand, wondering what she could possibly do. She was too afraid to follow the white rabbit down the spiraling hole— particularly in fear her governess would take notice— but the rabbit’s image had imprinted itself upon her mind so fiercely. Alice sighed as she aimlessly stirred her cup of tea: she see-sawed between decisions with each clank of the teacup.

“Whatever will I do!” Alice thought, sitting at the kitchen table, “I can’t possibly follow the rabbit down its hole, but I can’t seem to brush it from my mind…” She stirred her tea and sighed, “maybe I’ll follow it down the hole quickly and be back from lunch!— No Alice! You don’t know how deep that hole is. What if you’re stuck there forever!— Maybe I’ll bring a rope!— where will I even find one?!”

5. Distinct Dialogue

Another aspect of complex characters, is ensuring each one is distinct from the rest and that two characters don’t murk together! Each character should have a unique tone to their perspective and demeanor, and unique vocabulary and wording in their dialogue. Are some characters more pessimistic than others? What catchphrases do their have? Do they tend to copy what others say? Test your character’s distinctiveness by copy and pasting randomly selected dialogue (without their tag) and matching them to their speakers! This will ensure your characters are both memorable and unique, as every human is. People tend to use different sayings and approach situations in their own unique way, that’s been influenced by their own experiences and those around them. Characters can have their own attitudes toward topics, and may reply differently based on that. Doing so, you can show both a character’s personality and past!

please reblog!

XOXO,

lovewashed doll 🎀

[thesubswhisper]

The Power of Wording & Self-Representation in the BDSM Lifestyle

In the beginning of my journey, I knew I had a wild, rambunctious side. My body craved intensity, and I wanted to explore that part of myself. When I came across the label “brat,” I ran with it—it seemed to fit. But finding the right Dominant was tough. Brats carry a stigma of being “too much,” and many Doms didn’t have the patience or the drive to truly engage with that energy.

Then, I started using the terms “primal brat” and “primal prey,” and everything shifted. Suddenly, I wasn’t just seen as defiant—I was seen as someone who needed the thrill of the chase, the struggle, the rawness of it all. It opened up a whole new avenue where I wasn’t just a challenge; I was an experience. Since my mentality had always been on the rougher side, stepping into that primal space felt natural. It was exactly where I was meant to be, and I thrived in it.

So let’s break down how I got a different perspective

When a Label Limits You

At first, I thought calling myself a brat was just the natural choice—I was defiant, playful, and needed a Dom who could match my energy. But the more I leaned into it, the more I realized that brat came with baggage. The Doms who approached me either:

• Wanted to break me down, not build me up

• Assumed I was disrespectful or exhausting

• Didn’t actually have the patience or skill to handle that kind of push-pull dynamic

It wasn’t that I wasn’t a brat—it was that “brat” wasn’t painting the full picture of what I wanted. I didn’t just want to misbehave. I wanted to be chased, challenged, and conquered. That’s when I started experimenting with different labels—primal brat, primal prey—and suddenly, the right kind of Doms started showing up.

Why Wording Changes the Game

The words you use to describe yourself aren’t just words—they’re signals.

• Some labels come with stereotypes that don’t match what you actually need

• Others attract the wrong energy, setting you up for disappointment

• Changing your wording can open doors to new dynamics that actually fit you

For example:

• A brat might sound like a playful challenge to some, but to others, it screams “too much work.”

• A primal brat suggests that your defiance is tied to the thrill of the chase, not just testing limits for the sake of it.

• A primal prey makes it clear that you want to be caught—but you’re not making it easy.

How to Reframe Your Identity Without Losing Yourself

If you feel like your label isn’t getting you what you need, try this:

1. Write down what you actually want from your partner.

• Do you want strict discipline, playful teasing, or a mix of both?

• Do you crave structure or chaos?

• Do you want to be tamed or pursued?

2. Find words that match your energy.

• Instead of “brat,” would “playful submissive” fit better?

• Instead of “submissive,” do you identify more with primal prey, kitten, or even rogue?

• If you’re a Dominant, are you actually a hard-ass, or are you more of a patient, strategic handler?

3. Test it out.

• Change your profile descriptions.

• Introduce yourself differently in conversations.

• See what kind of responses you get and adjust accordingly.

It’s Not Just About Words—It’s About Energy

At the end of the day, you are more than just a label. You can call yourself anything, but if your actions and energy don’t match it, you’ll still attract the wrong people. The best way to find your place in the lifestyle isn’t just slapping on a title—it’s:

• Understanding what you need

• Communicating it clearly

• Letting your vibe match your words

In the end

If you’ve been struggling to find the right partner, maybe it’s not because you’re too much or not enough—maybe you just haven’t found the right wording to attract the right energy.

Next, I’m diving into how to actually find the right dynamic beyond labels. Because once you figure out how to describe yourself, the next step is making sure you find the partner who actually fits. ❤️

[byoldervine]

If you're aroace, do you still write romance? If so, do you do it differently than allos do?

Tbh it’s made me very cautious of writing men and women because no matter what straight allos seem to think they’re flirting and would make a super cute couple. Back in my fic days that was often how I decided to have my characters date; I’d get loads of comments saying they couldn’t wait to see how X ship pans out when in reality it was just two friends having banter. And romance always seemed to be like a requirement in every story; if you don’t include at least a subplot where the main characters get together, what’s the point in creating them? Even if that mindset isn’t true

But just to show how my sexuality did indeed influence my writing - as well as my writing actually influencing my sexuality - I’ll give you guys an example:

I’ve mentioned it before but there was one character called Indigo who I wrote in an atrociously-written HTTYD fic on Wattpad back when I was like thirteen - all the comments were saying she was totally in love with another character, Plasma, and how they couldn’t wait to see her accept these feelings she has for him

Reminder; I had no intention of having them be in a relationship

But I decided to lean into it and explore why people perceived it this way, then used another character to be raising all the points. I did admit that, looking back as an older and more experienced writer, I did once or twice say things that implied more than intended because I didn’t fully understand the innuendo of them back then, but there was even some newer stuff that I just couldn’t figure out

So I tested my theories; I had the characters banter more, being very careful in that first chapter to keep it purely platonic, and people were going crazy about the flirting. So I figured if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em; I leaned into it, explored the idea of Indigo having feelings for Plasma. Let her get conflicted on it, let her vent that she had no idea what this kind of love feels like, just generally used it as an excuse to vent my own feelings on romantic love in general. I identified as bisexual at the time, but was starting to question things, so I just poured it out onto Indigo because it did work for her character and her general attitude to relationships of any form

Half the comments were about how they were worried about the ship and how Indigo had to realise her feelings soon - but the other half was people predicting that Indigo was aroace. I challenged my readers more directly to guess Indigo’s sexuality and asexual or aroace was the biggest guess. And so I leaned into it again and brought Indigo into what’s all but labelled as a QPR with Plasma, just to see how it goes, and in the meantime I was looking into asexuality. I think you can figure out how the latter went

But I guess what I learned from all of this when it comes to writing romance is that, at least for myself, it’s surprisingly easy to get people shipping them; have a guy and a girl banter. I’ll have to test in future if this works for visibly queer couples, but in general my go-to for flirting is just casual banter and so far it’s done the trick with my other old fics. I’m not flirting, I’m just sarcastic and British

What really scares me is writing sibling dynamics and other familial relationships because if I can make things flirty without even trying then how will this be perceived?

[cherriesfm]

[ … ] ❀ you’re not from around here , are you? i figured because you totally just missed ALEXANDRA "ALEX" PEREZ walking by. don’t tell me you don’t know who SHE/HER is ? they kind of look like ANA DE ARMAS and i could be wrong but i think that they might be THIRTY-FOUR years old right now. they’ve been living in palmview for the last THIRTY-FOUR YEARS. and i don’t know if anyone has ever told them this before but they kind of remind me of FIONA GALLAGHER from SHAMELESS. if you stick around the town long enough you might catch them in action working at SEAGLASS DANCE ACADEMY as a DANCE INSTRUCTOR. you see this town isn’t really that big of a place, some folks like to call them the ANCHOR of palmview! they took a liking to the name too after a while, go figure. oh crap, they must have heard me yapping. they’re coming this way. i got to warn you though, rumor has it they can pretty ANARCHIC at times. i wouldn’t take it too seriously though, from the times i’ve spoken to them they seemed pretty FERVENT to me. we see each other all the time since they live in that THREE BEDROOM apartment beside me over in OCEAN'S EDGE. i better leave you to it. it was nice meeting you!

musings. pinterest.

୨୧ STATS

full name: alexandra perez.

age: thirty-four.

gender & pronouns: cisfemale. she/her.

sexuality: pansexual.

occupation: dance instructor @ seaglass dance academy.

label: the anchor.

counterpart: fiona gallagher / shameless.

୨୧ BACKSTORY

tw: alcoholism, addiction, neglect.

alexandra perez displayed a talent in ballet from a very early age, showing extreme discipline and grace. when the world got too loud, she knew she could tune it all out at dance class.

growing up the oldest perez sibling, it wasn't always easy to just disappear. there were a lot of expectations to set a good example for her siblings.

it became significantly harder when at the age of 17, her mother walked out on them, leaving a heartbroken father and five children walking on eggshells around him, trying to navigate the new family dynamic without the one person who held them together most of the time.

at first, it was him just leaving the house at odd hours of the night, then it was whenever he was faced with the task of actually being a parent. then it took a complete turn for the worse by alex's 18th birthday.

by then, her father had become entirely consumed with his addiction, neglecting his duties as the head of the house and leaving alex to deal with the aftermath. her celebration for earning a scholarship at the dance academy of her dreams was cut short when she realized her siblings needed her more.

it was then that alex picked up whatever jobs she could find to keep food on the table, put her siblings through school and juggle all the responsibilities of managing the perez household. everything became about them, her entire life taking a backseat.

her parents will often times try to come back or repair what they broke but alex doesn't trust them anymore. she has deep love for them but she's also very heartbroken because of what they put her through.

her love life is literally not even on her mind, she always thinks of her siblings first and often puts them before any relationship.

currently works as a dance instructor because it's the closest she can get to dance again but it also hurts because it reminds her of what could've been if her parents just had their shit together.

୨୧ PERSONALITY

puts literally everyone else first

short tempered but only because she's very stressed all the time

is constantly torn between finally letting herself live her life and still taking care of her siblings

very impulsive sometimes

leave before you get left type of person

୨୧ WANTED CONNECTIONS

ride or die

childhood friends

one night stands / exes she left for her family

fwbs/situationships

high school sweetheart

childhood crush

[girl4music]

I’ve just watched the first season of South Of Nowhere.

For a typical American high school drama… I am pleasantly surprised at what I saw. It’s not my genre of TV art/entertainment at all. I like action/fantasy and supernatural stuff BUT they’re very sincere and hit on themes I really cared a lot about. There was really good acting and there is a slow burn WLW lead character dynamic. One of which is actually bisexual… I think. Honestly, I can’t really tell since she keeps referring to herself as a lesbian but she clearly isn’t. I guess that’s just because it was much easier to say you were either gay or straight and not “all of the above” or “in-between” as people loved to think of it as back then.

It didn’t feel like bierasure. I liked the honesty of it. Especially with the whole “I’m not into labels” line. I often say something like that myself if “bisexual” or “queer” doesn’t cut it for people. I can’t make it any clearer so I just say “I’m unlabelled”. Yeah, that works.

It’s fast-paced but it’s easy to follow along with what’s going on. The storytelling is well paced all throughout and the representation is very substantial. I like the fact the girls spend a lot of the time talking about it rather than immediately sexually “experiment” to figure it out because I often find that that’s too taboo to do. To talk about sex and sexuality. Especially with each other. I liked a lot that they don’t just rush into it. That they seriously consider the consequences not for other’s sake but for themselves. Spencer especially seems to want to be able to figure it out on her own terms and they leave the season off on that. That’s perfectly fine.

Cannot believe I’ve never heard of this TV show before.

Looking forward to watching Season 2 tomorrow.

I hope this WLW ship makes it. They’re really cute.

[a-couple-of-notes]

trick or treat!

Ah! Hi! I got one!

The prompt list was super non-specific when I reblogged it, so that's on me. I'm currently percolating on a missing scene fic for Episode 9 of AAA (that conversation between Rio and Agatha I so dearly, dearly wanted) but since, like any good writer, I have not put a single word to paper--have some Stray Gods instead!

When we did the holiday exchange (10 months ago now? holy hell), I ended up writing an extremely long hidden identity tutoring fic. But before that, I started drafting a Grace & Athena fic where they team up to bust Medusa out of U.S. military experimentation. It would have come complete with trauma, a very Kickass Grace, and some twisty Athena and Medusa dynamics. Eventually, I decided the scope of that fic wouldn't work for the holiday exchange, so I put it aside.

---

In all fairness, Grace knows as soon as she gets home that it’s going to be a weird day.

Freddie and Pan have draped themselves across the couch, bickering, squashing Apollo and Hermes unceremoniously into the remaining half a seat. Oracle is frantically digging through their drawers for...something? (And wow, she’d forgotten she had that poster.) Even Persephone has made an appearance, leaning casually against the wall as though she’s above all of this.

“How come you don’t have an Ethernet cable?” Oracle whines. “I mean, I get Paul, but—”

Freddie stops side-eyeing Pan for a moment to answer her: “Uh, we totally have an Ethernet cable! It’s just that we also have a thousand other cables covering it.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“Hey!” Freddie yelps, twists around on the couch, and finally spots Grace standing in the doorway. One uncoordinated scramble later—Grace loves her dearly, and breathes a quick sigh of relief that their coffee table is so damn sturdy—she’s standing in front of Grace, practically vibrating with news.

Grace smiles wryly and kicks off her boots. “I guess you’re gonna tell me why all of these guys are at our apartment again?”

Freddie matches her smile, lets it soften her excitable energy. “It’s, uh. Bad.”

Well, there go her hopes of something easy: a cool rock star suddenly discovering Idol powers, or old friends coming out of hiding, or hey, somebody’s birthday. But those hopes had never really been high to begin with. Even with everyone moving past old trauma, working their way toward becoming better, happier people, the fact that all of them got it together enough to visit has Grace’s nerves tingling. 

She closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Please tell me it’s not another murder.”

Freddie chuffs softly, taps the back of her hand like they’re still in school and Grace isn’t paying attention. “You look like our English teacher in seventh grade,” she says, just as Persephone raises her head from the wall and cuts in, “It might be simpler if it were a murder.”

“So violent,” says Pan. “I happen to think the complications make it rather delicious myself.”

“I happen to think you should put labels on all these stupid cables!!”

Grace is about to tell them all where she happens to think she should put her fist—mortality be damned—when Apollo looks up sheepishly from the couch. He still hasn’t moved, since Hermes has fully decided to use his shoulder as a pillow. Under any other circumstance, Grace would find their cuddling adorable. “It’s not a murder,” he says. “I—apologize for barging in like this. It’s not a murder, but it is a bit of an emergency.”

“It’s Medusa,” says Persephone, and a solemn energy falls over the room. Grace senses it even without the Muse powers that had once lit up her chest: the unease, the sorrow. It pings something inside her, like a tuning fork struck against the core of her.

“Tell me what’s going on,” she says firmly.

[istanchan]

Are Pat and Kawi “bad characters”?

I usually don’t go on TikTok to read discourse about shows. But I happened to stumble across this while looking for edits and it just made me so frustrated.

So op made a post about how they can’t stand Pat and Kawi from step by step and be my favorite. They went on to talk about how they don’t even understand how Jeng and Pisaeng deal with their respective partners. Honestly I didn’t really feel like talking about it but with the tens of other people agreeing with them I couldn’t stop myself.

There’s a lot to unpack here but starting off with explaining why the two characters act the way they do helps.

With Pat I feel that most people who watch the show forget that there is a 10 year age gap between the characters (and the actors). While that may not seem like a lot, the fact that Jeng is Pat’s superior and his social class plays into their dynamic and Pat’s behavior. I am more convinced now then ever that the purpose of Step By Step was to portray a realistic representation of how it would be to date your boss. It’s messy and hard to work through. Pat’s character at times is an emotional wreck, I’m not going to deny that, but he still manages to be mature even when his boss and his partner (I don’t think it’s appropriate to label jeng as his boyfriend) isn’t. Jeng completely disregards reality in episode 10, he leaves Pat to handle the brunt of the gossip. Pat after trying to talk with Jeng to mediate the situation, ends up doing what he thinks is best. His character is raw and real and messy at times but I enjoy watching it nonetheless.

As for Kawi, I feel that it’s not fair to judge his character right now since only 6 episodes are out and we haven’t really gotten to the climax of the show. His character is still growing and learning. But honestly in my opinion Kawi as a character is easier to comprehend and understand than Pat. I don’t think Kawi acts completely unreasonable. He does makes mistakes but he tries his best to fix them and better himself. Again like in step by step there is the factor of social class that comes in between Pisaeng and Kawi. Pisaeng is rich and is well known around campus. Kawi struggles to see how a guy like Pisaeng could like him.

It seems this is the common denominator for Pat and Kawi—their insecurities. And to me that’s a completely reasonable factor. For us as the audience it’s easy to rule out what behaviors we would want to change or fix with character we watch, but if we were in their shoes would act completely dissimilar? Life isn’t black and white, and making the right choices isn’t alway easy. I feel that many shows and especially these two show this.

This whole discussion takes me to this wonderful post that I think about all the time when I’m watching BL shows now:

By/For/About Queers Part 1 &

By/For/About Queers Part 2

Both be my favorite and step by step have proven to realistically portray queer experiences. While be my favorite still has way to go I’m surprised by how the writers handled Pisaengs road to discovering his identity. Talking about BL shows in the light of which ones are really for queer or and not just about queer people changes the perspective. I think this plays a small role in why these two shows may be hard to understand the characters pov. Many people that watch BL shows aren’t queer and even some who are, don’t watch BLs for to sympathize with a queer perspective. Many just use BLs as a way to escape this heteronormative world, and that’s honestly completely okay. I do it too sometimes. But that doesn’t undermine characters like Pat and Kawi or even Jeng and Pisaeng.

At the end of the day each person is entitled to enjoy media however they wish, that’s the beauty of the internet. So I don’t have any animosity towards op and all the commenters. I’m glad they have a different opinion so I can share mine.

[no-pennies4thoughts]

Being in a very mogai-infested fandom is pain, but I'm probably most annoyed by demisexuality being so rampant as a HC. There is no reason for that label to even exist. I just came across a fanfic and decided to read it just to see what the author considers to be "demisexual" and:

[[Casual intimacy isn’t his thing if he’s being honest. The idea of sex without the weight of romance isn’t something he feels he’s comfortable with.]]

That's... literally normal. In fact, it's what I was specifically taught as a child was normal. That sex should only be had with the person I loved, and preferably was already engaged/married to. Because my family is catholic and that's their conservative opinion on sex.

It's totally fine to not be into one night stands or other hookups, but you are not a different sexuality because of it, otherwise being catholic is also a sexuality I guess.

(I didn't proof read any of this, so apologies now)

Gonna go off on a tangent here, but I swear it's related:

Growing up I watched a lot of Disney. And something I noticed a lot in any non animation show or movie, was just how rich everyone was. A house would have only a father and daughter, but have 5 bedrooms, 3 baths, a massive living room and dining room, and a state of the art full blown security system that at the time I didn't actually believe could actually exist cuz no 'normal' person could have that. And that would be the standard for many movies that were very much supposed to be realistic in the settings. They'd even say these people have average jobs. Even the apartment in wizards of Waverly place was HUGE. With each kid having their own bed rooms significantly larger than mine. They literally own a family restaurant that they live upstairs in. But the apartment was bigger than my childhood home. And this is coming from a kid who grew up middle class, the most well of between all my friends. If I were to base what the normal American home looks like based on the media I watched as a kid, I would have a very warped idea of what homes look like. If you actually look at the stats, not even my middle class home is normal.

Mainstream media is produced by rich people (the workers under them not so much, but the actual person in charge generally), and that can easily give a bias or warped view of what's "normal." This is even more exaggerated by the fact that characters in mainstream media are designed to be interesting not normal.

So if you're basing your idea of attraction, dating, sex, etc on what you see in the media, it's going to be warped. Which I feel like ties into your comments quite well.

Usually when I see people try to explain what is and isn't normal for experiences of attraction I get examples of media and fiction. Usually examples of characters having one night stands or being playboys. Which:

1. Flirty play boy characters are common in the media because it's easy to make them a dynamic character. Giving them character development or to gain special feelings quickly give them a whole new perspective that audiences love (this isn't a bad thing for the record).

2. Most irl people who are like these fictional characters don't get nearly as many one night stands as they or the media claim. They aren't nearly as much of a player as they seem. And they're also usually pretty annoying unlike the characters in the shows who are made to be likeable. It's unrealistic in the first place.

3. Media itself is not a good standard of what is normal as it's entirely biased on what the producer deems as normal or average. See my tangent at the beginning. The characters aren't a good way to figure out what's "normal."

I have had people explain things usually actual people as examples which I think ties into my earlier rant in exactly the same way.

How you view the people around you (or more accurately your perception of them) is biased. You have a limited social circle and can't really base what's standard for society off of it. I'm guilty of this too. We all are. It's a very natural thing to assume everyone is like the people that you have experienced with-- for better or for worse..

If you're in your teens and have teenage friends, it's gonna be really easy to feel like they're all obsessed with sex or dating. It's a new thing that you're (hopefully) just now really learning about and exploring. It's easy to go a little overboard with something new. And it's also normal to not be interested in something new. Some kids are gonna be really into dating while others aren't. Some are gonna go from one person to another, others aren't. Cuz no one knows what they're doing. No one knows their boundaries yet. No one knows what they want outta relationship yet. They're figuring it out. Whether you are interested in it or not-- both ends of the spectrum and everything in between is totally normal.

As a young adult you're still figuring things out so it's the same thing. Your own journey to figuring out what/who/how/where you want a relationship is gonna be unique then someone else's. It's normal for each person to have a different journey. This alone isn't some new identity.

Lastly, on a final note. The amount of people who want "sex without romance" is a lot smaller than we're led to believe. And the people who do feel that way are the ones who are abnormal. They may have trauma that influences it, they may not. They could be likeable, they could not. They may be abusers who just want someone to abuse, they may not have any ill will at all. They may be a shitty person, they may not. Regardless, our society pushes "romance goes with sex" a whole hell of a lot more than "sex and romance are separate." Like... a lot so. Historically and in the modern day.

So if your entire reasoning for a whole brand new identity is "I want to connect before we date or have sex," I need you to know how much that is actually extremely normal. And how much you've been influenced by biased media, possibly a shitty friend or ex, and just a warped pov in general (not necessarily of any fault of your own).

[desertfangs]

Daniel for the 'send me a character' thing

Send me a character and I'll do the thing!

Sexuality Headcanon: He’s definitely on the bi side of the scale, but I think he skews a lot closer to gay and probably identifies more as gay, especially in the 70s in the circles that he and Armand traveled in. Although I don’t think Daniel has ever been particularly picky about labels applied to him in that sense, either.

Gender Headcanon: Daniel is the opposite of toxic masculinity. He can be masculine and he has body hair for days, but he’s generally soft-spoken and gentle. Cis, but not worried about being manly enough, you know? 

A ship I have with said character: Armand/Daniel is my OTP of all time. I think he and Armand are just two halves of a whole and they make each other better. I absolutely think they’re soulmates in the deepest sense of the word. There’s the joke that Daniel is sort of Armand-sexual but I think it’s sort of true. Armand is the love of his life and the feeling is mutual. 

And sometimes Daniel/Marius? Please don’t hurt me, but I go back and forth on whether I see him and Marius as romantic. The first time I read PL, it felt very platonic. Marius had spent a long time as Daniel’s caregiver and while they’re obviously close and connected, it didn’t read to me as anything romantic and the asexual in me longs for more platonic ships in this fandom. But I think the vampires can have a lot of intimacy without getting hot and heavy (this is true of humans too btw). I do think as a romantic ship, it's hot as hell and tbh I’ve written it both ways. I can enjoy it both ways! But in my personal fanonverse, it’s something I waiver on a lot. I do think they’re good together either way!

A BROTP I have with said character: Daniel and Lestat (it’s a BroTP with benefits, bonus points if it’s with Armand as an OT3). They just have a fun dynamic. They can get into trouble together and cause chaos, but they also sort of even each other out. Daniel allows Lestat to open up a little more than he usually does because he’s a good listener, non-judgemental, and adept at asking the right questions. Lestat allows Daniel to vent about Armand (in an affectionate way - we all need to get things off our chests!) and he appreciates Daniel’s sense of humor and wit. They both liking having fun and doing random shit.

A NOTP I have with said character: I don’t know that I have any real NOTPs with him. Maybe Santino? I don’t personally see him having any sort of romantic relationship with Louis, I see them as being friends who both have great love for Armand, but I’m not bothered by the idea either. 

A random headcanon: When Daniel was recovering from his madness, Armand sent him an iPod when he heard Daniel sometimes got overwhelmed by noise. Daniel became obsessed with the podcasts at the time, mostly radio shows, things like Radio Lab, This American Life, and Stuff You Should Know. After he moves back into Trinity Gate, he and Armand listen to his favorite episodes of these together and have long discussions about them afterward. 

General Opinion over said character: I think Daniel is neat. He’s affable, he’s friendly, he’s good at making conversation. He’s curious and up for almost anything, which is why he and Armand work so well. He’s funny and has a dark, sardonic sense of humor. He laughs easily, maybe too easily, but he’s pretty easy to get along with. He’s generally pretty agreeable but he isn’t afraid to speak up when necessary. He’s a cool dude. I dig him. 

[dwtdog]

dnfweek day 1 the chains out now :3

full fic below the cut :3

Dream is in love with his best friend. Has been, for quite a while, even if he was a bit slow to realize it. And now, after months of waiting to meet, more months spent adjusting to being in person, and a late-night confession, he’s still hopelessly in love with his best friend, who is also his boyfriend.

He has a love-hate relationship with that word, boyfriend. When he’d just been on the verge of figuring himself out, it had scared him. Too many hours of sleepless nights of playing out scenarios in his head, realities where his romantic partner wasn’t a girl like he’d always been told they would be, always a dark-haired figure taking the place of the imagined male partner.

And when acceptance had come, there had only been one person he wanted to talk to about it. And when a teasing British voice had said the word over a never-ending Discord call, it had been freeing. Easy acceptance, no change in their dynamic.

And on the night of their confession, an earnest conversation following a kiss that had been the slowly built product of a lifetime of tension, the word hadn’t seemed enough.

George had been his partner for years. They were a team in many ways, filling in where the other fell short, always lending an ear or offering just the right words. And to Dream, romance was a natural extension of that. It was so them, to be partners in every possible way.

So when George asked what they were, Dream had hesitated. Did their label need to change? Was what they were something that anyone but them could understand? He didn’t know, but he knew who he could talk to about it.

“What do you think we are?” he whispers, not wanting to break the calm of the night as he parrots George’s question back to him. They’re both laying in Dream’s bed, facing each other and close enough that their breaths collide above the pillows.

George smiles softly and Dream wants to touch the crinkles that form at the corners of his eyes. “I asked you first, idiot,” he teases. “But if you have to know, I guess we could be boyfriends.”

The word. Dream’s not sure how he reacts, but judging by the way George’s mouth quirks, he must be making a face. “You think?” he asks, careful. He’s wary of the feelings twisting his stomach, unsure of their true origins.

“Well,” George starts, eyes meeting Dream’s and holding the contact, “You like me, and I guess you’re alright so, what else would we be?”

Dream rolls his eyes at George’s ridiculousness, even as a warm fondness chases away his prior worries. “Boyfriends,” he says, tasting the word on his tongue. It fizzes, like a strange candy, and he can’t say he hates it. “You’re my boyfriend. George is my boyfriend, Dream is George’s boyfriend.”

“Mine,” George mutters, and there is a brightness in his eyes that Dream isn’t used to that’s absolutely intoxicating.

And it hits Dream with another realization. “Are we going to… Tell people?” he asks.

“Do you want to? And you aren’t allowed to ask for my answer.”

“I- no, I don’t think we should.” Dream sighs. “I mean- obviously we tell like, Sapnap and Bad, but not-”

George cuts him off, “Only the people who need to know. And everyone who doesn’t can fuck off.”

“Well I wouldn’t say it like that, but-” and he’s cut off again, this time by George moving forward.

“We’ll figure it out tomorrow Dreamie,” and his proximity combined with the pet name are enough to completely remove any thoughts that aren’t just the name of the man whose lips are brushing against his as they both lean in.

And they do talk about it more, after that. They take their time, telling people carefully and explaining that they aren’t exactly telling everyone, so keep it quiet.

Sapnap is unreasonably happy, then tries to give both of them the shovel talk in defense of the other. It ends with the three of them cuddled on the couch, Sapnap insisting on being in the middle since he’s sure the two of them are getting enough time together.

Bad cries, and then comes to visit a few days later so he can cry some more and hug them both. Dream cries too, and he doesn’t miss how George ducks his head to hide his own misty eyes.

There are more people after that, but soon enough everyone who deserves or needs to know does, and then Dream has to deal with the hard part, which is holding himself back from bragging to everyone he meets that he’s dating the most beautiful, funny, and ridiculous man in existence.

It becomes a problem when he finds himself wanting to lead every conversation down the route of bragging about George, complimenting him to every stranger he sparks up a conversation with. His sister tells him to get a diary when he comes to her one to many times, so he opens a note on his phone just to store every George-related thought he has.

Depending on his level of intoxication, and the amount of time he’s been physically away from the man in question, the notes get more and more nonsensical. Some of them are so dirty he deletes them instantly, or sends them to George to laugh about. Some are sickeningly sweet, even for him, and he also sends those to George just to giggle at the mix of swooning and disgusted emojis he gets in response.

In the end, he forgoes the idea of the notes and just sends everything straight to George. It’s fun for both of them, and it keeps Dream from exposing their relationship to the masses.

And for a while, he doesn’t even think to consider that George has a similar problem. He knows George, adores him for all the ways he shows his love, but still he misses all the signs.

When they’re apart, whether it be on opposite coasts or just in different rooms, George will always make a joke when they reunite. Some variation of what he’d said on that first day they’d met, ‘Wow, Dream, you look like a god with your unedited video and three energy drink cans behind you,’ or simply holding up his phone to show a timer he’d started the moment they separated, and a number of other absurd little George-isms that Dream cherishes.

It only comes to a head when they’re in a jewelry shop, admiring the gold and silver on display in glass cases.

Dream trails a finger over the chain around his neck, something nice he had bought for himself just before the face reveal. He’s looking at a different chain, with George hovering behind his shoulder.

“Do you think I should get a new one? Cause honestly, I didn’t know much about jewelry when I bought this one, and I don’t think I like it as much as I like some of these,” Dream muses, pinching the chain between his fingers as he talks.

George hums, and Dream tries to get the attention of the girl behind the counter as he waits for a response. “I mean, it’s not like you couldn’t afford it.”

Dream laughs, “But that’s not why I wouldn’t get it- it just feels, I don’t know, wasteful to replace a chain that’s not even broken. Like there’s nothing wrong with it-”

“You could give it to me,” George says, speaking fast, then shrugging.

“You want my old chain?” Dream asks, a little breathless. George wearing his jewelry, wearing something that was his, is a breathtaking image.

“It would be like,” George hesitates, taking a breath, “having a part of you when we’re apart. And it’s like- like a ring, sort of.”

Dream turns to face him, and resisting the urge to pull him into a searing kiss takes every ounce of self-control he has. “Yes, yes you can have it.” He’s breathing hard, and he quickly turns away to focus entirely on waving someone over to get the chain he wants out of the case so him and George can get out of there as soon as possible.

They could have charged him any price for the new chain and Dream wouldn’t have noticed, too caught up in the euphoria of George’s request. As soon as they’re in the car, he’s reaching for the chain around his neck, fingers fumbling as his hands shake with giddiness.

“Oh my god- just let me do it, idiot,” George says after letting him struggle for a few moments. His hands are cold as they push Dream’s aside and brush against his neck, deftly unhooking the clasp.

He moves the chain towards his own neck, and Dream quickly hooks a finger through the dangling metal, stopping him. “Let me,” he asks, pleading with his eyes when they meet George’s.

George blushes. “How are you going to put it on me if you couldn’t even get it off?” he teases, even as he turns in the car seat, pulling his hair away from his neck.

Luckily, Dream’s shakiness seems to have dispersed with the newfound sense of purpose, and he’s deliberate with his movements as maneuvers the chain to loop around the front of George’s neck so he can clasp it in the back. He feels the way George exhales when Dream’s hand brushes against the stubble on his chin, and watches as his shoulders relax when the chain falls into place.

It looks good, and Dream curses himself for not thinking of it sooner.

George turns back around, reaching for the bag in Dream’s lap. “Now let me do yours,” and it's not a question as much as it's a promise, so Dream lets him.

And when they get home later, Dream delights in watching as George pulls his shirt off and the chain sparkles in the low light of his bedroom, falling against bare pale skin. It looks like it was meant to be there, nestled over his collarbones.

Dream takes his own shirt off, and George’s gaze burns against his skin, along his neck, and knows he feels the same.

When George leans over him, the chain dangles directly over Dream’s eyes, and he’s sure he must be a sight with the way his mouth opens in awe, the way his eyes are wide with wonder.

It’s a wonderful thing, to know George is his. And it’s near incomprehensible to know that George feels the same, that same possessive need to have a dedication to their partnership for the whole world to see.