#project highrise | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

quiet-saint · 10 months ago

Text

"𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐢𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞"

Pairing: Vergil/fem!reader, android!vergil/reader

Cw: nsfw/+18, spanking, some light degradation, a little angst, comfort at the end. Reader is a bit touch-starved, didn’t have a good childhood. I think that's it?

Summary: You were assigned an android by your father against your will. Vergil wants to make the situation better for you both but you don’t make it easy.

A/n: Y’all this is pure self-indulgence again. Idk I kinda don't like the way it turned out but i’m throwing it into the void anyway bc i spent way too much time on it. Not really proofread.

ִ ࣪𖤐

It's been a little over a month since your father–whom you haven't had contact with in years—assigned an android of his own creation to you. A combat android, built for protection and fit for bodyguard work. Part of the Sparda line, of which there have only been four created before the entire project was scrapped. Deviancy seemed inevitable.

Vergil doesn't talk much about his brothers and refuses to tell you about Sparda, the first android of their type. Whatever. You don't much care. You don't care much for anything these days, really.

Prior to Vergil's arrival, you lived alone. Apathetic in a shitty apartment on the outskirts of Red Grave City, away from your father's technological empire. You tried for years to get in touch with him but he left you to be raised by tutors and nannies that came and went. As you got older, you didn't want anything to do with him or his advancements in technology. So much so when you turned eighteen you never touched the money your father put into your bank account. Changed your last name and moved away. Thought that was the end of it. Didn't think you'd have anything to do with him ever again.

But here you are, living in a luxury apartment with the android your father assigned to you without your permission. Vergil's very presence dredges up years of resentment and abandonment you thought you buried so deep within you they ceased to exist.

It's no wonder then, why you begin to backtrack to your room as soon as you catch sight of Vergil seated on the couch in the dark living room. You turn on your heel, biting your tongue. You only spent time around him if you had to and even then you tolerated him.

You take a step back toward your room, being as quiet as possible, not wanting to draw the android's attention.

"Come here." Vergil says and you still, inwardly cursing. Of course he heard you. Android hearing and all that. You're certain he knows what your heart rate is right now, your temperature. You take a deep breath and turn back to face the living room, glaring at the back of Vergil's head as he flips a page in his book, continuing to read. Unaffected by the lack of light. Casual and relaxed.

"What?" You say sharply, crossing your arms over your chest in frustration, unable to resist the slight rocking back and forth on your feet.

"I want to talk. Come here." He repeats, with that same low, gentle tone he uses to get you to eat. The windows of the highrise apartment are blacked out, blocking out any potential prying eyes yet giving you a clear, if less bright, look at the large buildings of the city.

"I won't tell you a third time." You drop your arms to your sides and fight the urge to stomp over like a child throwing a tantrum. Slowly you patter over, hallway carpet giving way to smooth wood flooring. You come to stand in front of Vergil. He closes his book with a faint thump, sets it down on the armrest of the blue velvet chesterfield sofa. He then pats the space beside him. "Sit." Spoken like an order. You bite the inside of your cheek but comply, keeping some space between you two. The little lamp on the side stand comes on and you know it's Vergil's doing. You blink a little as your eyes adjust to the change in lighting.

"Okay. Talk." You mumble, glancing over at him. Unfair how he can look so impeccable. He's dressed in a white button up shirt and black slacks. The top two buttons are undone to reveal a bit of his pale throat and clavicle. His silvery-white hair is slicked back in his preferred style.

Vergil's shifts to face you, his knee a hair's breadth from bumping your thigh. He has an elbow resting on the back of the sofa, two fingers along his temple. "Oh? Two words this time. I didn't know you were capable." He says with a teasing lilt.

Your nails dig crescent moons into your right palm. "Did you ask me to sit here just to torment me?"

Vergil chuckles, the sound low, incredibly human and unexpectedly pleasant. "No. I... want to make things easier for you and I." That catches you off guard, your eyebrows pulling together slightly in a mix of confusion and surprise. Vergil is being nice, and you hate it. Hate the way he uses that gentle, patient tone. Hate the way it makes you want to give in and drop your carefully crafted detached demeanor. Hate the way hearing that tone makes you crave his approval. Your knee begins to bounce as you cross your arms over your chest. You huff in frustration as you turn your head to look at him. "Like anything will make it easier to be babysat by a fucking machine?" You snap.

In a flash Vergil grips your jaw, thumb along one cheek and his fingers pressing into your other, forcing your mouth into a pout. "Careful." He whispers leaning in, artificial breath warm as it fans lightly over your face. You can't speak clearly with the way your lips are pressed into an unwilling pout. Your eyes narrow as you catch the faint upturned corners of his mouth, anger flaring at the sight. His grip on your jaw lingers a moment longer before releasing.

"I don't need a hunk of plastic to—" You're cut off by Vergil's right hand fisting the collar of your shirt, exposing the warm soft skin of your tummy. You gasp in surprise. Vergil wastes no time in using his hold on your shirt to haul you over his lap, draping you over his thighs with ease. The action knocking a bit of air from your lungs. Your hands press flat along the rough area rug of the living room, your socked feet slip a little as you attempt to push yourself up and off his lap.

"I was wondering when you'd break." A warm hand comes down to press at your lower spine, resting just above the waistband of your jeans, the tip of a pinky slipping teasingly below the denim. The small skin to skin contact makes you dizzy, causing you to still, heart stuttering in your chest as your breathing becomes shallow. "W-what the hell are you doing?" You ask, craning your neck and pushing up on your hands to try and look at him, hair getting in your face.

Vergil's free hand reaches down to wrap delicately around your throat, not applying any pressure. No squeezing. His touch is soft, near feather light. Grounding, even. Vergil removes it in favor of giving your hair a brief stroke as if you're some pet in his lap and not a grown adult. He leans down a little.

"You," he begins voice quiet and a little rough in the low light of the living room. "Are going to say Yamato if you feel unsafe. Or if this gets to be too much."

Your breath catches in your throat, heat pooling in your stomach immediately even as your brain is slow to piece this all together. "W-what?" You ask in disbelief but there's heat low in your tummy and Vergil's hand on that bit of exposed skin above your waistband. Comforting, teasing, and intoxicating all at once. "I want you to say it now." Vergil's voice is a coaxing purr. You swallow, tongue darting out to lick at your lips, mouth suddenly feeling dry. "Y-yamato." You stammer, face hot as you hang your head.

"Good." Is all you get before Vergil's hands go to your jeans, fingers hooking in the waistband and pulling the denim halfway down your thighs. Swift and rough. You gasp, fingers digging a little into the area rug below you. Vergil runs a hand up the back of your right thigh, thumb brushing along the crease where your ass meets it, just below the edge of your underwear. You begin to squirm.

"I've been wanting to correct your behavior for a while now." He says and you huff in indignation. "M-my behavior is fine."

Vergil scoffs and pinches your ass cheek harshly. You jolt, a squeak tumbling forth. "Excluding the rude insults from a moment ago, you're rather... polite most of the time, yes." Vergil replies, running his palm over the area he pinched soothingly before giving a light squeeze. You moan softly. Embarrassment and molten want swirl in your stomach, your senses in overdrive. Vergil snickers. "But even I get tired of one word answers and sulking. I think I might have more of a personality than you." He says dryly as he grips the waistband of your underwear, bunching it up and pulling the cloth taught against your slit and you can feel how slick you've become. You press up a little on your toes, gasping as he pulls the fabric tighter, nearly wedging the fabric in your middle.

"Ah, wet already." Vergil all but purrs as he ghosts his thumb over the damp spot with his free hand. Your breath catches in your throat, heart beating wildly against your ribcage. He clicks his tongue in mock disapproval. "I've hardly done anything, dear. A few touches and a pinch really get you that worked up?" You whimper in humiliation as Vergil tugs the material down to rest under the curve of your ass.

Without warning Vergil's palm connects with the soft skin of your right cheek, stinging and sharp and aching. You cry out in surprise. "H-hey!"

"I want an apology." Vergil states coolly, rubbing and gently squeezing the reddening flesh of your rear. Your mouth struggles to form words, head full of want. Vergil scoffs and smacks harshly against your left cheek this time. Once, twice, three times before doing the same to your right. He hits sharp and hard, stealing the breath from your lungs. You've never been spanked before, haven't received any real physical discipline growing up. Your nannies and even your father in your early years opted for isolation. You wonder if you'll bruise. The thought shouldn't make you ache and leak but it does, hole clenching around nothing. "I-I'm sorry!" You squeal, panting as your arms tremble from holding a bit of your weight up at the awkward angle. He could have laid you over his lap on the sofa but you suspect Vergil wanted the position to be a little uncomfortable.

"Oh you can do better than that."

You swallow and collect yourself as best you can. "I'm sorry for calling you a hunk of plastic and a machine." You mumble, slumping a little, head hanging once more, hair hiding your face. Humiliated and turned on, out of your element and overwhelmed. The word yamato rests in your throat at the ready but you don't want to say it. You don't feel as if you need to.

Vergil hums as if in thought. "And? What of your behavior?" He asks, soothing his palm over the pink heated skin of your ass. You nod in understanding. "I'm... sorry for that, too. I-I'll stop... sulking." You stammer, the words awkward on your tongue. When was the last time you had to apologize for anything? When was the last you actually had anyone to apologize to?

"Better." Vergil murmurs, pulling the fabric of your underwear back up to cover you and you whine, aching and needy. Vergil hushes you as he pulls your jeans up to your rear. He taps your hip and helps you stand. His pale fingers tug at your belt loops, pulling you close to stand between his spread legs. Your hands go to his shoulders for support as your knees feel a tad weak.

Vergil looks up at you from his spot on the sofa, maintaining eye contact as he pulls up your pants the rest of the way. An unnameable intensity in his pale blue gaze. He smooths out your shirt, however the collar of it is stretched from Vergil using it to haul you over his lap.

"Sit with me." A soft command. He leans back against the blue velvet sofa, draping an arm along the back of it. The ache between your thighs begins to fade. You've never been in this sort of situation before. Fuck. You've hardly had a meaningful conversation with Vergil and you certainly haven't been spanked until tonight. Although it wasn't much. A million questions flood your head but you don't have the energy to ask them or word them properly.

Overwhelmed you fall back on simply listening. You settle onto the cushion beside him, ass aching. Vergil moves his arm from the back of the sofa to pull you further into his side. He tucks some of your hair behind your right ear.

"Are you alright?" Vergil asks and you nod as you stare at your lap. He sighs and his free hand comes up to gently grab your chin so you're forced to look at him. His brows are knit together, mouth set in a slight frown as he looks you over. "Come here." He says, not really waiting for an answer before reaching and pulling you into his lap, his arm moving from your shoulder to wrap around your lower back. Your left side grows warm as it's pressed to his front and his right hand rubs over your hip in a soothing manner. Unsure of how to respond to Vergil's affectionate physical contact you stiffen momentarily. You haven't been hugged since... when? You can't remember.

Gradually, you will yourself to relax, allowing your head to rest on his shoulder. You'd expect an android to smell like plastic but Vergil smells good. Like sandalwood and vanilla with the faintest hint of something metallic. Does he wear cologne? You wonder. Vergil's hand not on your hip goes to your hair, stroking softly, palm sometimes grazing your cheek. It feels good to be held. It's warm here. Safe. Secure.

A lump forms in your throat. Heat creeps into your cheeks as your vision blurs. A soft, broken sound leaves your throat as your lashes grow damp and spikey from tears that slide down your cheeks to trail down your chin. Vergil sighs again and you sniffle. A small strained "'m sorry" leaving your lips. Vergil shakes his head, using the pad of his thumb to wipe away the tears under an eye. "Don't be. I was prepared for this sort of outcome." You huff a quiet laugh against his shoulder that's more air than anything. "H-how did you know I'd cry?" You ask, sniffling as you blink back more tears. Vergil resumes stroking your hair. "Going off your behavior and your history, there was a high probability you would react this way."

"You can... calculate that?" You whisper.

Vergil hums. "Not accurately." He answers but doesn't bother to elaborate further.

Tired but not as overwhelmed, the gentle stroking of your hair and the warm hand on your hip has your limbs growing heavy.

"It's alright." Vergil murmurs, lips near your forehead. "You can sleep. We’ll talk more about this tomorrow."

As much as you try to fight sleep in an attempt to drag this moment out, to stay here, held and warm and wanted, it's impossible. Your body grows lax and your eyes fall shut.

"Sleep well." Vergil says, low and whisper soft against your hair.

ִ ࣪𖤐

Y'all idek...

#vergil x reader #vergil sparda x reader #vergil/reader #vergil sparda/reader #vergil x you #vergil sparda x you #my writing #lwk don't fw this 😔

82 notes · View notes

constantkwrites · 3 months ago

Text

City of Stars Ch.5 (Officer K x Reader)

gif credits

Words: 8009 (I went insane on this one) Masterpost | Chapter 6 (in progress)

comment if you want to be tagged in future chapters

tags: @loriiisthings @birdandherblog @lilyletham @cherrylush117 @zanydruid1985

**********

The Inspector works long hours, longer than most. K follows as she leaves the precinct. She doesn't take a Spinner– doesn’t have one. He wonders if it’s by choice or circumstance, but the answer doesn’t change anything.

Instead, she boards a rickety transport. A ground bus that looks barely held together, its engine wheezing like it’s on its last breath. K follows in his vehicle through air traffic.

The bus rattles its way past Greater Los Angeles, past places that barely qualify as part of the city anymore. The highrises thin out. Glass and steel give way to skeletal ruins, the remnants of abandoned expansion projects. The neon glow of downtown gives way to flickering lights, then to nothing at all.

No one sane comes out this far.

The bus heaves to a stop. She steps off.

They’re at a cemetery.

K steers his Spinner down a few blocks away, kills the engine. He follows on foot. He keeps a safe distance moving between mausoleums and tombs, watching as she weaves her way through the graveyard’s uneven paths.

It's a forgotten place. Pre-Blackout. Some of the grave markers are smooth as river rocks now, their names erased by time and acid rain. It would be hard to see in this low light, but not for K.

She moves with purpose, navigating easily in the low light.

She's been here before.

K watches as she stops at a grave.

Whose is it?

A friend? A family member? Someone she lost on the job?

Farhadi?

No. The LAPD wouldn’t let his body rot in the outskirts of LA. They would have kept him close, buried in one of the sanctioned sites, a name engraved in polished stone. This is a place for those who slipped through the cracks. Those who never belonged.

She stays there a long time, silent.

And then, she reaches into her coat–

–and brings out a rose.

A rose.

Is it real?

He watches the way the petals catch the dim light, the way the stem bends just slightly, soft with fragility.

It must be.

No man can capture the raw beauty of nature, no synthetic imitation could ever match the fullness of it. The flush of its petals, the deep red. It is perfect in a way nothing in this city is.

It must’ve cost her something. A flower like that? Not synthetic, not one of those cheap fakes sold in the city. This one is real. Grown somewhere, cut fresh.

A thing not meant to survive in a place like this.

Carefully, quietly, she leaves it on the grave. A wordless devotion, left for someone who meant the world to her. Someone who deserved a gift of genuine beauty, even if it can only last a moment.

She doesn’t leave right away.

She sinks down onto the cold earth, next to the grave. A slow exhale as if shedding the weight of the day. Her arms rest over her knees, shoulders slump forward. She’s comfortable here. Familiar. She’s done this before.

Then, she speaks.

“Hey,” she says, quiet. She’s talking to the grave. “I’m so sorry I took so long to come back. I know I promised I’d visit more… I’m bad at promises.”

Her chin rests against her knee. "Long day. Long week."

A pause.

"Long life. Ever since you left."

She huffs, tired. "You’d hate it here."

K listens.

“The precinct’s worse than ever. I think they’re going to can me soon.” She shifts, runs a hand down her face. “Or worse. Bury me in paperwork until I suffocate.” A humorless snort. "They want me to fail. I swear to God, they’re throwing obstacles at me just to see how long it takes before I finally break. And it’s like– I got a fucking case to solve." The words come out harder, laced with frustration. "It’s big. Cops might be involved in a trafficking ring. Serious shit. And no one wants me to get anywhere near the truth. Course they don’t. Pigs protecting pigs. Nothing new."

K logs every word into his VID-7. A sleek rectangular scanner of sorts, LAPD issued. Perfect for recording audio, location, images.

The Detective displays open distrust toward LAPD. Possible disloyalty.

Joshi will want to see this.

Then–

"Oh, I didn’t tell you. I got a new partner. Well… not exactly new. It’s been a week or so. His name’s K." A deep breath before she continues. "I don’t know what to think of him. He’s calm. Way calmer than I’ll ever be." She huffs, almost amused. "Never talks. Makes it hard to figure him out."

She pauses, then laughs.

And it’s–

Beautiful.

K likes the sound.

He shouldn’t, but he does.

“He’s really handsome though.”

K pauses.

The recording stops. He doesn’t restart it.

For a second, he wonders if he misheard her.

But something in him tightens. A feeling. Fleeting. Unnameable. A sensation, something that makes him too aware of himself. The shape of his own body. His long face, his aquiline nose. Engineered and artificial.

He’s a model. A product. Good looking, yes, in the way all of his kind are– not that K sees it, anyway.

But hearing it like this–

Soft. Unassuming.

Not a critique. Just a thought spoken into the air, like it means something.

She laughs again, light, easy. Like the idea genuinely amuses her.

Like it’s good. Like it’s true.

His pulse spikes half a beat faster.

K exhales, steady. Tries to ignore the way his skin prickles, the way his fingers flex against his palm. The instinctive need to respond. To correct her, maybe, or to ask why.

He swallows. Forces himself to refocus.

She continues, unaware of his tense presence.

"Mister Perfect. Calculated and collected. He seems to have his shit together. Literally everything that I am not. It should piss me off..."

K exhales through his nose, waits for the rest.

"But it doesn’t."

She hesitates a bit. "He can be a little rough, though. Like the time he pulled me off some guy. I was gonna beat the shit out of an asshole and he yanked me off.” A snort. “But to be fair, the bastard punched K first. Unprovoked. So…” She trails off.

“I know you’d disapprove… but I’ve seen it happen too many times. Saw it happen to you. I should’ve stopped it. Should’ve done something… and I didn’t. I was too young. Too weak.”

She drags her fingers through the dirt, absent, restless. Trying to distract herself, maybe. Trying to smooth over a wound that never really healed.

Then–

"I think he’s lonely."

K’s breath stalls. Not a sharp intake, just a sudden stillness, like something in him stopped working for half a second.

Still not recording.

"He just follows orders. He doesn’t seem like he wants to be here." A pause. "Anywhere. Not in the precinct, not with Joshi. not in his own skin. Something’s wrong. I don’t know what, but…"

She trails off. Shakes her head.

K doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe too deep.

"It’s like he doesn’t know what to do with himself unless someone tells him. Maybe that’s why Joshi likes him."

K looks down at his hands.

"I don’t think he knows what he wants," she continues after a pause. "Or maybe he does, and he just doesn’t think he’s allowed to have it."

His throat feels tight.

"I get it." She leans back against the worn stone of the grave, tilting her head skyward. The city isn’t visible from here, no stars, no highrises cutting into the clouds. Just open sky, wide and empty.

"I don’t think he likes me very much. He’s just–" she stops again, struggling for the words. "He keeps everything so close. I don’t know if it’s fear or caution. Maybe both. I want to ask him, sometimes, if he’s alright. But I don’t think he’d tell me."

She’s right. He wouldn’t.

She just looks at the grave. And looks tired.

This… unsettles K.

She’s not supposed to see through him.

K is a ghost in his own skin. He is careful. He’s meant to be careful. He keeps his head down, keeps his movements precise, keeps his emotions– or what feels like them –buried beneath the surface. Nothing to latch onto, nothing to pry apart.

But somehow, she sees him anyway.

No one wonders about him.

But she does.

He watches her, sitting there, tired and soft-spoken in the dim light, her words slow and thoughtful. She shouldn’t be thinking about him.

K swallows. His pulse ticks in his throat. His muscles coil, tense. He fights the impulse to do something– to step back, to walk away.

He clenches his jaw, resets himself.

This is dangerous.

Not because of the job.

But because for a fraction of a second– too quick, too quiet, almost nothing at all–

He doesn’t hate it.

He crushes the thought before it fully forms. He shouldn’t want this.

And yet–

His hand tightens at his side.

And yet.

Before he can stop himself, he brings his hand up and sinks his teeth into the soft flesh between thumb and forefinger.

A rare thing for him to do.

But it grounds him.

The pain is sharp, immediate. It pulls him back to something solid.

She reads him too well. Sees too much. It’s not supposed to be like that.

He presses his teeth down harder. Feels the sting. The warmth of his own skin against his tongue. The small manageable shock of being in his body– something he so often forgets.

This, he understands.

Not her words. Not her.

She sighs, fingers drumming idly against her knee.

K lets go of his hand, flexes it once, twice. Feels the ache settle deep into the muscle. The sting lingers. Good. He needs it to.

She drops her head forward, looking at the grave like she’s waiting for something. A response that will never come.

Softly, almost absently, she speaks.

"I’d like to trust him. I think he’d make a good friend."

As if she’s imagined a world where he is someone worthy of trust.

Of something more.

"Sorry for talking too much," she says. "I know you don’t mind, but still. I’ll be back. I won’t take this long next time."

She pushes herself up, brushing dust from her coat. Glances down one last time. Her gaze lingers on the grave, on the rose. K watches as she hesitates just for a second.

Then, with another sigh she turns and walks away.

The recording is unfinished. Words half written. K stalls for a minute, and decides he’ll finish the report later.

He waits until she's gone.

Only then does he step forward.

The grave is a simple thing. Unmarked, now that he’s close enough to look. No name, no date. Just a stone sinking into the earth. A sign of an eternal resting place.

K takes his VID-7 and sweeps the area with it.

No biometric readings.

He frowns. He adjusts the scanner’s settings, runs another pass over the site. Still nothing. Worse than nothing–

It’s empty.

A grave that isn’t a grave.

That doesn’t make sense.

He stares at the results, brows drawing together. That’s not possible. She wasn’t just visiting a plot of dirt. He saw it in the way she stood there, heard it in the way she spoke.

He photographs it all anyway, capturing the scene in perfect clarity. The stone, the dead overgrown roots, the single red rose left behind. A piece of evidence if that’s what this even is. If Joshi asks, he’ll have something to give her.

He stares at the Scanner’s display. Flicks through the results again. No coffin. No bone density readings.

What is she doing, visiting a grave with no one in it?

His gaze drifts to the rose. He should bag it too.

His hand closes around the stem. Slowly, carefully. The thorns press into his skin. Not enough to break it, but enough to remind him that it’s alive. That it once was, at least.

He holds it. Just holds it.

Joshi wouldn’t care. She’d look at the report, skim through the photos, probably make some passing remark about the Inspector’s sentimentality. The rose wouldn’t mean anything to her.

Something tightens in his chest.

It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid.

But he wants to keep it.

His fingers graze the soft petals, careful, like the touch itself might break it. He’s never held something like this before. Never felt something this fragile. He’s seen flowers in advertisements, on holograms flickering in the streets, in memories that don’t belong to him– but never like this. Never real.

A useless thing, delicate and fleeting, something that will wither in a handful of days. But he wants it.

Because when was the last time he held something that wasn't cold? When was the last time he touched something that wasn't built, but born? When was the last time he had something that belonged to him, just him, without orders, without programming or purpose?

Never.

He brings it close. The soft petals kiss his lips.

The rose smells earthy, sweet. Fitting of a delicate thing. Nothing like the artificial perfumes clogging the air of downtown, nothing like the sterile nothingness of his apartment.

Something else entirely.

He feels wrong for wanting it. Feels selfish.

It doesn’t belong to him. It was hers. It was left for someone else, meant to be mourned over, meant to wither where she placed it. It had meaning. It cost her something.

And yet– he wants.

He swallows down the guilt, tucks the rose into his coat like he’s afraid the world might take it from him. The petals press against the inside of the fabric, delicate against the synthetic weave.

Then, finally, he straightens. Steps back.

The grave is still empty. Still nameless.

But at least he has something.

**********

K follows her home.

She takes the public transport again. The drive back to the city is long, the roads stretching dark and empty beneath his Spinner. The sky is a thick, hazy black. It takes a while, but they eventually reach her building. It’s well past midnight when they do.

The neighborhood isn’t the worst in the city. But it’s not far from it.

A working-class sprawl, patched together with recycled materials and rust. Buildings packed shoulder to shoulder, towering into the smog. A mix of exposed metal, cracked concrete and cheap polyglass.

The streets are alive with movement. Vendors calling out, people huddled under makeshift parasols, figures biking into alleys where the light doesn’t reach. K drifts his Spinner further up, watching as she disappears into the lobby of a highrise.

It’s not a place for cops. At least, not the ones with rank.

The Inspector’s building stands at the edge of the district. Tall, narrow, wedged between two larger towers, its walls streaked dark from years of acid rain. It was once something better. K can see it in the structure, in the remnants of old decorative paneling near the entrance, in the faded company name stamped above the doors. Repurposed like everything else in this city.

Did she choose this? Or did she just end up here?

K lands the Spinner a street away, high up on the rooftop of a battered building. Not too close to be seen. Not far enough to lose sight of the life inside the tower.

Minutes drag on.

An apartment lights up. Hers. She lives high up, 32nd floor.

From this distance, he only catches glimpses. Pieces of a life not meant for him to see. She steps into view, closes the door behind her. Old hinges, flimsy locks. She throws her coat onto something out of sight. She leaves the frame for a moment. When she comes back, she’s in more comfortable clothes. Barefoot. Unarmed.

At ease.

This is her home.

The only place she should be able to breathe, be free of scrutiny. It feels… indecent, watching her like this.

K exhales, looks away. Tiredness presses behind his eyes, into his skull. He needs sleep.

This isn’t efficient, the following, the long drives. He needs a better way to track her. Something less… personal.

The rose is still in his coat.

He puts the Spinner on standby and sends out the drone. It hums to life, lifting into the air, its sensors sweeping for movement, ready to alert him if she leaves.

He catches another glimpse of her crossing the room. She grabs something. A book, then she flops down onto a couch and starts reading.

Or tries to.

Minutes pass. Her head tilts slightly, her grip on the book loosens. It slips against her chest, her fingers going slack against the pages.

She’s fallen asleep.

She must be exhausted too.

K leans his head back against the seat. It would be wise to get some rest as well, just an hour or two. Enough to keep pushing on.

He thinks of something… sweet.

The rose. The way the petals felt between his fingers, impossibly soft. The way it smelled, earthy and real.

Joi, waiting for him whenever he goes home. The way her voice fills the empty space.

And then– nothing.

The deep, sweet nothingness of sleep. The empty place where he is nowhere and nothing.

K exhales, and lets himself fall asleep.

**********

It continues.

He wasn’t expecting to find her here.

Calavera’s is a forgotten pocket of the city, wedged between crumbling buildings and humming street lamps that flicker like dying stars. An open air food court, if one could still call it that. The tables are rusted, the benches broken. The ground is slick with oil and covered in half melted toxic snow.

Here, no one looks at anyone for too long. No one asks questions. Not with the brothel just a few feet away, its red lights pulsing in the dim air. Men and women and everything in between wait on the steps for buyers. The walls flash with holo-ads promising escape in a body, in a drink, in a pill.

He’s standing at a table, a safe distance away from his partner. She doesn’t know he’s here.

The Inspector sits at a table alone, oblivious to him. She looks exhausted. Her schedule borders on masochism. For two days K has tracked her through the city, watched her refuse rest, refuse food, refuse anything resembling comfort. Like she's allergic to downtime, like stillness might hurt worse than pain itself. K can take a lack of rest, but not her. He wonders how longer she can push forward before she can’t anymore.

Off-duty, she chases ghosts. Contacting families buried under forgotten missing person cases, trying desperately to find some hidden truth in the cracks. Trying to uncover how deep the rot goes, how far it reaches within the LAPD.

Quietly, silently, a man slides into the seat across from her.

K narrows his eyes. A meeting, off record.

The Inspector straightens, subtle but tense. Shoulders pull taut beneath her coat, and even from a distance K can read the suspicion in her body. She doesn’t trust him.

The stranger is nervous, fingers tapping restless patterns onto the worn plastic tabletop. He’s thin, gaunt beneath cheap clothes. A tremor shakes his hands, quick and desperate. His eyes dart left, right, left, right– anywhere but her face.

K edges closer, eyes fixed on them, straining to catch their voices beneath the endless noise of the market.

“You’re late,” she says coldly.

The man flinches, hunched into himself like he expects to be hit. His voice is thin, jittery. “Had to make sure I wasn’t being followed.”

“Paranoid?”

“You should be, too.” he spits back, wringing clammy hands together. “They’ll slit both our throats if they know we’re talking.”

"I'm careful enough."

He lets out a bitter laugh. “You Copper types never are. I leaked what I had– pictures, videos. Thought you’d actually do your jobs, shut it all down. Turns out nobody cared enough.”

K’s eyes narrow.

The leak.

This man, he's the whistleblower. And the Inspector hasn't reported a word of this to Joshi.

This is bad.

She leans in slightly. “That was you?”

He nods. “I worked the ring from the inside. I saw where the shipments went. Who signed off on what.” He lowers his voice. “I can name names.”

She doesn’t give him space to breathe. “Tell me everything. Who did you work for? Where? How long’s it been running?”

He recoils like a rat, eyes darting. “N-not yet. I’m not handing over shit unless I get something first.”

She watches him carefully. “Like what?”

“Safe passage. Off-world. Somewhere they don’t own.” His eyes flick up to hers. “I’m not stupid.”

She’s unreadable.

“I was a surgeon,” the man blurts, uncomfortable under her gaze. “Not a trafficker. I didn’t kill anyone. God, I’m not a murderer. I just... put people back together after they were taken apart.” A beat. “You’d– you’d do the same for the kind of creds they offered.”

Her voice is ice. “So what changed? You grow a conscience, just like that?”

The man swallows hard. Looks away. “They started bringing in kids.”

Silence.

She goes completely still.

K sees the shift. The tension that coils up her spine. The flicker of anger behind her eyes.

Then– she snaps.

She lunges forward, fist gripping the man's collar, twisting it tight enough to choke. He squeals, terrified, wriggling like a worm on a hook. She yanks him forward.

"You knew and you kept cutting?"

The man’s eyes widen, panic breaking through. He tries pulling away but she holds tight.

“I– I didn't have a choice!”

“You always have a choice!”

His breath hitches. “Please– they would have killed me!”

Her grip tightens, shakes the man like a puppet in her grasp. “Better dead than lay hands on kids! How many did you butcher, you sick fuck?”

He shakes his head, frantic. “I don’t–”

“How many?!”

“I don’t know! A dozen? Maybe more! I didn’t ask questions!”

“Who signed the transfers?!”

He whimpers, tries to shrink into himself. She shakes him hard, rattling the words out of his lungs. He looks around wildly like someone– anyone –might help him.

“Give me a name!” she hisses.

His face contorts. Ugly, desperate.

“No,” he croaks, clinging to that one scrap of power. “Not until I’m safe. You kill me, you get nothing. I’m the only one talking, nobody else even gives a shit!”

K tenses from his vantage point. One hand rests near his weapon. The situation is spiraling.

The Inspector breathes hard through her nose. Her grip doesn’t loosen. Her hand trembles– not from weakness, but from restraint. Rage radiates off her like heat.

The man’s voice breaks again, shaky, pathetic. “I’ll give you everything. Records, logs, names, shipment dates. Just get me out. Get me off this fucking planet.”

She holds him there a second longer. Studying him like she’s trying to decide if he’s even human.

Then, with visible disgust, she lets him go.

He slumps back, rubbing at his throat, eyes wide and wet and glistening. A rat with nowhere to hide.

“You don’t deserve to get out,” she says quietly.

She stares at him, jaw tight, chest rising and falling as she fights to keep steady.

She breathes in slow. In, out. Forces herself back under control. She calms with one last inhale.

“Fine,” she says, voice low. Controlled. “I’ll get you out.”

K stiffens instantly. What the hell is she doing?

The man’s eyes widen. “You will?”

“Off-world, untraceable. But you give me everything. No holding back. I want names, files, routes. If you so much as leave out a single name–”

“I won’t,” he blurts. “I swear.”

This is beyond bad. She’s promising an accomplice an off-world escape. Behind Joshi’s back. Behind everyone's back. This isn’t just reckless, it’s illegal. A breach of protocol so severe it could end her career, maybe even land her in a cell. Joshi would crucify her if she knew.

She opens her mouth to say something else.

And then–

Boom.

A sharp crack splits the air.

The Inspector jerks back violently as a bullet slices past her arm, grazing her shoulder. Blood bursts from the sleeve of her coat like ink.

Another shot rings out. Misses. The table in front of her explodes in a rain of splinters.

Chaos detonates.

Dishes clatter, hot broth splashes across the pavement. The people around them scream– raw, terrified –and scatter in all directions.

The informant bolts. Gone in a blink, slipping between cracks.

The Inspector staggers back, dazed. One hand clutches her bleeding shoulder, fingers slick with blood. But the shock only lasts a heartbeat. Her eyes flick upward and search for a shooter immediately.

There’s a silhouette perched atop a nearby rooftop, barely visible in the skyline.

She moves without thinking. Her boots slam against pavement, adrenaline slicing clean through pain. K immediately follows after her. She leaps, catches onto a drainage pipe and climbs– swift, desperate, nearly feral. K watches in disbelief as she pulls herself up, hand over hand, moving like something wild and reckless. She reaches the catwalk and disappears upward, running full tilt five stories into the sky.

K follows immediately, grabs the same pipe. He pulls himself up and climbs onto the catwalk. He sets one foot on it–

The metal gives way.

He flinches back just in time as the side rail collapses in a shower of bolts and rust. The ladder twists with a wrenching screech, tearing away from the wall.

“Shit,” he curses.

He jumps back to the ground, boots skidding on wet concrete. Looks around– fast. Finds another way. There’s a fire escape just an alley over. He runs for it, cursing every second she’s alone up there, but he’s fast. Built for perfection and precision. He can make it in time. He reaches the fire escape and climbs upwards with inhuman speed.

Above, the Inspector makes it onto the rooftop and breaks into a sprint.

Ahead, the shooter is already running. Rifle strapped to his back. An old make, heavily modified. He reaches the ledge and jumps across to the other building.

The gunman lands hard, rolls, recovers, and keeps running, like he’s done it a hundred times.

The Inspector doesn’t stop. She pushes harder, runs recklessly after the gunman–

–and jumps.

She doesn’t make it clean.

She slams into the rooftop edge, hard. Her body jerks, fingernails scraping against concrete as she slips. She kicks uselessly as she dangles over the four story drop.

She claws at the ledge. Blood smears across the rooftop edge as her boots slam against the wall, struggling for grip.

For a terrible second, she hangs there, barely holding on.K doesn’t wait, sprinting across rooftops now, still two buildings away. If he just moves fast enough–

Then she snarls through gritted teeth and hauls herself up. She stumbles forward, nearly collapses, but forces herself into motion again. Still bleeding. Still running.

K leaps down, closing distance. He's just one rooftop behind now. He can catch up. He sees her shape vanish around a corner.

Then–

A dull thud rings out in the air, and everything falls silent.

K's pulse spikes. He clears the last jump and bolts toward the sound.

He rounds the corner–

And stops dead.

She’s on the ground.

Collapsed on her side, blood pooling beneath her head. Her coat's soaked through, crimson spreading fast. The Inspector– brilliant, reckless, infuriating –is sprawled across the rooftop like a broken thing. K gets on one knee and checks for bullet holes immediately. There are none, to his relief.

K’s eyes flick ahead.

The gunman is still running, already putting distance between them. He’ll be gone in seconds if K doesn’t move now. His eyes return to her, then to the corner she turned just seconds ago.

And the picture becomes clear.

The shooter didn’t outrun her. He waited, hid just out of sight, let her chase him down, then caught her off guard and hit her with the butt of his rifle. A clean hit. Just enough to knock her out.

K can still catch him.

He runs the numbers. If he leaves her now, gets moving immediately, she has a high chance of survival. High enough to justify it. She’s tough. She might pull through.

He curses, low and bitter, and lunges forward into a sprint.

He makes it ten steps before something wrenches him back. His legs falter, his momentum breaks. The urgency is still there, coiled in his body, but it’s going in the wrong direction.

He stops.

He looks at her again and something twists sharply in his chest. She’s reckless. Impulsive. Infuriating. She should be written up for not reporting this meeting.

But…

The idea of leaving her there feels wrong in a way that numbers can’t justify.

He curses again, more violently this time, and turns back.

He drops to his knees beside her, breath heavy, fingers already working to assess the damage. Blood trails down from her temple. Her breath is shallow. Not good, but steady. She’ll live.

Still, she looks… wrong like this.

Soft. Crumpled. Her face slack in unconsciousness, lips parted slightly as if she’d been about to say something before the blow landed. He hates the sight of it. The stillness. The quiet.

His hand brushes her coat, and his training kicks in.

He doesn’t forget.

Duty above all.

From his coat he pulls a thin black case and opens it.

Inside, a Needlewalker.

It's a spider-like drone the size of a coin. Sleek. Quiet. Black as oil. It unfolds in his palm, legs twitching to life as it calibrates, then stills. He watches it for half a second– blank, detached –then slips it beneath her coat.

It skitters out of sight.

The Needlewalker will record everything. Joshi will want intel, proof of what happened. She’ll want to know what the Inspector says, who she speaks to, where she goes next. The feed won't go directly to Joshi. She wouldn't bother with something so menial. It'll go to him.

K then wraps her in his own coat.

She’s already wearing hers. But his is warmer. Thicker. The night wind cuts hard up here. He lifts her carefully, arms under her shoulders and knees, mindful of her head. Her weight settles against him– heavier than she looks, all tension and blood and exhaustion.

As he carries her back to the Spinner, something beneath his ribs aches. Not violently. Not even urgently. Just a slow, hollow pull.

She’s his partner. She needs medical attention. He’s just doing what needs to be done. But when he looks down at her– face slack, lashes clumped from blood, mouth drawn in pain–

He tells himself it’s nothing.

He carries her down the fire escape, slow and careful, boots slipping on wet metal and then asphalt. Her head rests limp against his shoulder and blood still leaks slowly into his coat. He carries her gently a few streets down to his vehicle. People stare with wide eyes, questioning, untrusting. He pays them no mind.

He reaches the Spinner, sets her down gently in the passenger seat. Reclines it so her head won’t tilt. Her coat’s soaked through. His, wrapped around her, isn’t much better.

He works in silence.

From the center console, he pulls a few gauze packets and presses them gently to her temple. The cloth blooms red against her skin. The bleeding’s slowed, but the swelling is bad. He watches her face for signs of pain as he cleans the crimson.

Nothing.

Her arm’s worse. He peels back the soaked sleeve. Just a graze. It’ll be painful, but not dangerous. Still, it won’t heal unless she rests and she’s in no condition to be on her feet. He dresses her wounds. It’ll hold until he gets her to the Medbay at the LAPD.

He looks at her after he’s done. She’s too still. It’s… strange. He regards her a moment longer, then exhales and pulls out his comm.

It rings, once, twice, then–

“K,” Joshi snaps. “Where the hell are you?”

He doesn’t waste time. “The Detective made contact with a whistleblower at Calavera’s. She didn’t report to command.”

There’s a pause.

“…She what?”

“She arranged it off-record. She didn’t know I was there. They talked a bit, but there was a shooter on the rooftops– took a shot at her. Might’ve been a warning. It wasn’t clean.”

Her voice is ice. “Jesus christ. Where is she now?”

“Out cold in my Spinner,” K says. “Took a blow to the head. Gunman waited for her around a corner. She went down hard.”

“And the informant?” Joshi asks tightly.

“Gone. Possibly the one who leaked the media files last month. She promised him off-world passage in exchange for a full intel drop– names, files, accounts. The whole nine yards.”

Something slams on the other end– metal, maybe a hand against her desk.

“She promised what?” Joshi spits. “Who the hell does she think she is?”

“Just as surprised as you are, Madam.”

“She doesn’t have the authority to offer coffee, let alone a ticket off-world. She’s just signed her own death warrant. Does she even realize that?”

K says nothing. He watches the blood congeale against his partner’s skin.

“She needs medical,” he says quietly. “Possible concussion, lacerations. Might need–”

“Why the fuck are you bothering me with that?” Joshi snaps, cutting him off. “I don’t give a shit if she’s pissing blood and missing teeth. Get on with it.”

K swallows. The cold he felt earlier presses harder now, tight beneath his ribs.

“Should I book her, Madam?”

A beat of cold calculation.

“No.”

K frowns. “Ma’am?”

Joshi exhales at the other end of the receiver. When she speaks again, her tone is different– measured, sharp. “She wants to go rogue? Fine. Let her dig through the shit if it gets us something useful. And when it all blows up in her face, when she finally fucks it beyond repair? That just makes it easier to hang her with it later.”

He swallows. Discomfort beats nervously in his chest.

“And K– You’re not her partner. You’re my eyes. I expect you to act accordingly”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good,” she finishes. “Debrief with me tomorrow. Alone. You're dismissed for today.”

The line goes dead.

The only sound left is the soft hum of the Spinner and the low, rasping breathing of the Detective.

He lowers the comm slowly, then looks at her again.

What a mess.

K exhales and slips turns the comm off. He starts the engine. The car purrs smoothly, its thrusters warming in the cold air.

Besides him, she stirs. It’s just a twitch at first. Her brow furrows. A faint groan escapes her lips.

He turns to her quietly, watching.

Her whole body lurches upright, breath ragged and sharp. Her hand goes straight for her holster.

The gun is drawn in a blink.

“Hey–” K starts, voice calm. No sudden movements. “Easy. It’s me.”

She’s a wild thing. Pupils blown wide, chest heaving. Confused. Cornered. Her eyes dart everywhere, not recognizing the Spinner, not placing him immediately.

“Where–??” she demands, voice hoarse. “Who the hell–?”

Then she sees him.

Recognition flickers in her eyes.

She goes still. Not relaxed– just still. The gun stays raised a second longer, trembling in her grip. Her gaze flicks down to the bandage on her arm, the bloodstains, his coat around her shoulders. Her breath hitches, then slowly, her arm lowers. She drops the gun in her lap with a thud.

“I was in the area,” K says with an even voice. “Heard a shot. Found you unconscious.”

She presses a hand to her head, like she’s trying to keep it from splitting open. A wince flickers across her face. She looks nauseous. “God, feels like someone dropped a building on me.”

She swallows, grimaces, then looks at him again. Less wild now, but wary.

“...Were you tailing me?” she asks, voice low.

“No.”

She snorts, then immediately regrets it. Everything hurts. “Come on, K. Don’t insult me. You don’t breathe without orders. Least you could do is be fucking honest about it.”

He exhales through his nose, slow. Controlled. “I was just in the area. That’s all.”

She narrows her eyes at him. Tries to read him. But she’s concussed and swimming in fog, and he gives her nothing. “…You really expect me to believe that?”

“I expect you to believe I didn’t want you bleeding out alone on a rooftop,” he replies.

That shuts her up.

She’s convinced. For now.

Her shoulders drop slightly. The tension bleeds out of her entirely. She sighs and slumps back against the seat, wincing again as her head hits the rest.

Her fingers curl around the edge of the coat, tugging it a little tighter. She doesn’t look at him when she says it.

“…Sorry,” she mutters. “For raising the gun.” She covers her eyes with her arm and stills.

K simply nods. He watches her for a moment. “You need medical,” he says quietly. “You’re concussed. I can take you to the Medbay.”

She doesn’t move. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“Don’t make this difficult.”

“I’m not,” she mutters. “I just don’t need a hospital.”

He turns toward her, sharp enough to make the leather groan. “You took a blow to the skull.”

“I said I’m fine, K.” She lowers her arm, staring up at the ceiling. Her voice is flat, tired. “I don’t need a full scan and a dozen questions and some overpaid bastard charging me five thousand Eddies to tell me I should lie down.”

“You’re not in any condition to–”

“I don’t have the money, alright?” she snaps suddenly. “I can’t afford it.”

K blinks, caught mid-thought. He wasn’t expecting that. K stares at her. She doesn’t look at him. Just keeps her eyes fixed on the windshield, jaw clenched so tight he can see the muscle twitch in her cheek.

She doesn’t have the money? Then how the hell did she afford the rose?

Nothing about her makes sense. He’ll have to figure this out later.

She leans her head back, eyes closed now. Her voice goes quieter. “Besides. Waste of resources.”

He turns to look at her, frowning.

“What?”

“I said I’m not worth the trip.”

She says it plainly. No bite, no sadness.

K sits back slowly, the sound of the rain filling the silence between them. He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t even know what to say to her anymore.

Instead, he revs the engine and takes her home.

**********

The ride to her neighborhood was painfully quiet.

They reach her street. K lowers the vehicle at an empty spot beside some food vendors. The Spinner lands with a low hiss.

He powers down the engine. The cabin dims, leaving only the soft glow of the dash and the steady tap of rain on the windshield.

“I can walk,” she mutters, already reaching for the door handle.

K cocks an eyebrow at her.

She steps out and doesn’t make it three steps before she stumbles to the side and throws up into the gutter.

K follows at a slower pace, watching without a word. Arms crossed, looking at her with a raised eyebrow.

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, breath ragged. “Don’t say it.”

“I didn’t.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I was.”

I told you so.

She glares at him, weak but defiant.

Then she sways again.

K steps forward just in time. She doesn’t fight it when he slides an arm around her back. She leans into him, most of her weight shifting into his side.

“I got it,” she mutters.

"Clearly."

"Don't be a dick."

"Then don't try to walk.”

She mumbles something under her breath, too tired to argue.

She's so hardheaded it could drive K crazy. Good thing he's nothing if not patient.

She leans heavier into him with every step. By the time they reach the lobby, she's not even pretending to walk on her own anymore.

The lobby is dim, lit by a single flickering panel overhead that buzzes like it's dying. The air smells like rust and wet dirt. The security desk sits abandoned, dust-covered and empty, chair overturned behind it. Most of the mailboxes are sealed shut with old tape. Names have been scratched out, replaced, scratched out again. More than half the building's units are probably empty.

"Floor?" he asks, like he doesn't already know.

"Thirty two, apartment ninety seven."

He nods and presses the elevator button.

Its doors open with a reluctant screech, and the floor inside is sticky in one corner, littered with torn flyers and something that might have once been food. She doesn't even look– just leans heavier into him as the lift lurches upward. The ride up feels longer than it is.

They step out onto a hallway that smells faintly of mildew and stale heat. A few doors are boarded shut. One is slightly ajar, the sound of static humming from within.

They reach her door.

She pulls her keys from her pocket with some effort, hand trembling slightly. She jabs them at the lock, misses. Tries again.

And again.

K watches her fumble with it for a beat, then gently takes the keys from her hand.

He slides the key in, turns it cleanly, and pushes the door open with a quiet creak.

And the second they step in, before the door even clicks shut–

"No shoes," she mutters.

K glances down, then at her. She's half conscious, barely standing, and that's what she chooses to be firm about?

He kneels down and pulls off her boots first, one at a time. Then his own.

She leans against the wall as he flicks the light switch.

The apartment comes to life.

Finally, K gets a look at the place she calls home.

K steps inside with her still leaning against him– and freezes.

The space is small. No bigger than his. But that’s where the similarities end.

Her home is cluttered, mismatched, brimming with life in a way that feels almost foreign. A kitchen sits immediately to the right, barely separated by a low counter. There are dishes in the sink. A kettle on the stove. There's a faint, lingering scent of cinnamon clings to the air– warm and soft and strange. Underneath it, something even harder to name.

It smells like something he doesn't have a word for.

Love, maybe.

Lived in. Used well.

The walls are covered in posters, old and new, curling at the edges. Some framed, most not. Movie stills and art prints sun faded from the window. There's a half broken lamp on one end table, a pile of coats slung over an old armchair.

Books are everywhere. Actual, printed books. Stuffed into shelves, crammed under the coffee table, stacked high along the baseboards like crooked little towers. Some have tipped, spilled onto the floor like they’ve grown roots and decided to stay. K gets the urge to run his fingers along the spines and look at every title.

He hadn’t expected this.

In front of him on the other side of the room, he sees the window. It spans almost the entire wall.

He stops breathing.

An array of plants sit against the glass. Big ones in deep ceramic pots. Smaller ones in mugs and chipped bowls. Some leafy, some flowering. One has tendrils reaching for the glass like it's hungry for the rain outside. Every one of them is green. Alive. Healthy in a way nothing else in the apartment quite is.

All of them real and wonderful.

K is hit with the overwhelming urge to move closer. To reach out. To touch the leaves and feel them beneath his fingers. He’s never seen plants like these up close before.

He takes a step forward–

And his partner nearly collapses beside him.

The impulse dies immediately.

He shifts, catching her just before she slumps to the floor.

“Hey,” he says quietly, adjusting his grip as she sways. “Easy.”

Her head lolls against his shoulder.

“Bed?” he asks.

She nods.

Plants can wait. She needs to lie down, now.

He shrugs the coat off her shoulders, then his own. Both are soaked through with her blood. He hangs them on the nearest hook by the door. She’s shivering, but he doesn’t help her more than that. Doesn’t reach for her shirt, doesn’t try to get her dry.

This already feels too intimate.

He’s peering into a life she didn’t invite him into– walking through the clutter of her living room, seeing the way she lives, breathes, exists. It feels like trespassing. If her blood stains the bed sheets, that’s a sin he can live with.

He helps her down the hallway, past the plants until they reach her bedroom.

It’s... different.

Weirdly empty. Sparse. There's just a bed. No pictures. No books. No personality. Like someone moved in and forgot to finish unpacking.

K says nothing.

He helps her sit, and she all but collapses onto the mattress. A soft groan escapes her lips as she burrows into the pillow, exhausted, dazed.

He glances around, then steps back into the hall.

He finds the bathroom. In the cabinet, there are painkillers. Cheap ones, almost expired. Good enough. He returns with a glass of water in one hand and the bottle of pills in another. Hands both to her without a word.

She fumbles with the pills, pops two and downs them fast. Then drops back onto the pillow like gravity pulled her soul out through her chest.

He watches her for a bit.

Beaten up, bruised, half conscious, still breathing.

She’d run after that shooter like it was nothing. Like she had something to prove, or something to burn. Maybe both. No hesitation. No backup. Just grit and blood and fury.

She could’ve died.

He could’ve let her.

He turns to go, footsteps soft on the old floorboards. He almost makes it out of the room when her voice stops him.

“…K.”

He pauses. Looks back over his shoulder.

She’s barely awake. Curled sideways into the blankets, still clinging to some semblance of consciousness. Her eyes half lidded, voice hoarse.

“Cassette player,” she says, almost too quietly to hear. “It’s in the living room. Somewhere.”

He frowns. “What?”

She waves her hand vaguely. “Please.”

He doesn’t understand, but he nods and turns, moving quietly through the apartment again.

He walks past the plants and the stacked books, scanning until he spots it sitting on a pile of magazines. Old, cracked, beat to hell. It’s a relic from before. It looks like it’s held together with tape and hope.

He brings it back, still unsure.

She reaches out for it without saying anything. Her hands fumble with the buttons, fingers clumsy and stiff, then clicks play.

The machine crackles softly to life.

It takes him a second to register what he’s hearing.

The sound that fills the room is soft, almost too soft to hear at first. Just the slow, steady rhythm of someone breathing. Not hers– it’s someone else’s. Slow and constant. Inhale. Exhale. Over and over, on loop.

She sets the player down on the pillow beside her like she’s done it a hundred times before. Like someone used to sleep on that side, and this is the best she can do to fill the space they left behind.

The realization creeps in slowly, cold and rigid. He knows what this is.

His mind drifts– unwanted –to Joi. Her voice. Her hand on his shoulder, her lips on his. The illusion of being seen.

He stares at the cassette player, then at her. She’s already out, asleep with her face turned toward the sound. Something deep in his chest folds in on itself.

He swallows hard. Doesn’t say anything. He just turns and walks out, a little too fast.

When he leaves, he forgets his coat. He doesn’t realize it until he’s already gone.

**********

Previous chapter - Next chapter (in progress)

#officer k x reader #officer k #blade runner 2049 #blade runner #ryan gosling #constantk writes

10 notes · View notes

dyemelikeasunset · 2 years ago

Text

(jfc 3K word count blurb about my babygirls I GUESS. This takes place between the end of you&i and t he beginning of dom&mor)

---

After all of that was taken care of, but before they moved in together, Morgan and Dom spent several months working on themselves.

Mor was doing her best not to UHaul like she did with her past relationships. Part of her was hoping Dominique didn't even know what it meant, part of her also hoped Dom would ask first. But she was patient, she had to be patient. Domi was doing physical therapy and getting back in touch with her agency, getting her life back together.

Morgan was too-- she was still juggling her mental health and work, and she knew they both had to take it slow-- but the nights alone were getting harder and harder. On the best nights, Mor would get restless and not be able to stop thinking about Domi, wondering how she was doing, if she was eating, if she was lonely, if she missed Mor the same way.

On the worst nights alone, she kept remembering everything that happened and still felt anxiety being in her apartment by herself. It was gone now-- that's what Domi told her every time she visited, and Whisper didn't hiss at the closet anymore-- but the bad memories always swirled together into an unease and emptiness that made the apartment linger with an aura.

But it was too soon to think about how they would progress their relationship. Too soon to start thinking about moving in. Truthfully, Mor didn't even know if Dom wanted to live together. She tried not to think about that possibility.

---

It took a full month after Domi's physical therapy ended before she invited Mor to come to her place. She promised she'd gotten more furniture. "There's, um, I have a couch now," Dom had told Morgan shyly on the phone. Mor couldn't help but laugh incredulously, but gently. She was proud of her and agreed to visit.

Mor hadn't been to Dom's apartment since everything had happened. It wasn't until she was pulling up to the highrise complex that she realized it was actually her first time driving there. She texted Dom if she could park in her designated parking spot. Dom texted back that she forgot she had one, and then, "Of course you can park there. You know I don't have a car, you can always park there from now on." Mor could practically hear that shy little smile in Dom's voice from her text. Before that moment, Morgan didn't know parking could feel romantic.

Domi had ordered in dinner and had it all set out on the table by the time Mor came through the door. The apartment was still abysmally empty, but there was a couch, as promised. Mor knew she was working on it, on having things to call her own, but kept trying to tell herself it was Dom's minimalist aesthetic to keep herself from worrying.

They ate, talked, updated each other on how life was going. Mor found herself rambling about her latest project while tangled up in Domi's long legs on the new couch. Dom was watching her with that fascinated and warm look in her eyes, that look that made Morgan feel incredibly shy and peter off. Dom asked her some questions to prompt her back into talking, but Mor was feeling so warm under her gaze that she couldn't find it in her anymore. She leaned in and kissed her instead, realizing she hadn't kissed Domi in months. Mor tried to pull back before she got too desperate, but Dom's eyes smiled at her in that lovedrunk way that Morgan couldn't look away from. She cupped Mor's face and lulled her into a second kiss, and a third, and the count melted together after that.

By the time they finished kissing, Mor was laying fully on top of her, face cradled in Dom's neck. Dom pet her hair gently, always careful to not tangle her fingers through it, holding her close, safely. Mor let the rise and fall of Dom's chest comfort her as she traced the scar on her neck.

Going home that night was one of the most painful things Morgan ever had to do.

---

The next time, Mor was the one who popped the question. During the last visit, she had seen how empty and weirdly clean Dom's refrigerator was while they tidied after dinner. Mor couldn't stop worrying so she texted Dom if she could come over to make her dinner. Domi was surprised but agreed enthusiastically. Morgan fed Whisper extra well that afternoon before driving over with her mountain of tupperware. She was determined to make enough to have leftovers to last Dom a week at the least.

Parking in Dom's spot again made her smile. "Mor, you're being an idiot," she hissed at herself before grabbing her bag and making her way inside.

When Dom answered the door, Mor could tell from the slightly damp hair that fell in her face that Domi had just finished getting ready. Morgan couldn't stop the huge smile that spread on her face. It was always so cute to see Dom get excited, and even though Mor tried and tried to convince herself she wasn't that special, even her bad self-esteem had to make concessions when Dom acted so obviously eager to see her. Maybe it was Dom's lack of dating experience-- lack of even understanding romantic feelings before now-- that made her so easy to read. Like she didn't even know hiding your feelings was part of the dating game. She was honest and innocent and it was somehow touching.

As Mor set up in the kitchen, Domi kept hovering, being accommodating and asking if she could help. Mor finally caved. It was hard to say no when Dom was being so sweet and fussy. Morgan found out that Domi is actually very good at cutting vegetables, but that she didn't know the difference between boiling and braising.

Mor did manage to make a pile of leftovers. As she was explaining how to best store and reheat them, she noticed Dom writing the instructions down diligently. She tried but failed not to laugh at Domi's sincerity.

After dinner, Dom showed Mor her new closet, bed and headboard-- the whole thing was really fancy actually. Mor worried about Dom's savings, but Domi insisted everything was going well.

They sat on the bed and talked about the latest novel they were both reading, and as the hours dragged on, Mor found herself tangled in Dom's legs again, found herself laying on Domi and kissing her again, found herself feeling less satisfied than last time. She stared, lost, in Domi's expressions, before realizing it was past midnight. Mor panicked and sat up abruptly, but Domi blurted out that she should stay the night. Morgan argued weakly that she didn't bring a toothbrush or change of clothes-- she didn't bring her bonnet either but she wasn't sure if she was ready to let Dom see that side of her. Domi desperately held onto Morgan's wrist and stuttered "You can wear my clothes, and-- and there's a 24/7 CVS on the corner."

"Domi, you want to buy a toothbrush at this hour? It'll be so," Mor couldn't stop her giggle, "it'd be so obvious--"

"What's wrong with that..?"

Mor stopped giggling and she let her eyes focus on Dom, taking in the quiet desperation in her eyes. It never struck her that Domi would be feeling lonely too, even though she knew Dom was a really lonely person. Mor felt a squeeze in her chest.

"Okay Baby, let's go."

It was only by a year, but when Dom smiled like that, Morgan remembered she was younger and would be overwhelmed with the desire to dote on her.

They threw their shoes on and ran downstairs into the now 2am night. Mor was shocked to see how fast Dom could run in 4-inch heels. Why didn't she put on sneakers? Dom laughed at the question and admitted between gasps of air that she doesn't own sneakers. The CVS employee stared at them tired but knowingly, just as Mor feared but somehow couldn't bring herself to care anymore. Domi's excitement melted away all her anxiety. It wasn't until they were running back to the apartment that Mor realized Dom had also bought a box of ice cream. Her breath made little white puffs in the night air as she laughed. It reminded her of the time they were almost caught by the security guard for playing on the roped-off mall piano.

Morgan never knew brushing her teeth could be fun.

As they tangled up in bed, Morgan could still feel the silly exhilaration pulsing through her body. Her legs rubbed all over Dom as they both giggled and suddenly Mor felt the months of abstinence catching up to her. She stared at Dom in the dark, wondering, but trying to suppress it. They were having such a sweet night and they were just supposed to sleep and Dom was still figuring it out and, and-- Dom's pitch black eyes pierced through the dark and Mor tried to breathe but she couldn't. As the quiet settled between them, Morgan couldn't stop herself from squeezing her legs around Dom. She swore Dom could hear her swallow.

As if reading her mind, Dom quietly asked if she could take care of her. Morgan couldn't even try to hide it, but even in the dark, her eyes had acclimated enough to see the gentle smile that melted her insecurities away. There was something about the way Domi was straight-forward, the way her low voice whispered very gently but directly, lovingly, "Let's have sex," that made Morgan's head swim and chest swell. Feeling the bed shift as Dom moved on top of her sent an ache pulsing through her hips. She missed the feeling of holding onto Dom's broad, bare shoulders, feeling her shoulder blades tense and move under her fingernails as she dug in. She missed the smell of Dom's cologne mixing with her sweat, missed the way her soft voice got heavier as she started panting. She missed her wide hands and the way they held her possessively and sunk into her deeply, missed the way Dom looked down at her like she was the most precious thing in the world. She missed her, she missed her.

The next morning, Domi took Morgan out for breakfast at a nearby cafe before seeing her off. Mor went home in a daze and tried to supress the desire to UHaul for the hundredth time.

---

Another night, Domi texted Mor out of the blue saying she was nearby after a photoshoot. Mor immediately invited her over.

It'd been a while since Domi had been to her place, but Whisper still remembered her and still had the same strange, quiet obsession with her. Domi was learning how to play with her better, even though she was still adorably awkward. Morgan made them dinner and Domi excitedly told Mor about the jobs she was picking up. They kept talking on Mor's twin bed, tangled together out of necessity this time. Mor's apartment was so much smaller and so much more cluttered, but Dom always seemed to like it. She would ask Mor about all her little trinkets and wall art, always seeming to find a new interesting thing. It reminded her of the first time Dom asked about her tattoos. After her show and tell, Mor decided to gift Dom one of the little figures on her bookshelf. If it had been anyone else, Mor would have laughed, but seeing Dom reverently hold a Sanrio figurine in her big hand made Mor so unbelievably happy. "Yes, Baby, you can keep it. Please keep it." Dom looked ready to cry.

They ended up talking too long again, so Mor invited Dom to stay over this time. Domi smiled shyly and said she actually did have a toothbrush in her purse.

"So you were planning this?"

"Maybe..."

Mor laughed. She was so happy.

They cuddled all night. Morgan wanted to sleep like that for the next five thousand years.

---

Between the visits and overnight stays, Mor noticed that Domi would sometimes forget her clothes at Morgan's apartment. She asked for permission the first time, but soon started wearing Dom's shirts without asking. It was never her buttonups, they were too tight and better for hugging as she fell asleep, but Dom had some pullovers and tees that started making a permanent residence in Mor's closet. She always giggled at seeing the brand name tags. Mor would only give them back when the smell started to fade. She couldn't bring herself to confess to Dom that she had masturbated while wearing one of them once-- surrounded by the hints of her gentle musk-- even though she somehow knew Dom wouldn't mind, she was just too guilty. She didn't know that Dom would sometimes postpone washing them because she liked having Morgan's smell on them too.

Mor also started leaving things at Dom's place. The first time was an accident, but then she started doing it on purpose. It was simple things, like one of her oversized sweaters, a throw blanket, or sauces and spices so that she didn't have to take so many things back and forth when she wanted to cook for her. She started using them as an excuse to come over more. She wanted to feed her, wanted to help fill her void of an apartment, wanted to see if Dom would wear her clothes, wanted to make love until her sweet fashion model smelled more like pomegranate and shea butter than she did of Yves Saint Laurent cologne. Really, Morgan just wanted to be together all the time. She wanted to live together, but she was struggling to ask.

Was it always this hard to ask?

---

The first time Dom spent a full weekend at Morgan's place, they ate, watched movies, and somehow ended up fucking every four hours. It always confused Mor how Dom seemed to enjoy servicing her every time-- or where she got the energy-- but she couldn't deny she felt so spoiled. It was hard to resist when Dom looked at her like that. Like she'd never seen a more beautiful woman, like she was at the mercy of her feelings spilling out of her at any moment.

Mor felt delirious from the way Dom would quietly and reverently praise how pretty her voice was, how soft her skin was, how good she felt. It made Mor feel submissive, but she knew Domi didn't mean it like that-- she knew she meant it adoring, worshipping. She never thought anyone could ever love her this way, but more than that, she never thought she could believe it.

Mor spent both nights of that weekend watching Dom sleep and wondering. When was the right time? How much longer could she take the separations and gaps? Was Dom pent up from their time apart? Even though she didn't want Domi to be lonely, there was a selfish part of her that wished she was sad when they were apart.

---

As a reward for finishing a big design project, Dom suggested that Mor bring Whisper over and spend a full week at her place. Mor agreed excitedly and made sure to get wash day out of the way before she went. She hoped she could make it through the week, but in exchange she felt she should try to protect her hair for bed around Dom this time. To her surprise, Dom didn't comment on it at all, and wrapped Mor in her arms as she fell asleep as usual. Mor couldn't quite explain how it made her feel, but it was undeniably warm.

Dom had odd work days, so Mor would be left alone in the apartment sometimes. But instead of feeling lonely, she felt a strange sense of belonging. Maybe it was the way Dom had casually given her a key, or how Mor's things had been slowly accumulating, or the fact Whisper settled in quite nicely, or that the kitchen was full of Mor's cooking.

In her mind, Morgan started redecorating the apartment and wondering where her things would go.

On the fourth day, Mor realized she forgot to refill her meds. Without thinking, she left Whisper with Dom and ran out. It wasn't until she was already back and unlocking the door that she realized the chaos she might've left Dom in. But to her relief, she opened the door to the sight of Dom playing with Whisper. Morgan wondered if this is what straight women felt when seeing their husbands taking care of their kids. She stood in the doorway and watched until Dom noticed and welcomed her home. Morgan wanted so badly to call this home.

The morning of the last day, Dom woke Morgan up with neck kisses and made love to her quietly, tangled up under the white sheets. They both lingered wordlessly, naked bodies wrapped up together. When Morgan realized she hadn't taken off her bonnet, she laughed, embarrassed, and asked why Dom hadn't removed it before having sex with her. Dom didn't understand what the problem was, and as Mor navigated out of her embarrassment, her bashful laughter faded. She stared at Dom and slipped out a hushed "I don't want to go home."

Morgan blinked several times in quick succession, realizing what she'd said and that she was already welling up from a mix of yearning and shame.

"I'm sorry, I--"

"Then stay. Move in with me."

It took a full minute for Morgan to take in what Dom had said. She finally looked up at her and was met with that same sincerity she knew Dom carried with her at all times.

"Morgan, I want to live together. I- I miss you all the time..."

Mor didn't know how much longer she could run from Domi's open, honest love. How much longer her doubt could convince her that this woman was not head over heels for her.

"Yes. Yes. of course I'll move in."

Morgan would never forget the way Dom smiled that morning.

#mild you&i spoilers?#also warnings for descriptions of s*x ig but i feel that's pretty par for the course for me atp LMAO o)-(#i'm trying to get better at writing-writing and not just comic writing but it's HARD i'm not confident in it but we move #anyway. this didn't satisfy brainrot but ig that's a good thing #dom and mor #hm blurbs?

127 notes · View notes

yanderecrazysie · 10 months ago

Note

J.S Anon here again, you can probably tell what kind of Reader I want for this one. Anyways would I be able to request an NSFW one? Maybe Despair and Hope hating reader silently giving Chihiro a blowjob underneath the table and being walked in on if that's alright!

HI AGAIN! I had a lot of trouble working the Junko’s sister and hope/despair hate into this, but I think I got it! Also, he’s a little OOC so take that as you will.

As always, all characters are 18+.

Title: Take This Longing

Pairings: Chihiro Fujisaki x Reader

WARNINGS: yandere themes, NSFW, NON-CON ORAL (m. receiving)

“Oh take this longing from my tongue

Whatever useless things these hands have done

Let me see your beauty broken down

Like you would do

For one you love”

From “Take This Longing” by Leonard Cohen

You blankly watched the number on the elevator’s display screen change as each floor passed you by. The numbers blinked with the same red as the light on your ankle monitor.

Not everyone could forgive an Enoshima, after all.

The elevator stopped near the top floor of the highrise and the doors opened, revealing an office bathed in the soft glow of a hundred monitors, lining the walls and desks. There were bookshelves haphazardly placed against the windows that made up the back wall, all half-way filled with technical manuals.

At the center of a ring of monitors was Chihiro Fujisaki, whose eyes flitted between displays with an intensity that didn’t match his sweet-looking exterior. As a member of the Future Foundation, Chihiro had grown taller over the years and had begun wearing pants instead of skirts (embracing his masculine side).

As he looked up at you, his heart skipped a beat. You, the sister of Junko Enoshima and Mukuro Ikusaba, yet a person that loathed both despair and hope, always brought a smile to his face.

He stood, smoothing out the front of his lab coat. You were punctual, as always, on the dot of the hour you were summoned. He admired that about you. He took a deep breath to steady himself.

“You wanted to see me?” your voice was deadpan as always.

“Yes, thank you for coming,” Chihiro gestured to a chair opposite his desk, “Please, take a seat.”

“I’d rather not,” you said simply, crossing your arms.

Chihiro nodded, swallowing thickly, “Alright, well… I’ve been working on something. A project for hope. Of course, you already knew that…”

You didn’t respond, just stood there blankly staring at him, waiting for him to continue.

“It’s an AI, one that can learn and evolve beyond the programming constraints of binary thinking. It’s designed to understand and feel, without falling into the traps that…” he swallowed again, not wanting to bring up the past that had led to you becoming an unwilling member of the Future Foundation, “...well, you know.”

“And you’re telling me this because…?” you sounded wary.

Chihiro’s fingers twitched nervously, “Because, you can help me test it. With your rejection of both hope and despair, we can make sure the AI can run without biases if needed.”

You shrugged, “I’m not allowed to turn down anything you guys ask, but what do you even get out of this?”

Chihiro’s heart hammered in his chest, “I… I admire you,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper, “Everything about you.”

You gave him a disgusted look, “I’m not interested in any of you hope-filled tree-huggers. Fuck off with that mushy-gushy shit.”

Chihiro’s heart shattered into a million pieces and tears filled his eyes. He felt a surge of anger, “Why can’t you just like hope? It’s such a good thing, how can you hate it?”

You shrugged again and turned away, “If that’s all, then I’ll take my leave.”

Chihiro suddenly had a thought. One that was awful, terrible, and so tempting.

“Suck me off,” he said, voice trembling. He couldn’t believe something so inappropriate had left his mouth. It had only ever done so in daydreams of the two of you together.

Where you were a willing participant.

You clearly couldn’t believe it either, “The hell’d you say?”

“Suck me off,” Chihiro demanded, voice stronger and clearer this time, “You can’t refuse a direct order from one of us, can you?”

“I’m- I’m not a sex toy!” you snapped, blood running to your cheeks. Despite your protest, you reluctantly got on your knees and crawled under his desk. He could hardly believe it when shaking hands unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, pulling his painfully hard cock out of his trousers.

It was bigger than you expected for such a delicate-looking man, and it was threatening-looking, with a pulsating vein down the side and pre beading at the tip. You hesitated for a moment, looking up at Chihiro’s face. He was staring down at you with a mix of desire and embarrassment, biting his lip as he watched you.

You took a deep breath and leaned forward, tentatively wrapping your lips around the head of his cock. It was warm and spongy, and very, very salty. You moved your head forward, taking as much of his impressively-sized member into your mouth as possible.

Chihiro let out a high-pitched moan as you started to move your head up and down, swirling your tongue around the tip of his cock. He grew harder and heavier in your mouth, his hips starting to thrust forward slightly as he lost himself in the sensation.

He thrust a little too hard and you gagged, pulling off the cock with a whine of pain. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he gasped, carding his hand through your hair, “I’ll be more careful- please keep going!”

You took him back into your mouth, sucking harder and beginning to bob your head up and down. Your hands reached up to cup his balls, gently massaging them as you continued to work his cock.

Chihiro let out a strangled moan as he felt the familiar tightness building in his groin. He couldn’t believe how good it felt. He felt like he’d died and gone to heaven, because having you on your knees for him, sucking his throbbing cock, was better than any fantasy he could have conjured up in that moment..

With one final thrust forward, he exploded into your mouth, cock pulsating as he filled it with his release. You swallowed it down, but the sheer volume of it spilled over onto your lips, leaving you looking more debauched than ever.

At that moment, the elevator doors opened, and Byakuya stepped into the room. “Fujisaki, I need those-” he stopped, absolutely horrified by the sight he was seeing.

Chihiro was sure he looked red-faced, with his spent cock hanging out of his pants and you, under his desk, white cum dripping down your chin.

“Disgusting,” Byakuya shuddered, shaking his head as he walked straight back into the elevator.

You looked borderline tearful until Chihiro placed his hand back in your hair, letting out a contented sigh, “You’re perfect, you know that?”

You stared at him blankly, as though you couldn’t believe what you had done, all emotion driven out of you.

Chihiro couldn’t wait until you did it again for him.

Maybe next time, he’d make you go all the way.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere one shot #one shot #yandere danganronpa #danganronpa #yandere chihiro #chihiro fujisaki #tw noncon

42 notes · View notes

alwaysbethewest · 1 year ago

Text

Kingsman 2 fic: Stay Close to Me

Happy @pedrostories Secret Santa day, y'all 💃 I was thrilled when I received my assignment and saw that I'd be writing for my sweet friend @iamskyereads 😁 Skye, I hope you have a merry Christmas and I hope this little story helps make it bright. (Okay a quick note: generally speaking I don't believe in apologizing for your writing, but I do feel like a small apology is merited here. Halfway through writing this fic I started to panic because I felt like I wasn't really meeting the brief of your prompt 😬 I started wondering if I should start over from scratch but I was already too far into it. I accidentally wrote you... a case fic???? With a smidgen of romance sprinkled in. I'm sorry! Despite my stress over that realization I did have a lot of fun writing this and I hope you will enjoy it anyway!)

Title: Stay Close to Me Pairing: Agent Whiskey (Jack Daniels)/f!Reader Rating: Teen Word Count: 5.3k Content/warnings: Fake/undercover marriage! Statesman casefic! A little romance, kissing, coarse language, very mild peril and hurt/comfort, and a splash of alcohol. Reader is a junior agent and has some muscle but otherwise no physical/age descriptions. As with any good Kingsman fic, my first step was to disregard half of canon, so this is either pre-movie or an AU. Unbetaed but thanks as ever to @fleetwoodmactshirt and @mourningbirds1 for their hand-holding ❤️ Please let me know if you spot any typos/mistakes.

The Statesman offices are housed in a sleek highrise in Midtown, a 40-minute commute from your tiny apartment. To anyone who asks, you work in the marketing department, and you’ve learned enough by now to drone on about synergistic strategies for diversifying market shares to bore anyone listening, but to those in the know, behind passcode-guarded doors, you’re Agent Violette, junior analyst for the private intelligence agency hidden behind the national whiskey brand.

For a secret spy job, your work is actually fairly routine. Most of your time is spent doing research and compiling intel for agents working out in the field. Occasionally your boss sends you into the field yourself—little baby excursions to get your feet wet—and you won’t pretend you haven’t enjoyed the thrill. But your desk job is comfortable, and satisfying, and you’ve got no complaints.

It’s Wednesday, and the only sign something out of the ordinary may be taking place is the note you find on your desk when you clock in. It takes only a little of your codebreaking expertise to interpret:

9:15 AM—mtg w/ Agt. C rm 806

Room 806 is a teleconference room furnished with a small table and a handful of chairs. One seat is occupied when you get there.

Agent Whiskey raises an eyebrow at you from under his cowboy hat. The accessory is so out of place in the urban streets of New York City that when you’d first met him you’d wondered if it was an affectation—a marketing ploy to signal the authenticity of the Kentucky bourbon your company sells on the side. But while you haven’t worked closely with him, you’d quickly learned it seems he’s just… like that.

He slides a folder towards you and you accept it as you take a seat and don your glasses.

“Any idea what this is about?” he asks.

You shake your head. Just as you open your mouth to speak, the comms switch on and Agent Champagne appears across the table before you, via the technological wonder that is your projection spectacles. More high-tech and more secure than Zoom, they’re one of the many things that sets Statesman apart from lesser spy agencies.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Whiskey straighten up slightly in his chair.

“Jack!” Agent Champagne greets him. “How was Munich?”

“All good, sir,” he drawls. “You’ll have the full report this afternoon.”

“Very good,” the older man rumbles. He turns his attention to you. “And Agent, uh—” His eyes shift down to the notes on his desk. “Agent Violette. Good to have you on board.”

You’ve worked at Statesman for three years, but you’re still too low on the org chart to have landed on the director’s radar before this. He says your code name like vie-oh-let instead of the French pronunciation you prefer, but there’s an affability to him that makes it go over easier.

“Thank you, sir.”

“So, California,” he says, diving into the brief. Whiskey opens his file folder and you follow suit. The top page features a short itinerary and a character profile that you quickly learn is a new undercover alias. Violet Davenport. You like the name. She sounds high society. Glancing over to Whiskey’s file, you spot his alias and your brows raise involuntarily.

Johnny Davenport.

Hm.

“Vineyard owner out there is concerned about a potential theft. He’s received some threats and needs a couple of bodies on the ground to sniff out the trouble,” Agent Champagne states.

“Theft of what, exactly?” Agent Whiskey asks.

“Wine. Money. The usual. He’s got his personal wine collection stored on the premises. You know the business—some of those bottles are worth a pretty penny. Mr. Peterson—that’s the client—says he has a list of suspects for you to look at.” Champ waves a hand, looking vaguely unimpressed. “Obviously you’ll have to use your own judgment on whether any of his theories check out.”

“Sir, I don’t understand why I’m being sent on such a simple assignment,” Whiskey says. “No disrespect,” he adds belatedly, glancing at you. You give him your politest go-along-to-get-along smile.

Champ looks like he’s torn between amusement or annoyance at Agent Whiskey’s attitude.

“Same reason for anything, Jack. Politics. This client has close connections in the state government over there. If we can solve this simple problem for him, it may just lead to more prestigious cases. Ones you’ll feel are worthy of your valuable time.”

Jack should look chastened, but he doesn’t. He does stop arguing, though.

“I need a senior agent on the case. And Violet’s supervisor assures me she’s got the research and fieldwork skills to step up on this one. Your cover is a married couple on an anniversary trip, so I’m basically sending you on a paid vacation, here. There’s more information in the files you’ve got.”

Whiskey flips through the pages half-heartedly and gives a curt nod.

“Well!” Agent Champagne slaps his hands on the table decisively. “I now pronounce you husband and wife. Mazel tov!” With that he ends the transmission.

And that’s how you find yourself at the airport Friday morning with a diamond ring on your left hand and a disgruntled cowboy by your side.

The flight lands in San Francisco without incident, and Jack shifts into doting husband mode as you head to pick up the rental car the agency has reserved. He reaches for your suitcase to load it into the trunk.

“Let me get that for you, sweetheart.”

You give him a saccharine-sweet smile. “I’ve got it, hon.”

You lift the heavy bag with ease and watch his mouth purse for a second before he smiles back.

“I guess my baby’s stronger than she looks.”

The bored-looking attendant sees you off and Jack has you punch in the GPS destination while he eases into the busy freeway traffic. He’s a confident, slightly impatient driver, but you see him relax once you’re over the bridge and sailing smoothly north on Interstate 80.

“So what’s our game plan?” he asks as highway signs for Napa begin to appear, and you reach for your notebook and flip it open.

There’s only one bed.

You probably should have done the math on this as soon as Agent Champagne declared you a married couple, but in the whirlwind of arranging to leave town and the anxiety of stepping into your biggest field operation to date, it hadn’t occurred to you to worry about the precise nature of your accommodations.

Jack sets his bags down and flops onto the bed, letting the soles of his cowboy boots dangle off the end. It’s an exaggerated display of exhaustion, but you’re tired too after a seven-hour flight and another two hours in the car. His lanky body takes up the whole length of the bed and you try not to let your eyes linger as you contemplate the sleeping arrangements.

He picks up on your hesitation.

“This is where I’m supposed to do the gentlemanly thing and let you have the bed all to yourself, huh? Sorry, sister, not gonna happen.” His tone softens. “But I promise I don’t bite. There’s no reason we can’t share.”

The only couch in the room is a small, overstuffed loveseat that you can tell at a glance neither of you would enjoy reclining on for long. So you do the mature thing and agree to sleep with him.

Not like that.

Bill Peterson, the agency’s client, is one of those people who claim to be easygoing while in reality they exude nonstop nervous energy.

“I know exactly who it is,” he tells you in a hushed voice. You and Jack are in his office, under the guise of a private tour of the winery. Peterson has been going over what you already know from the file: that he has a high-value collection of wine held on the estate, as well as a hard drive storing what he’ll only describe as “sensitive” material; that he’s received several vague threats recently; and that with the hustle and bustle of harvest season upon them, he’s concerned his regular security won’t be sufficient to stop the would-be thieves.

“Oh?” you say. “Well, that will be very helpful, Mr. Peterson.”

“Okay,” he amends. “Maybe not exactly, but I can give you a list. Of suspects.”

“We’ve seen the list,” Jack tells him. “But what is it that makes you suspect these folks in particular?”

“They’re mostly other winery owners,” Peterson says. “Everyone on that list was present at a party I attended a few months ago where I—let slip some details about my collection. It was only after that the letters started.”

You and Jack exchange a glance. You’re both wondering if “let slip” isn’t code for “bragged loudly.”

“Is there a reason you haven’t gone to the police?” you ask. His eyes narrow.

“I value discretion,” he says tightly. “Anyway—I’m not sure they’d consider the threats actionable.”

“Can we see them?” Jack asks.

“Of course.” He retrieves a small stack from his desk drawer. You and Whiskey put your heads together to pore over them.

They’re all written by one person, in slanted, blocky handwriting.

YOU WILL PAY.

YOU WILL LOSE EVERYTHING.

YOUR EMPIRE WILL CRUMBLE.

WE WILL CRUSH YOU.

“Is there another one?” you check. “There are five envelopes but only four notes.”

Peterson hesitates, then shrugs and shakes his head. He’s lying, but you don’t push it.

“There is one other thing,” he says. “I keep seeing this blue truck—but it’s like he doesn’t want to be spotted. I see it slow down like he’s scoping out the place, but then he speeds off as soon as he sees I’ve noticed. I tried to get the license plate but it was covered in mud.” He scoffs. “We haven’t had any rain in months.”

Jack has him describe the vehicle and where he’s seen it, while you take notes.

“Alright, Mr. Peterson. We’ll be in touch if we have any other questions.”

“Thank you. Oh—here.” He hands you a pair of vouchers for a free wine tasting. “They come with the tour. One thing you should know about Napa—you’ll only really blend in if you’ve got a glass of wine in your hand.”

Jack’s code name is Whiskey for a reason. He’s a spirits man through and through and he doesn’t give the tasting room a second look, ushering you out to get back to your room to regroup. Admittedly, it’s only 10 AM, but you would have enjoyed a few sips of merlot. You’re craning your neck a little to look at the wine list posted by the door—just out of curiosity—when he startles you by taking your hand in his. You look at him. He’s staring ahead, holding your hand like it’s nothing as you walk side by side. Finally, your brain catches up and your nine credits of college acting classes kick in and you plaster a loving smile onto your face, leaning closer.

In the privacy of your little rented cottage, you pull out your notes again to review.

“Peterson is lying about something,” you start. Jack nods distractedly.

“Yeah—listen, before we get into that, I need to ask you. You jumped when I held your hand back there,” he observes.

You feel your face heat with embarrassment. He’s calling you out on your inexperience, the rookie agent who can’t even play-act for a simple assignment. You can do it, you know. Being undercover in the field is just still new to you. He could help you instead of being critical.

“Sorry—”

“It’s my opinion,” he says, with a slight frown, “that a man who doesn’t treat his wife a certain way is no man at all.”

You’re lost, suddenly. “Sorry?”

“What I’m askin’ is, do I have your permission to touch you like you’re my wife when other people are around?”

Oh.

Something about the way he’s worded it makes your stomach do a little flip.

“Oh. Yes. Touch me like…?” You swallow. “Like how, exactly?”

He gives you a steady look.

“Intimately.”

That’s fine. You’re fine with that.

“Right. That’s—” you nod, maybe a little too emphatically. “That’s okay.”

You look down, fingering the pages of your notebook again, trying to refocus on the more analytical side of the job, when another thought occurs to you.

“Are you going to kiss me?” you blurt.

“Shit, Violet, that’s part and parcel of it.”

“It’s Violette,” you tell him with a frown.

“Sorry.”

“Do you even know my real name?”

“Of course I do,” he says. You don’t push it but you also don’t know whether to believe him. He’s shown little interest in working with you this entire week.

Jack takes a step towards you.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” he says. “So you don’t jump like a rabbit when I do it in public.”

You take a breath. Suck your bottom lip between your teeth involuntarily.

“Okay,” you tell him.

Your eyes fall shut as he leans in. You feel his fingers steadying your chin, tilting your face to meet his, and then his lips touching your mouth, light, tentative—teasing, your mind prompts, and the thought makes you feel flushed again. When you don’t shy away he presses closer and you’re not sure which of you is to blame when your lips part and his tongue brushes yours.

You were expecting it, so you don’t jump, but you feel a little trembly when he pulls away. He doesn’t step back right away—instead, his lips hover over your skin, mustache coarse against your soft cheek, as he tucks his mouth by your ear and quietly, intimately, says your name.

“So you think Peterson is lying,” he says, picking up the thread from before.

“Um,” you say, forcing your brain to switch back to work mode. Your whole body feels warm. “Yes. Don’t you think he seemed shady?”

Jack shrugs. “Call me jaded, I think most people are shady. But I agree with you. He lied about the missing letter. I fuckin’ hate when clients do that. What do you think about the blue truck he saw?”

“I think that could be something.”

You open your laptop and with a few keystrokes you’ve used a Statesman backdoor into the DMV system, where you enter the make, model, and color of the vehicle Peterson had described. There are no matching hits within Napa County, so you expand the search. It’s an unpopular color, so there are only a few dozen matches in the state. None of the owners’ names are on the list of suspects you’ve been given.

“He said he hasn’t seen it around town, only driving by his property. And we don’t know who owns it. So how do we find the car?” you wonder.

Jack is silent for a minute. You watch as a slow smile spreads across his face.

“I have an idea.”

This case originated at Statesman’s Kentucky headquarters, so Agent Ginger Ale is your tech liaison. It’s clear from their dynamic that she and Agent Whiskey have worked together before. Having her voice in your ear is a source of comfort as you carry out Jack’s great idea—which you’re not 100% sure you’re on board with.

“Don’t you need some kind of license to operate this?” you ask tentatively.

“Technically, on paper, he has one,” Ginger offers. “Well, Johnny Davenport does, anyway. As of twenty minutes ago.”

“It’s a balloon and a basket, how complicated could it be,” Jack grouses. This doesn’t exactly raise your confidence.

“Just don’t crash this one, Jack,” she pleads.

“This one?!”

He shakes his head. “You have one helicopter fail on you and they never let you live it down. Don’t listen to Ginger.”

To his credit, Jack pilots the hot air balloon much more smoothly than you’d expected, and after some time you feel yourself relaxing and enjoying the view. It’s early October and the landscape is a mix of green and brown from the last of the summer heat. Tidy rows of grape vines are bordered by houses and larger wineries, copses of trees, and fields dotted with grazing cows. Tiny workers move methodically among the vines, busy harvesting fruit to be pressed and fermented. Through it all, highways and winding roads run alongside the properties, and this is where you refocus your attention.

Ginger has programmed your binoculars to register any vehicles matching the description of the blue truck you’re seeking. You train the lenses on the backroads and driveways, looking for private hiding places it could be stashed.

The whole endeavor feels like a long shot, and you’re just on the verge of suggesting you give up and head back to base when the binocs let out a high-pitched beep of recognition, zooming in on your target.

“Holy shit,” you whisper. “I can’t believe this worked.”

“I told you it would,” Jack says, looking smug. “What is that place?”

Ginger has looked up the coordinates before you have a chance to do it yourself.

“It’s a winery… Double Loop Vineyards. Do you guys know that name?”

You recognize it immediately. The owner is one of the names on Bill Peterson’s list of suspects.

You and Jack exchange a look.

“Guess we’re goin’ wine tasting at Double Loop,” he says, and he turns to start your descent.

The tasting room at Double Loop Vineyards is a large, tastefully decorated space that looks like it was converted from an old barn. It’s all dark wood and ceiling beams, and a bar runs along the back and right side walls. When you and Jack step inside, you’re greeted by a tall young woman with a pixie haircut and striking cheekbones. She’s wearing a name tag that reads Eva.

You settle in front of her at the bar and she pulls out a pair of glasses and pours a splash of white into each to get you started. You take a sip and peruse the small menu on the bartop.

“She’ll have the red flight,” Jack says, “And I’ll just have a glass. Can you recommend me something… full-bodied?”

As he says it he palms your hip suggestively, pulling you to him a little closer. You laugh, mortified but amused despite yourself, and he shoots you a wink.

Eva takes it in stride. “I can offer you a cabernet sauvignon that’s got legs for days.”

“That’ll do me just fine, thank you.”

You’re the only visitors in the tasting room for the moment so you have her undivided attention. She’s skilled at making small talk to keep you charmed and at ease; eventually she asks something more personal.

“So I’m planning to propose to my girlfriend soon,” she tells you. “And I’m trying to figure out how to do it. I’m like crowdsourcing ideas. You two are such a cute couple—can I ask how you got engaged?”

You and Jack exchange a glance and you give him a sweet smile. “You tell it, honey.”

“Well,” he says, keeping his eyes on you for a long moment before he finally looks away to face Eva, “I knew I wanted to marry her, and I had this whole plan in mind. I wanted something special for my Violet so I was going to take her on a trip—my buddy has this little cabin on the most beautiful lake you’ve ever seen—and make her favorite dinner, and sit down with a glass of something nice. And then I was going to present her with this beautiful piece of hand-carved wood that spelled out, Will. You. Marry. Me.”

He pauses to take a sip of his cab while Eva says, “Aww,” and looks at you like, what a sweet partner you have.

“Now the thing is,” he continues, warming up to the story, “as Violet can tell you herself, I have never carved a single thing in my life. And somehow, like a dumbass, I was convinced I could make this plaque and do it perfectly. But it looked just awful. And it was taking me so long trying to get it right I could tell she was starting to wonder if I was stringing her along.”

You shake your head in protest and he laughs. “You were! You’d look at me like, why has this fool not married me yet.”

Eva laughs, too. “So what happened?”

Jack lets out an aggrieved sigh. “What happened was, I caught the flu. Just the most dog-sick, pathetic man, all sweaty with fever and miserable to boot. And Violet never hesitated, she bundled me up and cooked me soup and tolerated my whining and she’d read me to sleep when my eyes couldn’t even focus on the TV. And somewhere in the middle of all that, I thought, I need to hold on to this woman forever, and I asked her right then and there.”

His voice cracks a little on the last sentence and you’re shocked to realize your own eyes are damp with tears. You’re not sure which part, or how much, but something in that story sounded true and it’s left you with a strange sense of heartache. You lift his hand to your mouth and press a kiss across his knuckles, watching his face soften.

“Okay,” Eva says. “So I guess I’ll add ‘get the flu’ to my list of ideas.”

“I don’t recommend it,” Jack tells her, “but I don’t not recommend it.”

As you finish your flight and Eva rings up a couple of bottles you’ve chosen to purchase—you’re not sure if these classify as company expenses, but you enjoyed them enough you’ll pay out of pocket if you must—she asks where else in the wine country you’ve been to so far.

“We spent some time at the winery right next to the place we’re staying—actually, we got to meet the owner there, what was his name, baby?”

You keep your tone casual, but you watch her face as you reply. “Bill Peterson, I think it was?”

Eva’s expression falters, just for a moment, before she recovers and plasters on a polite smile. “They’ve got a great pinot noir over there.”

“Not as good as these,” you tell her, just to see her smile turn genuine.

A tour group walks in just then so you take your leave and step outside into the late afternoon sunshine. When Jack takes your hand this time you let him, and you don’t mind it.

The blue truck is parked out back. You walk along the side of the building, just a pair of happy tourists slightly buzzed on red wine out to take in the view, until you get close enough to make note of the license plate. Back in your own car, you run a search on it and identify the owner: a young man named Lucas Trent. The address on the registration is in Paso Robles, a town 250 miles south of here, but you do some digging and find he’s a vineyard worker at Double Loop.

“So what’s the connection to Peterson?” Jack wonders.

“Look at this.” You point at the screen and he squints. “He’s only been at Double Loop for six months. Before that—”

“He worked for Peterson,” Jack finishes. “So he’s mad about getting fired and wants to get back at his old boss.”

“Maybe,” you say, frowning. “We don’t really know yet. But it’s a theory.”

“It’s a good theory,” he insists.

The two of you sit in silence for a few moments, mulling it over.

“Tell me this, rookie,” he says. “You ever been on a stakeout?”

On your first ever stakeout that evening, you quickly learn a few things:

Stakeouts are cold. Stakeouts are boring. And rental cars are not designed to accommodate them.

You shift uncomfortably for the fifth time in twenty minutes.

“How do we even know he’ll show up tonight?” you ask. In the quiet of the night you keep your voice hushed.

“Call it intuition,” Jack says. You can tell he hates sitting still this long, too, but he’s clearly built up a tolerance for it over the years, because he’s not wriggling around nearly as much as you.

“Can I ask you something?”

He grunts an assent.

“That story about how you proposed—how did you come up with that?”

He pauses.

“I just—made it up,” he says.

“I thought it seemed…” you start. He gives you a sidelong glance. “Never mind. You’re a good improviser.”

After a minute, he says, “I was engaged once. A long time ago.”

“Oh.” You bite your cheek, holding back your questions.

“She died,” he adds. Your heart drops.

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Of course,” you say, helplessly.

Never in your life have you been more grateful to see a criminal approaching than when you see the familiar shape of Lucas Trent’s blue truck appear down the road.

“Ha,” Jack says, looking a little less glum. “What’d I tell you. Intuition never fails me.”

You take deep, silent breaths, trying to control your fast-beating heart as you creep behind Jack to follow Lucas inside the building. He’s got a key to Peterson’s winery; he must have stolen it before he left the job, you think. He heads down the hall, past Peterson’s office, and disappears behind a door.

Jack motions for you to wait a moment, listening intently outside the door. You hear nothing but the quiet thump of Lucas’s footsteps, growing fainter until there’s only silence, and finally Jack eases open the door. You’re faced with a short flight of stairs heading down into a cellar. The two of you tiptoe down the stairs.

You nearly bump into Jack at the bottom when he stops dead in his tracks, still hidden in the shadows. Peering around him, you see that Lucas isn’t alone in the room. Bill Peterson is here, too, standing next to a small wooden desk.

“What the fuck do you want?” Bill demands. Lucas stares at him sullenly. “You came here to steal from me, didn’t you? You didn’t think I’d be down here.”

“I just want what’s mine,” the young man growls. “You’re the thief, not me.”

Lucas steps further into the room, toward the back wall. The space is filled with racks of carefully preserved wine bottles—Peterson’s precious collection, you register—and a pile of empty wooden barrels, stacked two high.

“Those bottles are insured,” Peterson calls after him. “You’ll get caught if you try to sell them.”

Lucas says nothing, just continues walking until he reaches the wall. At the back of the cellar, he pushes aside a tapestry to reveal a combination safe embedded in the wall. He glances over his shoulder with a smirk, and punches in the code.

“How the fuck do you know that number?” Peterson roars, finally scared. He rushes past the racks of wine, suddenly worthless compared to whatever is on the flash drive Lucas has just retrieved from the safe. When they start to tussle over it, Jack finally steps in.

“Hey!” he yells, striding into the light. The men look over, startled, and then Peterson looks relieved. He lets go of Lucas, seemingly confident that his hired security will take care of the situation, and retreats to stand next to Jack.

“Get that back from him,” he tells him. Jack gives him a long, unimpressed look, and then turns his focus on Lucas, who’s starting to look slightly panicky now that he’s outnumbered.

“Listen, son. This will all go a lot easier if you just put that back where you found it and walk out of here with me.”

“You don’t understand,” Lucas protests. “He’s stealing from everyone. This is the proof.”

Peterson shifts on his feet, looking guilty. “Bullshit,” he says. “You resent me for being the boss, but I’ve worked for every penny I’ve got.”

Lucas lets out a humorless, disbelieving laugh. “Yeah, you work real hard. You must break a sweat making copies of your accounts so you can lie about the numbers. I bet you have blisters on your hands from shortchanging your workers.”

Jack makes a mistake here—he takes his eyes off the suspect to look at Mr. Peterson in a new light, trying to gauge which of them is telling the truth. And in that split second, to your horror, Lucas hurtles forward and shoves the stacked wine barrels, hard, knocking both Jack and Peterson onto the ground.

You make a mistake, too, and he gets on your case about it afterwards. You let Lucas slip past you in your rush to reach Jack’s side. He looks dazed and angry and his legs are trapped under the hundred-pound barrel. Gathering your strength, you lift it off of him and set it upright, then fall to your knees to check him over.

“Jack! Are you alright?” You feel carefully along his legs, then gently at the back of his head, running your fingers over his scalp to check for bumps or bleeding.

“I’m okay,” he mutters. “I didn’t hit my head.” But he winces as you help him up, and he’s moving a little gingerly when he takes a step. “Might’ve tweaked my ankle,” he admits.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Peterson yells. “You let that little shit get away with my property.”

“Let me ask you this, Mr. Peterson,” Jack growls. “Was it true what he said, about the double accounts?”

“I don’t see how that matters,” he insists angrily. “I hired you to do a job, and I expected a lot better.”

“I’ll tell you why it matters,” Jack tells him. “I don’t work for people who lie to me. Consider the contract dissolved. You can get your ‘property’ back on your own.”

“Actually, you got lucky, Mr. Peterson,” you call back over your shoulder as you help Jack walk over to the stairs. “If we had gotten our hands on that drive, we would have been obligated to turn it over to the IRS. Statesman has connections in the government, too, you know.”

And with that, you leave him sputtering and pale, alone with his precious wine.

It’s 3 AM when you get back to the room. Jack’s ankle isn’t broken, just twisted. You’d made him wait in the car while you stopped at a 24-hour convenience store to get ice on the way, so now you get him tucked into bed with his foot elevated and a baggie of ice draped over his ankle. He’s clearly still peeved over how things went down with Peterson, but he also looks amused watching you play nursemaid for him.

“You know, I’ve been hurt a hell of a lot worse than this before,” he tells you. “I can take care of myself.”

You give him an unimpressed look. “Getting badly injured isn’t the brag you think it is,” you counter. “And… you shouldn’t have to take care of it alone. That’s what I’m here for. I know you think I’m just a rookie, but—for this job, we’re partners, right?”

He’s silent for a beat, but then he nods.

Jack is still awake and waiting for you when you return from the bathroom in your pajamas. As you climb into your side of the bed, he says, “I don’t think you’re just a rookie. You did a good job on this case.”

The room is dark but there’s moonlight streaming in through the window, casting a beam of light across his face on the pillow. He’s looking at you. You look back.

“Thank you,” you tell him finally.

“Thanks for the ice,” he returns. He lets out a sigh as his eyes drift shut, and as you follow suit you feel his hand reach out and intertwine with yours.

“G’night, Violet,” he murmurs.

“Goodnight, Johnny.”

He laughs, and you grin in the dark, and you hold on tight.

#pedrostories #pedrostoriesgift23 #jack daniels x reader #agent whiskey x reader #pedro pascal #kingsman fanfiction #my fic #fanfiction

78 notes · View notes

lingerasthesmokeoncedid · 2 years ago

Text

What Do the Lonely Do At Christmas?

A Battinson Holiday Fic

After years of not celebrating holidays, Bruce Wayne is trying to do something different. But when he hires a professional decorator to deck the halls of Wayne Manor, Bruce finds that it's not just his home and holiday that will be different - his heart just might change, too.

I. They’re Singing “Deck the Halls,” but it’s not like Christmas at All

On days when he went into the downtown highrise office that bore his name, Bruce Wayne didn’t take the executive elevator. Ever since the beginning of his New Gotham project, he tried to connect with the people on a human level. To not be their boss, but someone they could talk to, who could hear their grievances and worries, who could do something in his considerable power to help them, even without his mask.

Funny thing about that, though. As it turned out, no one wanted to ride the elevator with The Boss.

He would approach the elevator bank and people would scatter. A few would smile and wave uncomfortably when their eyes met, but none of them would brave even a few minutes with Bruce Wayne, the scion of the richest family in the city.

So, he rode the elevator alone. Always.

At least…until one day in December, when the wind was biting and the snow tasted like change.

“Hold the door, please!”

For a half-second, Bruce didn’t even realize the disembodied voice was addressing him. No one ever rode with him; now someone was calling after him, begging not to be left behind?

“Hold the door – thanks!”

But then she appeared. An unremarkable stranger, running for the doorway like her life depended on it, shuffling past her frozen colleagues as she jugged several ill-stacked boxes. Bruce didn’t recognize her, but all the same, he couldn’t help but stare.

Framed by the brass elevator frame and backlit by the strings of gold and silver lights on the lobby wall behind her, she beamed at him, beatific as an angel atop a tree.

Bruce awkwardly shuffled to the side as he held the doors open to allow her inside. Not enough, apparently, because as she jostled to manage her tower of packages, she pressed her back against his until she was safely inside and could maneuver better.

It was an accident, he told himself. And it only lasted a moment. Less than a moment. But he’d caught a breath of her scent, felt the shift of her body against his…and it now felt burned into his skin.

“Thanks again for that. Sorry I kept you waiting.”

He pressed the button for the top floor, his stop, and was surprised when she informed him she was going to the same place.

They rode in silence for awhile, Bruce in the corner of the elevator, shifting his weight across the balls of his feet, trying not to look at her slightly fuzzy reflection in the elevator mirror. She hummed along easily to the holiday elevator music playing above them, still carefully balancing her boxes.

It was like riding with someone who didn’t know he was Bruce Wayne - or someone who didn’t care. Either way, he decided to break their silence.

“You’re new here, aren’t you?” He asked, in that slightly stilted way of his. After so long in the shadows, it took time to adjust to normal human interaction.

“Just a temp,” she chirped. Then, she gestured to the boxes, which, upon further inspection, contained red ribbons and garland. “I’m a professional decorator. I’ve been doing the building here.”

“Oh, so you’re responsible for all of this?” Bruce asked. This time, it was his turn to gesture - to the tinsel hanging from the ceiling above them.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” she replied.

“No, no,” he said. Shit. He really was out of practice. He’d barely said a few sentences to this woman, and already he’d accidentally insulted her. “Your work is great. It’s just that all of this holiday cheer, it’s just not me.”

He expected the conversation to end there. He’d embarrassed himself, he’d screwed up already - no wonder no one wanted to ride the elevator with him, and her floor was fast approaching. But she surprised him.

“Really?” She asked.

It was obvious, wasn’t it? Bruce Wayne, tabloid badboy recluse with greasy hair and too-big clothes and too much money? Of course he didn’t immediately strike anyone as a Buddy the Elf type. But she seemed genuinely surprised, as if she saw something besides darkness when she looked at him.

Strange. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had seen the good in Bruce Wayne. Batman, yes. Bruce Wayne? No. It had been a long, long road since then.

“Now you say it like it’s a bad thing,” he lobbed back.

“It’s just…you just don’t really seem like a Grinch. Not even an Ebenezer Scrooge.”

Last year, he’d spent Christmas covered in someone else’s blood, standing over some nameless, faceless criminal who’d had the misfortune to try to rob someone at gunpoint near Batman. This year…he liked the idea of spending it at home. Giving out presents to kids in The Narrows. Doling out Christmas bonuses. Stuff like that.

Sure, he’d probably Batman on Christmas Eve. And probably Boxing Day, too. But for one night, maybe he could help people as a man instead.

“Call me a recovering Grinch. I just haven’t celebrated any holiday in a long time.”

She looked like she wanted to ask him why. He appreciated it more than he could say that she didn’t.

The doors opened on her floor then, and she smiled at Bruce before she left him.

“Well. Maybe you should try something different this year.”

II. It’s Beginning to Look a lot LIke Christmas

A few days later, Bruce Wayne was in the attic of the Manor, hauling things around like a man possessed, searching for something he hadn’t seen in many, many years.

But then, a crackle on his watch, and suddenly, Alfred’s voice filled the musty attic room.

“Sir, I’m sorry to disturb you, but we’ve just been buzzed on the gate intercom. I have eyes on a woman, and she claims to have been invited by you–”

Bruce could picture it. The butler at the bank of security cameras monitoring Wayne Manor at all times, suspiciously eyeing some strange car approaching.

His chest tightened. She was here. She was going to be here, in his house. A woman in Wayne Manor. Since his parents’ death, that was even less common than holiday celebrations.

Bruce checked the time. Damn. He hadn’t meant to be up here when she arrived. But finding the boxes took more time than expected, and –

There. There was the box he was looking for. Caked under a thick layer of dust, a box marked “CHRISTMAS/HANUKKAH” sat in the corner of the room.

He spoke into his watch, then reached for it. “I’ll take care of it, Alfred.”

A skeptical pause from the other end of the line.

“...Very good sir.”

But Bruce’s understanding of very good, sir in that context must have been quite different from Alfred’s, because when he found his way to the atrium some ten minutes later, his attention was drawn away from the front door, where he expected her to be waiting, to the nearby sitting room.

Despite the grand doors being shut, Bruce could still hear Alfred’s cool, modulated tones and a soft, female laugh. The clinking of fine porcelain. Soft Christmas music from a record player.

Bruce’s shoes squeaked on the marble by accident. In the sitting room, Alfred excused himself and materialized in the hallway with Bruce a moment later.

“You let her in?” Bruce asked, hating how he sounded like a petulant child, but not enough to let go of his frustration. He hadn’t wanted to explain all of this to Alfred. He’d hoped she would be able to decorate today, then leave before Alfred was any the wiser. He should have known the old man would find his way to interfere.

“I couldn’t very well leave her out in the cold, could I?” Alfred said, his smug tone telling Bruce everything he needed to know. I wanted to snoop and I wasn’t going to let this girl go without getting to know her. “She’d have frozen if I hadn’t gotten her a cup of tea and brought her in, that’s how long it took you.”

Bruce grit his teeth. Yeah, this was mostly his fault. Not that he was going to admit that. “I was busy.”

“Busy with what? And what’s that?” he asked, gesturing to the box Bruce carried. “Old junk for the cave? Sir, when you have a date come over –”

“We’re not dating,” Bruce said, quickly.

“Apologies, I’m sure you’re keeping it casual, right?”

Dammit. He was going to have to explain now. Couldn’t have Alfred hearing wedding bells – the old man was convinced that was the only way Bruce would ever fully give up being Batman. If some woman came into his life and he hung up his mantle for her. “She’s here to decorate the manor. The boxes are our old Christmas and Hanukkah stuff.”

Alfred blinked. Finally on the back foot. Finally surprised by something.

“She…what?”

“It’s the holidays, Alfred,” Bruce said, as if he hadn’t been avoiding them most of his life.

A scoff from the butler. “First time you’ve noticed in ten years.”

“I’m trying something different.”

Not good enough for Alfred. Bruce took a different tack, his lips quirking up in a slight smirk.

“Come on. You should be proud. I’m finally starting to act human again.”

III. Your Eyes are Like Starlight Now

A few days later (Christmas decorating a manor of this size couldn’t be done in an afternoon, apparently), Bruce was set up in his office, trying not to think about the strange woman currently in his house. He didn’t let people into the Manor very often. It was private, a sanctuary - no, more like a creaking, heaving monument to the past. To let people in this house was to let them into a life he’d left behind. To poke around at the ghosts and peer around corners for his secrets.

So, as she worked, he was very aware of every creak and groan of the house. And he was also very aware of her humming those festive songs - the tunes echoed through the halls and to his desk as though they were meant for his ears only.

The idea of someone else in his space, someone besides Alfred, unsettled him. But, as the days went on, he realized it was the disquiet of a man learning to dance for the first time. Awkward, then oddly comforting.

Their shared conversations in the hallway as they happened to pass each other, their laughter in the kitchen as she took her lunch break while he just so happened to be there making a cup of coffee, the wave they always shared – him looking down from the window, her looking back at the mansion as she went to her car – at the end of each day….they all added up to something, something Bruce couldn’t ever quite name for himself.

Even if he knew the word for this feeling – and he suspected that he did – he didn’t want to examine it too closely. Too complicated. Too confusing. Too risky.

That afternoon, her voice carried across the house. This time, it really was meant for him.

“Mr. Wayne? Mr. Wayne?”

Bruce left his desk and followed the sound, until they met together on the sweeping second-floor landing. He blinked as he approached. In the hours since they’d parted, she’d gotten busy. Christmas lights and dangling ornaments were everywhere. Had the house ever been this bright, this cheerful, before?

“There you are, Mr. Wayne,” she said. “I was just–”

“You can call me Bruce, you know.”

He hated being called Mr. Wayne. It felt like carrying his father’s tombstone around his neck.

“That’s allowed?” She asked.

An understandable question. This house didn’t radiate casual, cool, boss energy. But he also thought, when he impulsively hired her that day after their first meeting, that she hadn’t seen him as only a boss. But as a person.

A boss, you call Mr. Wayne. A person, you call Bruce. He wanted to be Bruce. God, how badly he wanted to be Bruce for her. What a peculiar feeling. “I’d like it if you did.”

Their eyes met. When he finally pulled away, he was convinced he’d looked at her for too long, but he wouldn’t have traded a moment of it. The Christmas lights twinkling in her eyes were hypnotic.

He cleared his throat. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“I’m decorating the tree,” she said, waving down towards the first floor. She’d had a tall fir delivered bright and early in a snowdrift that morning as Bruce watched her from the second story window. “I thought maybe you’d like to put up some of the more sentimental ornaments?”

Bruce remembered decorating the tree with his own parents, but that had been so long ago. He assumed professionals like herself would do everything; that’s part of the reason he hired her. So he wouldn’t have to live out those painful, happy memories of his parents again. But, still. He didn’t want to be labeled as weird. If this was the done thing, he would do it. “Is that something your clients like to do?”

“Not usually. But I always like to offer. It’s how my family and I used to get ready for Christmas.”

He wanted to ask her why she said that in the present tense; he then remembered the restraint she’d shown in the elevator.

He’d been avoiding the holidays for years because they reminded him of his parents; it seemed, at least to him, that she was holding onto them because she didn’t want to forget hers.

He’d been suffering for years. She seemed pretty happy. Maybe he could try her way. Just this once. See if it made him feel better.

“Well. I don’t usually do that,” he said. Her face fell for only a second before he picked it up just as quickly. “But I remember someone suggesting that I try things differently this year.”

Moments later, they were down in the grand atrium, where she and her team of delivery men had erected the fourteen-inch tree she’d spent the entire day decorating. The scent of fir and snow filled the air, immediately making him think of her. She’d smelled the same when they’d first met in the elevator that day, when she’d first shown him the kindness of treating him like a person instead of a name.

As he stepped deeper into the room, towards the box he’d brought down a few days ago, he examined the splendor she’d brought to this usually drab, forgotten place. Of course, the Christmas tree stood like an elaborate mountain in the corner near a big, snow-dappled window. Holly and garland had been strung, the photographs in this room had been dusted and lined amongst hand-me-down nutcrackers and tchotchkes. His mother’s Hanukkah decor and family relics had been arranged, too, given a place of prominence on a long side table running the length of the room.

It was…perfect. Like she’d borrowed a memory or a dream from the warmest, most sincere, deepest buried parts of him and brought it to staggering life.

She looked like she was made to stand near his fireplace. Like she belonged there, in his room, in the warmth of this holiday scene she’d created. He tried not to think about that when he began picking through the sentimental ornaments she’d left for him to hang.

“I haven’t looked at these in a long time,” Bruce muttered. He ran his chafed, scarred hands over some of the artifacts of Christmases past.

The woman beside him, so close they brushed when she breathed too deeply, brightened. “You’re in for such a treat. There are some great ones here. Like….” She dug around in the box and produced a scuffed, chipped ornament from almost thirty years ago. “Bryce’s first Christmas.”

Bruce chuckled. “My father gave that one to me. He’d been somewhere in Europe just before Christmas and apparently that country didn’t have have too many Bruces. This was the closest he could find. My mother said they probably had Bruce ornaments, but he brought this one home anyway. Always loved a joke, my dad.”

The words fell out before he could catch them. He stiffened when they stopped, then fully aware that he’d been soft, vulnerable, to this woman. Sensing the shift in mood, she offered:

“I’m sorry - would you want to do this alone? I don’t want to intrude - ”

Yes, please go, every fiber of his being wanted to say. But he overruled the feeling. He’d been masking himself in shadows and isolation for years; maybe if he wanted to be a different man, a different Batman, he had to once again return to the land of the living.

“You’ve still got some decorating to do, right?” He said. A small smile escaped him. Teasing people wasn’t really in his repertoire, but he gave it a try: “I wouldn’t want to keep you from your work.”

She rewarded him with a smile of her own. “Thanks.”

For awhile, they worked in silence. One by one, Bruce would take out the ornaments – paper stars he’d decorated in kindergarten, a wedding bell given to his parents on their fifth wedding anniversary, a Dick Tracy ornament given to him by Lucious Fox after watching the movie in the guy’s office every time Bruce would go to Wayne Tower after school…

Each one was a fresh papercut. A memory of someone or something he’d lost or forgotten. But at least he was feeling something besides rage. Something besides vengeance.

At least he remembered how deeply he’d loved people before. Even if he’d lost them.

Every few minutes, his focus shifted to the woman who’d accidentally brought a blizzard of change to his life. She hadn’t precipitated the change. He’d been looking for ways to make himself a better man outside of his suit ever since The Flood, and she’d just been there at the right time.

Exactly the right time. Looking exactly right. Talking to him exactly right. Making him feel exactly right, even in her small, subtle ways.

At that moment, she struggled on tiptoe to fill an ornament gap about halfway up the tree.

“Is everything okay over there?” Bruce asked.

She cursed softly under her breath, half-laughing to herself as she did. “It’s my own stupid fault. I wasn’t thinking and already brought my ladder back to the car. I’ll just have to run out and get it again.”

An instant war sparked inside Bruce. His natural instinct to help kicked in, but the darker parts of him, the ones that wanted to remain stoic and remote, kicked into defensive action. Don’t offer to help, Bruce. She has the ladder. You can carry that for her if you want to –

Bruce paid that voice inside him no heed. He’d decided that he was going to try acting like a normal person, rather than a bat vigilante who only occasionally donned a human suit and pretended to be one. This was another step in that process.

“Would you like - ” He cleared his throat and lightly flexed his hands in an awkward suggestion of lifting her up. “Could I help you with that?”

Her eyes sparked, then shrugged. “Sure. If you think you can handle it.”

Smothering a smile – if only she knew how strong he was, what damage his hands currently cupping her waist could do, how easily he threw over fully grown men three times her size, she wouldn’t have said anything – he lifted her up.

In his life of extrajudicial crime fighting, Bruce had endured many painful moments that stopped time. But he couldn’t remember any pleasant memory that managed to manipulate time for him. In his experience, torment lasted interminably; happiness was fleeting.

All that to say – holding her in his arms might only have taken a moment in reality. To him, though, the world tilted into slow motion, and it occurred to him how little kind touch he’d had. How nice it felt to touch someone else without wanting to hurt them. How perfect she felt in his arms.

When he finally returned her to the solid stability of the hardwood floor, the world snapped back into proper rhythm, but still, he couldn’t take his eyes off of her. She’d brought light and warmth to the manor again. She was mesmerizing.

So mesmerizing, in fact, that he hadn’t thought to release her.

A flush traveled across her collarbone, but there was a teasing note to her voice when she said, “You can let me go now.”

Bruce stepped away like she’d electrocuted him. “Oh. Right.” Then, he added, mumbling: “God, I’m a cliché.”

“You’re not. What’s a cliché at Christmas, anyway? We call that tradition.”

This time, he braved a joke. “So…it’s your tradition to spend Christmas in some guy’s arms?”

She smirked. “Only if he’s lucky.”

IV. Warm in December

On a bitterly cold December night, the Batman apprehended a series of criminals robbing an apartment building of its presents. At the scene, he lingered as the detectives and police officers investigated the aftermath.

One man, Romero, was bent over a series of spent bullet shells (the robbers had been well armed), when he looked over at the hulking figure looming nearby.

“Bats, what do you do this time of year? Hibernate?”

“Clearly not,” he said, gesturing to the fact that he was very obviously not sleeping off the winter somewhere.

Romero’s cocky bravado dripped from every word, taunting and pointed. “I mean, really. I’ve been thinking about it, and I just can’t picture you by the fire, wearing mittens and Santa hats on those ears of yours, Mrs. Batman waiting for you under the mistletoe…”

Something must have shifted in his expression - or maybe his fists had clenched - because in an instant, Gordon was in between the man and the bat.

“Cut it out, Romero.”

Romero protested, but Gordon snapped again. “Go back to GPDHQ. You’ve got paperwork.”

With one long, sharp look at Batman, Romero complied with the order, grumbling something like can’t believe I’m working Christmas Eve, should have worked Thanksgiving under his breath.

When he was gone, Gordon took over his cataloging duty. Batman again hovered.

“That wasn’t necessary.”

“No, it wasn’t. But consider that your Christmas gift. Romero’s got a smart mouth; it was time someone put him in his place.”

Batman silently nodded his thanks.

“He’s right, though,” the detective said. “Not natural for a man to be this way.”

Gordon didn’t have to explain what he meant by that. The Batman knew. It wasn’t natural for a man to be so alone.

But maybe he wouldn’t be alone this year. Maybe he would try something different.

V. Underneath the Mistletoe

Bruce didn’t sleep much that night. After stitching himself up, he usually passed out for at least an hour or two of rest before starting a new day. Instead, he found himself pacing the holly-lined hallways, taking in all the work she’d done to the manor, thinking about her and what he would do the next day when he saw her.

It was a big risk, this plan. He’d ever done anything like it before. He probably shouldn’t. What a terrible idea. But what if it wasn’t? What if it turned out alright? What if letting someone else into his life wasn’t the end of the world, but the start of a new one?

He wanted to inspire hope in Gotham now, not just fear. What if that started at home? What if he stopped being so afraid all of the time – of everything, of every one, of every feeling – and actually let hope grow where rot once had?

He didn’t know the answer to those questions. He only knew that when he finally found her the next morning, putting the finishing touches on a gingerbread display in the front hall, he spluttered:

“Do you have any plans for the holidays?”

If his sudden appearance and even more sudden question surprised her, she didn’t let it show. She was probably used to it by now, he figured. His strange behaviors, his unsocialized difficulty connecting. Where other people might have recoiled or flinched, she merely smiled as she dusted powdered sugar snow over a perfect 1/35 replica of Wayne Manor. “Black and white movies. A big glass of wine. A defrosted pumpkin pie and probably some Thai food.”

Bruce shuffled. The next question was the part he’d been dreading. He didn’t want to seem like some creepy guy fishing, but he needed to know before he asked…“Alone?”

“Yeah. Alone.” A flicker of pain crossed her face. Again, she didn’t offer, and he didn’t ask why. Her voice quiver gave her away, though. She may try to seem brave, but there was pain under the surface and excuses. “But it’s better, really. I mean, that way, I get to, you know, do what I want on Christmas. No one to tell me what to do or anything. I pick the menu, I pick the movies...My Christmas, My way.”

A twinge of melancholy echoed in those last words. Bruce might have shivered; he’d never seen her anything less than the chipper holiday angel before. But, he had a plan.

“Well. If you change your mind…” he said, as casually as he could manage. “It’s just going to be me and Alfred here this Christmas. It might be nice to have company.”

Their eyes met. She froze.

“We could have Thai food,” he offered, suddenly unsure. Shit. Had he misread this situation? Was he imagining feelings there that didn’t exist? Had he fucked up his first attempt at trying to open up to someone else?

She took a step forward. His heart jumped into his throat.

“Not exactly traditional Christmas fare, though, is it?” She asked.

Translation: You don’t have to do that for me.

He took another step forward too, braver than he felt. “We could try something different this year.”

Translation: There’s nothing I’d rather do.

They were impossibly close now, lingering beneath one of the countless arched doorways that made up this creaky old manor. For a moment, he thought she might reach up and kiss him.

Then, her eyes flickered upward. “You’d better watch out, Mr. Wayne.”

He followed her gaze. Ah. “Mistletoe.”

“I didn’t put it there,” she said, taking a step back, clearly afraid to give him the wrong impression.

“Don’t worry,” he replied. “I know you didn’t.”

Because he had. He’d hung up the mistletoe last night.

All the same, he took a polite step back. He might have hung the mistletoe as an excuse to kiss her – knowing his courage would probably fail him without it – but now, he knew better. She would kiss him. And when she did, he would be ready.

VI. Although it’s been said many times, many ways…

Being at Bruce Wayne’s house, as Bruce Wayne’s guest, was a very weird experience. He was the most famous man in all of Gotham city. She was a professional decorator, barely making ends meet. Totally anonymous and random. If not for a chance elevator meeting a few weeks ago, their paths would never have crossed.

But the circumstances around her invitation weren’t the only weird thing. Bruce himself was weird, too.

A nice kind of weird. An unsocialized kind of weird. She’d noticed it that first day in the elevator and chalked it up to him being an awkward first impression. Not great with people he didn’t know. But the more time she’d spent with him, the more she realized he just didn’t know how to be around other people.

Must be isolating, she thought. To be so alone. No parents. No friends. No girlfriends either, if the papers were to be believed. Just his money and his house and, (she imagined as he was the head of a major corporation and a huge power player in politics) many, many enemies.

It broke her heart. Because it seemed to her, through their days spent in this house together, that Bruce Wayne had a lot to offer people. He just didn’t know how. So, she gently peeled back his layers, finding more and more depths and complexities to him than she ever could have imagined.

This was a crush. She knew that. But the guy had invited her over for Christmas dinner. Just the two of them and Alfred. That had to mean this wasn’t one-sided…

Right?

Or that’s what she thought, anyway, until she was ushered into the formal dining room and placed at one long end of the table while Bruce sat at the other end.

Formal, indeed.

During the soup course, she cleared her throat and raised her voice. “I can’t thank you enough for having me.”

Bruce glanced up from over his bowl. “What?”

“I said I can’t thank you enough for having me,” she repeated.

He answered her, but it was completely unintelligible.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” She asked.

“I said –”

Oh, screw it. Picking up her napkin and her wine glass, she waltzed down to his end of the table and planted herself in the seat next to him.

“This doesn’t seem like you, Bruce.”

“This is what people do, right? Besides, you decorated it so well in here. It would be a shame to waste the atmosphere.”

Pushing away from the table, she headed straight for the swinging kitchen door.

“Where are you going?” Bruce called.

“Just give me ten minutes.”

And then, she was gone. After so many days here, she knew the manor like the back of her hand. She navigated the stairways with ease, and set about improving this celebration. What was Christmas? Closeness? Coziness? Whimsy? Wonder?

She thought it was probably a combination of those things. But really, it was just one day where everyone could feel like they belonged. And she hadn’t belonged in that stuffy dining room.

Neither, she suspected, did Bruce Wayne.

And so it was that, less than half an hour later, she was leading Bruce and Alfred into the house’s cozy basement breakfast nook, which she’d taken the liberty of redecorating with repurposed holiday decor from the rest of the house. This was better. A simple four-top table, cheesy plates retired from an old Christmas party, a mismatch of wine glasses and coffee mugs because she didn’t know her way around Bruce’s kitchen in the slightest.

It wasn’t like any other Christmas she’d ever had before. But for the first time in a long time, crowded around that tiny table with a billionaire and his butler, she felt very much at home.

When the night came to an end, Bruce walked her to out. So close his warmth radiated through his jacket. Far enough away that the slight air between them crackled with possibility.

“Thank you for inviting me,” she said when they reached the grand entryway. It was a stupid farewell, but the first thing that came to her mind. Her body was too focused on the we’re going to say goodbye in a few minutes and he still hasn’t kissed me, is he going to kiss me, oh god do I still have garlic breath from that last course questions to think of anything cleverer.

“I’m glad you came,” Bruce replied, opening the door and unleashing a blister of cold air into the manor. They lingered in the doorway together. “I know it’s not easy giving up your traditions.”

“Even if your traditions include brooding alone and not celebrating the holidays?”

He bent his head and ducked behind that shaggy curtain of hair he never seemed capable of managing. An admission of guilt.

She shrugged. “I’ve been alone for a long time. I thought I’d try something different this year.”

“Glad you did?” Bruce asked.

She was breathless. Anticipating. This was her moment. Her last chance. “Take a step closer and I’ll tell you.”

Bruce glanced upward at the doorway. A slight furrow developed between his thick eyebrows as he saw what hung between him and his guest.

“I didn’t put any mistletoe there,” he muttered.

“I know. I did.”

And with that, she grabbed his lapels and pulled him in for a kiss, oblivious to the snow falling all around them, or the hammering of Bruce’s heart as she unknowingly picked up the broken pieces and put them back together again.

#bruce wayne x oc #battinson imagine #battinson x oc #battinson/reader #bruce wayne/reader

30 notes · View notes