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sitepathos · 8 months ago

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From Gold to Mold

Chapter 8: The Reunion

“Oh god, look at all these people,” you mutter, looking around the hall the award ceremony from your seat in the developer section, which is full beyond capacity. “Don’t think I’ve seen this many people before.”

The last time you saw so many people was your graduation night at Gotham Academy, but this makes that look like a small office party in comparison.

(There is no need to fret. You have polished your speech to perfection and have rehearsed it so many times you can recite it perfectly in your sleep. And when you are done, all will cheer for you.)

You smile at its words. No matter how uncertain you feel, the Megamycete always has your back. You’d hate to think where you’d be without it.

Well, without the Megamycete, you’d probably be dead.

“Wonder where Alfred is,” you wonder, looking around at the back of the hall. “He said he was coming.”

(We are sure he is here. The butler would swim through shards of broken glass to be here at the biggest triumph of your life.)

You’re so anxious to see the man; it’s been four years since you last saw him in person and you just know he’s going to bring up your lack of visits and probably try to guilt you into visiting since Gotham’s only three hours away, but you intend to stand your ground and go back to Goodsprings tomorrow.

“I hope he likes the suit I got,” you mutter, messing with your collar for the millionth time, not use to wearing such fancy clothes.

(He will. You chose from among millions of choices and made the best choice. Everyone in the room is no doubt in awe of your superior fashion choice.)

The day you were told you were in the running for this award, you drove to Vegas and spent well over an hour at the Men’s Warehouse, looking over and trying on countless suits. The salesman helped a bit, but many people in the Megamycete’s records included many upper class men, men’s fashion designers, and models, so you were more than capable of picking out a tasteful black blazer with a breast pocket perfect for holding your Momma’s pen, a white button up shirt, and matching black pants and dress shoes.

The clothes looked fine on the rack, but wearing them in public for all to see is something you had to psych yourself up for. You feel like a kid playing pretend with his father’s clothes and everyone knows it. Still, you can’t help but feel like a professional and take a little pride in it.

Just then, the lights dim and the audience cheers as the MC steps on stage.

“Hello, everyone,” he says. “Are you ready to kick off the Golden Games?”

The room fills with thunderous applause and cheers, yours among them. You’ve known about this event for years and have never missed watching it. When you first started your game, you fantasized about being at the Gamer’s Gala competing with your fellow developers for the Golden Joystick, but knew there was no chance your first game would ever make it to the first round of voting. Perhaps your second game. Or maybe your third.

But here you are, at this prestigious event with your first ever game in top contention for a prize so many covet.

You pinch yourself to make sure you’re awake and are pleased that you’re wide awake.

The ceremony opens up with the Golden Joystick for the Triple-A Game of the Year and awards for their various categories, like story, gameplay, music, graphics, etc.

“Alright, with all the big dogs out of the way, we finally get to the indie games. And boy, was this year a massive success for so many indie developers with over fifty percent of this year’s most anticipated games being indie games! Let’s go over your picks for this year’s Indie Game of the Year.”

You get a look at the trophy you and your peers are competing for: the Golden Joystick. As the name suggests, it’s a trophy in the shape of an old fashioned joystick made up of a gold material. For a moment, you allow yourself to visualize winning it and displaying it in your office. Hell, you had a spot on a shelf made for it when you got the email from the event committee that Salvage Rights was a candidate for Indie Game of the Year, even though voting was still ongoing.

The MC begins going through the list of games with said games and their developers being displayed on one massive screen behind him with the game’s team showing up on the other one. With each game mentioned, you think about your Momma; you can remember being at some awards ceremony years ago when one of her books was up for some fancy prize. Even back then, you could tell she was so nervous about getting up and making a speech in front of so many people and having it broadcast for all to see.

At the time, you didn’t understand because she would’ve been given an award and everyone could see. Unfortunately, she didn’t win and while she said she hope to win it, it was good enough to be considered for it, you were pissed on her behalf over it.

Being here, you understand why she felt that way. While it would be a dream come true to win the Golden Joystick on your first ever game, just being here, among your peers, is more than enough; knowing you’re skilled enough to make a game worthy of being judged among the best is a tremendous honor. Plus, the thought of having to make a speech in front of so many people makes you so nervous, you fear you’ll lose your lunch.

God, you wish your Momma was here. This is the biggest moment in your professional life and having her in the audience would make you feel better.

(We are sure she would give anything to be here for you. Wherever she is, she is no doubt watching this moment with unparalleled anticipation.)

“And last but not least, the game that exploded onto the scene a month ago and made a surprise cameo on the voting polls, Salvage Rights by Gould Games,” the MC announces as your game appears on one screen while you appear on the other, lit up by a spotlight.

You feel your face break out into a blush as the room fills with applause and cheers. To know that so many people hold you and your work in such high regard… it’s humbling to say the least.

You wave back and give them a big smile.

Finally, the room quiets down, allowing the ceremony to continue.

“Ok, everyone, with all the candidates on the board.” The screen on the right of the stage lists all the games and their developers, yours the last on the list. “We opened the polls for all gamers and had a record breaking ten-point-nine million ones this year for the Indie Game of the Year, guys!”

The room once again fills with applause and a girl runs from backstage, delivers him an envelope, and runs off.

“It took the Gala Committee a while to tally the votes, but when all was said and done, it was clear who the winner was.” He opens the envelope and a drumroll plays from the speakers to buildup the moment. As he pulls out the piece of paper inside it, you realize you’re holding your breath and your heart’s stopped due to the anticipation. “The Golden Joystick for Indie Game of the Year goes to…” He looks down at the paper and looks back up. “Salvage Rights by Gould Games!”

Your eyes become wide as saucers as you process the words, your heart resumes beating and your release the breath you’d been holding since the candidates were announced. You then realize you’re bathed in the spotlights as the big screen shows you at your seat; the room fills with applause and cheers, many people near you congratulating you.

You get up and walk to the stage, nodding and clapping hands with many you pass by on your way to claim your award. Finally, you make it on stage and shake hands with the MC, who gives you the Golden Joystick.

(This is the only way this could have ended. You worked tirelessly on your game and did not stop until it was the definition of perfection. You were more worthy than any other for this trophy.)

“Thank you,” you say into the mic, silencing the room. “I just want to thank my fellow game developers, the Committee, and especially the gamers, who gave me the opportunity to be here.” This garners more applause. “I have to say, when I first started working on Salvage Rights, I never in a million years thought I’d be here, in the most prestigious gaming event, receiving the greatest award an indie game can receive, but I guess I was proven wrong.”

The room fills with laughter and you sigh in relief. Good, they seem to be liking your speech.

(As they should. You revised it over a dozen times and practiced it in front of your stuffed toys at least fifty times.)

“When I first got into video games, it was just because I was a kid who was fascinated by being able to play on a DS anytime, anyplace. Now, I’m into video games because they are the new medium of art. Think about it, there are games out there that have stories that would made Shakespeare weep, music worthy of being performed in symphonies, and art styles that should be studied by artists hundred years from now. It’s a medium that transcends all others that have come before it.”

More applause. Good, they like it.

“I first started work on Salvage Rights not long after my fifteenth birthday, nine years to the day that I unfortunately lost my Momma to a drunk driver.” You see many people in the audience take notice at this, clearly not expecting to hear something so tragic. “At the time, I was living in a place that neglected me; from the day I first arrived, I was treated like I didn’t exist and any attempts I made to get their attention was ignored.” Clearly your words resonate with people, because you can see a few people tearing up.

“I had someone there I could rely on, and he made those times more bearable, but he couldn’t get rid of that feeling of loneliness that I had felt for years and all I wanted was for my Momma to walk through that door and take me back home. But no matter how much I hoped and prayed, she never came and my loneliness only got worse with each day.

“My only escape from those days were video games. While in real life, I was a nobody in that house, but I was able to dive into one game where I was a noble hero who was destined to defeat the embodiment of evil, or dive into another game where I tamed the mightiest of beasts and triumph over the strongest of champions, or dive into one game where i could master every life skill possible and bring light to a world facing eternal darkness. It was during those days that I learned that games provided an escape from the confines of reality, if only for a little bit. And that’s when I realized I wanted to create a game that could allow someone to escape reality and become the best version of themselves.”

There’s definitely a couple people on the audience crying at this point.

(You have them eating out of the palm of your hand. Time to reel them in.)

“So, I want to thank each and every one of you, both those in this room and watching across the globe, for giving my game a chance and allowing me to fulfill my dream. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you.”

The room explodes into applause and cheers, even a few whistles. I shake hands with the MC once more walk off stage and cross the room back to your seat, shaking hands and receiving pats on the back the entire time.

(A resounding success,) the Megamycete says as you sit down. (They hung on your every word. After tonight, everyone will know of your talent and many will beg for the opportunity to work on their newest project, offering you the world in exchange for your expertise. As they should.)

“Easy, buddy, you’re gonna give me one hell of an ego at this rate.”

(It is only naturally to think so highly of yourself. Compared to everyone in this room, you are a god.)

The rest of the ceremony features trailers for games releasing in the near future and announcements for new titles, making a note to keep an eye on many of them for you to buy on release or pre-order when they become available.

After the ceremony, you follow the rest of the developers to the Developer’s Lounge, a room that’s lavishly decorated and fully stocked with a wide array of food and drinks being served by a dozen waiters, all of it courtesy of Lex Luthor, who is currently talking to a group of triple-A executives, his bodyguard close behind him; many of your peers and various VIPs are already eating, drinking, and talking with other developers, game journalists (ugh), or their personal guests. You gratefully accept a champagne flute from a passing waiter and make your way around the room, looking around for any sign of Alfred.

“Where is he,” you mutter to yourself, scanning the room.

“Mr. Y/N Gould,” a masculine voice calls out to you, making you turn to the source: a tall, blue eyed man wearing a pair of black framed glasses, a grey jacket over a dark blue tie and light blue button up shirt, navy blue pants, and black loafers.

(We sense a spike in your heart rate. Are you alright?)

Oh, you’re better than alright. Some attractive man knows your name and wants to speak to you.

(You are attracted to this man. This is the first time we have ever experienced infatuation firsthand. We look forward to seeing this interaction unfold.)

“Yes,” you say, managing to find your voice. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

“Clark Kent, Daily Planet,” the man responds, raising his hand and you accept.

It’s then you notice the feel of something metallic and when you glance at his hand, you see a gold wedding band.

Damn it.

(We grieve the loss of your potential mate.)

Oh well, always lots of fish in the sea.

“Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Kent?”

“Yes, the Daily Planet was hoping to write an article on the winner of the winner of the Indie Game of the Year. Is there anyway I can talk you into doing an interview?”

(He can still be of use to you. By doing this interview, he can help you find you a worthy mate.)

Great, now you have sentient mold trying to play matchmaker. Well, at least you’ll be able to get more people interested in your game. The Daily Planet’s the biggest paper in Metropolis and has decent following around the country.

“I hope you can wait a little while for that interview, Kent.”

You freeze at the new voice, a voice you haven’t heard in over four years. You hope that, somehow, you’ve made some huge mistake and it’s not who you think it is. You then realize that the entire room’s gone silent, sans a few whispers, and now all eyes are on you and the newcomer behind you, Clark chief among them.

You realize that your breathing and your heartbeat have ceased, and the pit of anxiety and fear from earlier has returned, but there’s now rage included in that mix; rage you haven’t felt in over four years. Rage that finally went away when you finally escaped Gotham and put it and Wayne Manor in your rearview mirror.

You feel a hand grasp your left shoulder and out of the corner of your eye, see a tall figure come to a stop to your right. You slowly turn your head to fae the figure and look up to see your worst nightmare: Bruce Fucking Wayne looking down at you, his signature fake ass smile adorning his stupid mug and a champagne flute similar to yours in hand.

He’s dressed far too formal for an event about video games, wearing a designer black suit with matching pants that probably cost more than your car. You can dig through all your memories of the man and never find one instance of the man wearing anything casual. And that smile of his, the one he always flashes to his insufferable blue-blooded friends; you want to punch him so hard in the face that every last tooth shatters, but you manage to put a lid on that urge.

If only just barely.

(What is this shameless heathen doing here,) the Megamycete hisses. (The audacity of this creature to show up on the best night of your life and ruin it. You should kill him. Immediately.)

Right now, you’re really tempted to give him the Joker Treatment.

“I’m afraid Y/N and I have much to talk about.”

“Mr. Wayne,” Clark stampers out. “Do you know Mr. Gould?”

“I would say so,” he responds in that fake cheery tone he only reserves for galas and paparazzi, those “honeyed words” so disgustingly sweet and fake it makes you want to vomit. Preferably on him. He tries to pull you closer to him, but you’re able to resist it no problem thanks to the Megamycete. “He’s my son.”

And like that, the crowd around you descends into chaos, many of them loudly talking among themselves while others take out their phones and cameras and begin snapping pictures of the two of you, and so many media types are shouting questions towards you and him.

But all that doesn’t really phase you. Right now, you feel as if the world has crumbled around you and now you’re left free falling in an endless void, doomed to spend the rest of eternity in this sort of purgatory.

You’re frozen where you stand, unable to look anywhere else but at the face of the man you hate with your entire being and as you look into those eyes of his, every single memory of your stay at Wayne Manor flashes before your eyes; you’re overwhelmed by the feelings of sadness, loneliness, pain, and humiliation you were forced to deal with during those twelve long, horrible years. Right now, it takes every bit of restraint and willpower you have to not let all the thoughts you have of ripping this bastard’s head off and kicking it so far that every NFL team in the country would offer you fifty million in advance if you signed on with them become reality.

(You should do it. Kill this man. Teach him the meaning of pain. Let him feel all the pain he and his flock have caused you for years and despair. Make him regret ever taking you for granted.)

Ok, your usual voice of reason is now howling for blood. This does not bold well for you.

“Mr. Wayne,” you finally respond, finding the strength to keep your voice steady and not cause a scene (or at least a bigger one than he has already); you brush his hand off your shoulder, making a mental note to burn these clothes (damn it, you paid good money for these). “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, I’m definitely not your son. Perhaps you’ve had too much to drink? Wish I could say I’m surprised, but I’m not. You should sit down before you make an even bigger fool of yourself in front of all these people.”

His smile falls and you can see the hurt shine in his eyes for a fraction of a second. He’s an expert at concealing his emotions, so for you to do something like that makes you giddy.

“Y/N,” he pathetically responds as he reaches out to you, but you take a step back. “I am—“

“You’re a sperm donor, nothing more, Mr. Wayne,” you hiss, revealing in the hurt expression that breaks out on his face. It’s probably fake, a stunt to pull for the crowd, but you don’t care. You’ve held all these feelings in for years and now that you have the chance to give this son of a bitch a piece of your mind, you’re taking it. “You’re not my dad and I’m sure as hell not your son!”

“Y/N, I know I wasn’t the best father to you, but—“

You lose it at that. All the abuse and misery and neglect you had to deal with from him and his kids for over ten years, and he has the nerve to say he “knows” anything about how you feel? In a swift motion, you throw your champagne at him, dousing his face in the clear-yellowish drink that quickly pours down his neck and soaks his expensive black jacket.

The crowd gasps at this, but you absolutely couldn’t give a shit. This was to be the best night of your life and he had to go and ruin it by daring to show his hideous face and dare to have a conversation with you. Fuck, he probably took Alfred’s place, so you had no one here to share in your big moment, something that makes you even more pissed off.

Throwing your champagne at him only made your rage burn hotter, demanding to inflict as much pain and suffering on this man that you’ve suffered for years. You quickly close the gap between you two, deliver a harsh right hook to the right side of the man’s jaw and follow up by shoving the man as hard as you can (though still holding back a lot of strength so you don’t reveal what you really are), causing him to topple to the floor, landing on his ass.

At this rate, you don’t really care what people say about you after this, all you care about is hurting him. You look down at the pathetic wretch at your feet and love the look of horror and pain etched on his face, reveling in the terror in his eye and the blood dripping from his closed mouth.

(Yes,) the Megamycete screams. (More. More. Make him hurt. Make him bleed. Make him realize who the superior one is.)

“Someone call an ambulance, this asshole’s gonna need one,” you growl, pouncing towards the man who made you lose the best years of your life, ready to pound his face so hard that they’ll have to rely on fingerprints to identify him.

Just then, you’re caught in mid-air and when you look behind you, it’s Clark, his arms wrapped around your waist in a surprisingly strong grip.

“Mr. Gould,” he says in a tone like he’s trying to soothe a startled animal (which isn’t too far off the mark). “Please, control yourself.”

You don’t want to. In front of you is the man who treated you like shit from the day you two met, making you wish you were in the car when your Momma died so that you never met him. This was suppose to be your night — your moment of triumph — and he had to go and ruin it. And you want nothing more than to put this man in a full body cast, and that’s you being generous.

But when you see the look of total shock on his face, and everyone in the crowd who has the same expression, your rage finally cools down. Not because you feel guilty over what you did to Bruce, you were ready to reduce him to a bloody red paste, but because everyone just saw your absolute worst.

You go slack in Clark’s hold and that’s when he finally lets you go, having to command the mold to reinforce your leg bones to keep you standing because without it, you’re ready to collapse form the burst of energy you just burned through.

“Is there a problem here,” Lex says as he emerges from the crowd, Mercy following close behind. He glances down at Bruce and a ghost of a smirk appears on his face.

“I have an axe to grind with him,” you say, doing your best to even out your voice. “I’m sorry for making a scene.”

“What about pushing Mr. Wayne,” Lex asks, motioning to the man.

“No, that’s something I’m very proud of.”

You can see Bruce flinch at that and it makes you feel good.

“Well, it’s always a pleasure to see Bruce Wayne be taken down a peg,” the man chuckles. He then turns to the rest of the crowd. “Alright, show’s over, everyone. Go back to your own business.”

Slowly but surely, the crowd breaks up and the party resumes, but you can definitely tell many of the media types are still looking at you and Bruce and are no doubt chomping at the bit to talk to either of you, many of them furiously typing on their phones, probably texting their bosses and sending whatever pictures and videos they took.

“Mr. Gould, I’d be honored if you would give me a few minutes of your time.” He extends his arm as if you were a woman. “I have much I’d like to talk with you about.”

You discreetly glance down at Bruce, who looks like he’s ready to do to Lex what you did to him a minute ago. You know that Lex is only doing this to piss off Bruce, his biggest business rival, and is probably using you in hopes of getting some speck of dirt on Bruce and maybe even some Wayne Enterprises secrets.

And god damn it if the thought of that doesn’t make you giddy.

“Of course,” you say in a sweet tone of voice, looping your arm in Lex’s. “The honor would be mine.”

He leads you towards a private area of the lounge and as you pass by Bruce, who’s still on the floor, you glance over at him and give him a dirty look, making it clear that you hate his guts and the next time he tries something like this, you won’t hold back.

You don’t know what Bruce wants and why he’s suddenly showed up after four years of your leaving, but chances are he’s only here to serve his own agenda and you want nothing to do with him or his crazy ass family. You have your own life and are finally happy for the first time in years, and you’ll be damned if you’ll allow all your hard work to be destroyed.

If it comes down to it, you’ll wage war against him and the rest of the Bats.

(Yes, clip their wings. Tear them to shreds. Grind them into powder. Tear down everything that they are and leave nothing behind so they are forgotten by the world.)

Bruce watches as you and Lex wonder off to some desolate corner of the lounge, simultaneously plotting an attack on Lex Corp that will hot Luthor hard and replaying his interaction with you, going through millions of different ways that could’ve gone better. Or at least, not ended with you almost tearing him limb from limb, the only thing saving him was Kent’s intervention.

Ok, maybe approaching you like Brucie Wayne, millionaire playboy philanthropist, was a bad idea, but it was the only way he could think of that wouldn’t scare you off. He really thought that talking to you with his usual charm and bravado would’ve at least given him a chance to talk to you.

All it got him was a look into your temper.

Fuck, the look of pure rage and disgust in your eye the entire time you talked to him. Right now, he just wants to curl up and die, but he also wants to scoop you up into his arms, hug you tightly, and beg for your forgiveness, no matter how much of a fool he made of himself or how much you bite, scratch, and hit him.

It’s then he thinks back on you shoving him and it’s then he realizes it doesn’t make any sense. He’s a solid six-foot-two, way taller than you and while he would never call you weak, you definitely aren’t a bodybuilder, so he should’ve been able to withstand your shove no problem. But he’s been fighting against beings with super strength all his adult life, so he knows the difference between a strong human and a Meta.

But you’re not a Meta, right? He’s spent the last twenty-four hours digging up every piece of information he can on you, your medical records from Southern Hills Hospital being one of the first things he delved into. When you were born, you were a healthy baby boy, no signs of illness and certainly no trace of the Meta Gene. He even has your medical records during your time in Gotham (Alfred being the one to take you to all your appointments because he certainly didn’t do it), and everything points to you being in perfect health.

So, how were you able to shove him like that, a man who goes toe-to-toe with the likes of Bane on a regular basis?

“Are you ok, Bruce,” Clark asks, extending his hand to help him up.

“I’m fine,” he responds, brushing the hand aside and getting up on his own.

“Pardon me if I don’t believe that, I could tell you were shaken up by that.”

If there’s one skill Bruce prides himself on, it’s his ability to conceal his emotions, able to hide his true feelings from anyone and everyone, even from telepaths such as Martian Manhunter.

But seeing how his son, his baby boy, feels about him made him forget his control. Him not being able to hide the pain he felt when you lashed out at him, clearly holding a lot of anger and resentment towards him, was one of the few experiences that has shaken him to his core.

“Mr. Wayne,” Vicky Vale says as she emerge from the crowd and approaches them. “Care to make a statement on what just happened?”

It takes everything he has to not let out a groan. Of course, Vicky Vale is always there whenever some drama happens to either him or his children in public. She had a field day with him when he she asked about his bruises and limp he got last time he fought Killer Croc and he had to play it off as some really kinky sex he and some supermodel had.

“Not now, Vicky,” he responds, leading Clark closer to where you and Lex walked off to. “I have a prior engagement with Mr. Kent here.”

“I didn’t know you had a son before Damian,” Clark whispers as they walk.

“Let’s just say I did everything wrong when it came to him,” he responds back, keeping his voice low. “I found out I screwed up and came here to try to make amends. You know how that ended.”

“I know, we all had front row seats to that. Also, I’ve been listening to his and Lex’s conversation the entire time.”

“What’s that bastard saying to him,” he hisses, pissed off beyond words that snake is talking to you, his baby boy.

“So far, Y/N’s just trash talking you, calling you every name in the book and angry that you ruined his big night.”

Bruce winces at that. He knew it’s Alfred you want here to share in your achievement, but he couldn’t miss this night, not when he’s missed so much of your life. To see you, smiling on stage and acting so humble after wining an award as important as that was absolutely mesmerizing.

Of course, your speech hit him like a freight train. He knew he wasn’t the father you deserved, but to hear you talk about your time with him so poorly was more than he was prepared to handle. Of course you miss your mother and he’s glad you think so highly of her, but is there really nothing he can do to make you reconsider giving him another chance? To give his family another chance?

“Lex is now offering to be a benefactor to Gould Games; Y/N have total creative license on all projects and would be given a massive office in one of Metropolis’ premiere high-rises.”

“In exchange for WE secrets, no doubt.”

The thought of you and Lex working together makes him sick. The man is a snake and wouldn’t hesitate to betray you if it benefitted him in any way. If you need money for your new games, he’d be more than happy to do it! You could be a subsidiary of Wayne Enterprises with as large a budget as you want, with your choice of office in Wayne Tower or around Gotham. You’d have all the best computers and software that money could buy and if you need to hire more people, you can choose all the people you want and he’d personally arrange for them to be flown to Gotham, ready to work as soon as possible.

“That’s right,” Clark responds. “Don’t worry, he turned him down. Looks like you won’t be losing nay more money to Lex this year.”

“Y/N doesn’t know anything.”

As sad as it is, that’s the truth; you’d been shut out by all of them that you couldn’t give any of his secrets away. Hell, you don’t even know that you’ve been living with Gotham’s vigilantes.

“He’s been kept in the dark about everything,” he mutters as he looks at you, chatting away with Metropolis’ biggest wannabe.

Maybe he should tell you that he and your siblings are Gotham’s vigilantes? Not that it’s any excuse with how they treated you for yeas, but with any hope, it would make you more understanding on why they were always so busy and at least consider talking with them.

Just then, Clark winces at something Lex just said.

“What,” he snaps.

“Lex just invited him for dinner. And based off his tone, he has more in mind than just business.”

And with that, all he can see is red and he’s filled with rage at the bald bastard.

“Bruce, wait,” Clark calls out as he stops over to where you are.

“Bruce,” Lex says with a smirk as he approaches the both of you. “I hope you’re not looking for another beating from Y/N.”

He looks over to you, your expression clearly indicating you’re visualizing beating the hell out of him right now.

“Of course not, I just wanted to extend an invitation to him for dinner. It’s been forever since we had a father-son dinner.”

“We’ve never had dinner together before,” you snarl.

“His loss, I assure you,” Lex responds, giving you a look that makes Bruce want to punch his lights out.

“Y/N has nothing you want, Lex,” Bruce growls, trying to keep his anger from getting the best of him. “Leave him alone.”

“I disagree, Bruce. Y/N is charming, witty, and a delightful to be around.” He has a twinkle in his eye that makes Bruce even angrier. “He definitely takes after his mother.”

Bruce opens his mouth to spit some insult at the fucker, but you intervene.

“Yes, Momma raised me well,” you say, looking right at him before looking back at Lex. “I appreciate the offer, Mr. Luthor, but I’m afraid I’m heading back home first thing tomorrow morning. Maybe the next time I’m in the area?”

“I’m certainly hoping that will be soon.” He pulls out a card and hands it to you. “My personal phone number and email. The next time you come to Metropolis, please don’t hesitate to reach out to me and I’ll see to it you’re afforded every luxury this city has to offer.”

“Thank you,” you responded, taking the card and pocketing it. “I certainly hope to visit again soon. Metropolis is way better than Gotham. Hard to believe that cesspit is its sister city.”

He winces hearing your clear disdain for his city, the home of his family. Your rightful home.

“Indeed,” Lex chuckles. “Gotham is so painfully outdated in every respect it’s almost funny. If I had my way, all of its archaic structures would be torn down and replaced for more modern and aesthetically pleasing replacements.”

“That style is Gotham,” Bruce growls, unable to put up with the disrespect of his city. “Gotham has resembled its current form for over a hundred years now. It’s a reflection of its storied past.”

“A storied past of misery and insanity,” you respond. “Gotham isn’t a place where good people end up. It’s a spiderweb that slowly drains everyone within it of all they have, leaving nothing but empty husks behind. Maybe all of it should be torn down.”

You say the words, but all he hears is his voice. When his parents were killed, he felt the same way about Gotham as you do. It took him years to finally shed his hatred and resentment for the city and see its beauty. As much as you’d probably hate to admit it, you really are his son.

“I’d love to stay and continue this riveting conversation, but I’m afraid I have an appointment across town. He turns to his bodyguard. “Mercy, ready the car.” She nods and leaves. “And Y/N, I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay here in my city. Perhaps you’d allow me the honor of taking you to the airport myself?”

“I’d like that very much, Mr. Luthor,” you say, giving that bastard a smile that makes his blood boil.

“Please, call me Lex.”

“Ok, Lex,” you say with a chuckle.

Oh, he’s going to make Luthor suffer for this. When he gets back to the Batcave, he’s going to plant so many viruses into Luthor’s systems, he’ll spend months recovering a single piece of data.

Finally, the man walks away, leaving you and him alone at last.

“I’ll say this only once, Mr. Wayne,” you say in a tone that shows you mean business. “So listen close: I don’t know what you’re doing here or what you hoped to achieve here, but stay away from me. I’m finally happy for the first time in years and I won’t allow you to fuck it up for me.”

He winces at your words. And the fact that you’re calling him “Mr. Wayne,” like he’s a stranger (though with how he treated you for over ten years, that’s not too far from the truth). He knows that he has no right to be called “dad” or “father,” but you can’t even call him by his name like your siblings do? Do you really hate him that much?

“Y/N, please—“

“Shut the fuck up,” you growl, cutting him off. “This is your only warning: stay away from me. I’m not weak like I was when I was first dragged to Gotham. Keep butting in where you don’t belong and I’ll personally reunite you with your parents.”

You go to walk away, but he grabs you by your shoulder. You quickly snap your head to look at him, your expression so full of hate and disgust. He knows this isn’t helping his case, but he can’t let you leave like this; he needs to keep you here so he can talk to you, to beg you for just a few minutes of your time.

You grab his hand with yours and begin squeezing so hard his hand begins to throb and he has to fight to hide his expression of pain from the crowd.

Not only do you not look you visit the gym, but this type of strength is something beyond what a normal human is capable of. Just what secrets do you have?

He meets your gaze and he has to suppress the fear he feels when looking in your eyes. There’s hate in them, no doubt about that, but there’s something else in them. Something dark. It also doesn’t help that you have his mother’s eyes and seeing them look at him that way cuts him to his core.

You shove his hand away from you and you storm off, ignoring as a dozen journalists come up to you and leaving him to stand there, watching you walk away from him and ignoring the throbbing of his hand.

“You ok,” Clark asks after walking up to him.

“No,” he mutters. He looks down at the camera in the Kryptonian’s hand. “Did you take any pictures of him during the ceremony?”

“Yeah,” the reporter responds, holding it up. “I was in the press section of the audience. I got a couple good shots.”

“Send them to me,” he orders while walking off.

Many reporters try to talk to him, but he doesn’t spare them a second glance. Right now, all that matters is planning his next move. You’ve made it very clear that you resent them for how they treated you while you lived with them and while he understands that perfectly, you need to understand that he’s your father and his children are your siblings.

He’s happy that you’ve made a life for yourself in Nevada and are successful in your career as a video game developer, but you’re a Wayne and all Waynes belong in Gotham, under his roof.

He gets his phone out and tells his children to be ready for a family meeting as soon as he returns in the morning. As much as he wants to find a way to bring you back to the fold on his own, he can’t do it alone. With any luck, your siblings will be able to reach you. Hell, he might have to call on Alfred to help bring you home.

He will uncover everything about you (including whatever what you just did) and when he does, he’ll use that knowledge to make you realize you’re son and your rightful place is by his side, where he can keep an eye on you and shield you from the dangers of this world.

One way or another, you’ll come back to Gotham and when you do, he and you’ll siblings will shower you in the love you deserve. And after that, they’ll throw the biggest gala ever, with you as the centerpiece, and show you off as the most important member of the Wayne Family; all of Gotham elite will climb over one another in hopes of courting you, but he and you siblings will never allow them to come anywhere close to you as you won’t need anyone but them to keep you company.

It doesn’t matter how long it takes or what he has to do, he’ll learn your secrets (as is his birthright) and lead you back to where you belong.

Even if he has to drag you back home by your ankles.

Tag List: @space1crow @bat1212 @minkyungseokie @nosyrobin @bunbunboysworld @kitty-from-daaaa-voidddd @feral-childs-word @phoenixgurl030 @soriansick @hellcatsworld @prettyboys247 @marsmabe @paolexsstuff @c0l1fl0r @starryperson @kore-of-the-underworld @kiarst @vanessa-boo @moxiemy @greatwhisperspaper @tatsuri-zomushiki @starsdotalk @luna57765 @jsprien213 @lizz-lrm @chericia @v0idl1nq @diejager @solelifauna @bunbunbread @ratchetprime211 @ellaprime7 @fantasyhopperhea @exactlynumberonekryptonite @bellethesleepypotato @roseytheteacup @orbitingtraveler @lunaluz432

#male reader #yandere batfamily #batfamily #batfamily x male reader #yandere barbara gordon #yandere cassandra cain #yandere bruce wayne #yandere damian wayne #yandere dick grayson #yandere batfam #yandere dc #yandere jason todd #yandere tim drake #yandere alfred pennyworth #yandere stephanie brown #from gold to mold #batman #dc x male reader

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littlejoyss · 1 month ago

Text

𝓯𝓪𝓽𝓮 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽 3

“One single thread of gold tied me to you.”

Stray Kids - Felix x Reader

Red (golden) string of fate trope

Word count (so far): 19k

𝓹𝓻𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓸𝓾𝓼 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽 ← 𝓬𝓾𝓻𝓻𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽 → 𝓷𝓮𝔁𝓽 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽

You arrived at the venue early, determined to squeeze in every second of productivity before heading to SBS Prism Tower. The building was mostly quiet, the only sounds were the click of rolling garment racks, distant conversations in rapid Korean, and the occasional bark of a director giving instructions.

The door to your prep studio creaked open as you stepped in, only for the breath to catch in your throat.

The rack was still empty.

Your eyes swept the space again, as if the collection could somehow be hiding behind a mannequin or tucked under the work table.

But no. No garments. No boxes. No deliveries.

“Where-” you fumbled for your phone, fingers suddenly cold.

As if summoned, Bora stepped into the room right then, a cup of coffee in one hand (she’s addicted to coffee at this point) and her phone in the other. She took one look at your face and stopped. “They’re not here?”

You shook your head. “They were supposed to be here yesterday.”

Bora's eyes narrowed, and her tone turned sharp. “Did the shipper confirm pickup?”

“Yes. The warehouse texted me a photo of the truck leaving.”

She pulled out her phone immediately, scrolling. “Hang on. I’m calling customs now.”

You walked slowly over to the rack, running your hand down the cool metal bar that should’ve been weighed down. Instead, it was bare.

You’d spent months on this collection. Sketching until your fingers cramped. Stitching until your vision blurred. Choosing fabrics so precise you’d fought with a vendor over 3% silk content. These weren’t just clothes. They were proof you deserved to be here.

Bora swore under her breath, still waiting for the call to connect. You could hear the ring on speakerphone as she set her coffee on the edge of the table.

When the shipping rep finally picked up, she launched in without preamble. “This is Bora Seo, designer liaison for Seoul Fashion Week. I need an update on a customs-cleared garment shipment from Atelier Han. Tracking number ending in 7134. It was marked as released yesterday. Where is it now?”

A pause. You strained to hear the voice on the other end, but the reply was too muffled to make out.

Bora’s jaw clenched. “Yes, I see that. Customs clearance was confirmed at Incheon at 3:42 p.m. So where did it go after that?”

Another pause. Bora’s eyes flicked toward you, unreadable.

“No, I’m not asking where it should have gone. I’m asking where it actually went.” Her tone was ice now. “Because the venue received nothing. And my designer's model fittings schedule is released today.”

You crossed your arms, trying to suppress the chill under your skin that had nothing to do with the venue’s central air. Your stomach had started to twist itself into knots.

Finally, Bora gave a slow blink, listening. “Understood. Email me the internal logs. Now.” She hung up and turned to you, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Okay. So the good news is they cleared customs. The bad news is-”

“They don’t know where the hell the boxes went,” you finished, voice tight.

She nodded grimly. “Exactly that. They were picked up by a third-party delivery service after clearance, which should’ve brought them here directly. But there’s no delivery confirmation, and the tracker’s been inactive since yesterday evening.”

Your voice cracked slightly. “So they’re just… lost?”

“They’re not lost,” Bora said quickly, though her tone wavered at the edge of certainty. “They’re… misplaced. Temporarily misdirected. It happens. Sometimes the logistics team drops it off at the wrong dock, or the delivery driver doesn’t scan the box, or-”

You turned away, fists clenched at your sides. “Bora, my fittings start tomorrow. I can’t present a ghost collection.”

“I know.” Her voice softened immediately. “I know. I’m already on it. We’ll find them, okay? You did everything right. This isn’t on you.” Bora picked her coffee back up, took a long, furious sip, and muttered, “If some intern signed for those boxes at the wrong address, I swear to god I’ll personally dye their eyebrows pink.”

You couldn’t help it, you laughed, hoarse but real. “Pink?”

“It’s the ugliest semi-permanent color I know. Lasts for weeks. A fate worse than termination.”

You scrubbed a hand down your face. “What do we do now?”

She looked at her watch. “You keep working. Draft backup fitting notes. Check your digital files, double-check the accessory sets, and anything you can until those pieces turn up. I’m going to track this shipment to hell and back. And tonight, you’re still going to SBS Prism Tower.”

Your head jerked up. “You still want me to go?”

“If that thread was pulling that hard, you must follow it. Fashion week is the show of your life,” she said. “But he… he might be the rest of it.”

You blinked at her.

“Besides,” she added, “if I’m going to threaten a warehouse, a shipping service, and an intern in one day, I need something wholesome to balance it out.”

You smiled despite yourself. “A soulmate sighting is your idea of wholesome?”

“Only if it ends with some kissing.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Go get your designs back,” she said. “Then go get your boy.”

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

You had spent the day finding some assistants who could sew quickly, just in case your packages never arrived.

Two interns from ESMOD were sent your way by Bora’s friend in casting. They were quiet, efficient, and terrifyingly fast with a needle. You assigned them mock-ups, digitized what patterns you could salvage, and resigned yourself to the grim possibility of rebuilding the collection piece by piece overnight if necessary.

By the time 6:45 PM rolled around, your hands were sore and your laptop battery was dying. Still no word from the delivery service. Still no boxes.

And yet, Bora insisted on dragging you, half-covered in thread clippings and foundation touch-ups, into the back of a black van headed for the SBS Prism Tower.

“I should be back at the venue,” you murmured, voice hoarse as the skyline slipped past outside your window. “What if the pieces show up? What if the interns need help? What if-”

Bora reached over and flicked your forehead lightly. “Ow, hey!”

“Stop spiraling. I’ve got it covered,” she said firmly, holding up her phone, which displayed approximately 17 ongoing text threads. “I have a guy at the loading dock. I have the shipping company’s regional manager on the verge of tears. I have a spare espresso shot in my bag and a threat drafted in my notes app in case I need to go nuclear.”

You looked at her sideways. “Does the espresso come with a therapy session?”

She smirked. “Only if you cry first.”

The lobby of Prism Tower was a sea of controlled chaos. Stylists and staff rushed across marble floors with garment bags and makeup trunks. Idols posed for the press behind velvet ropes while their managers hovered nearby like hawks. The air buzzed with tension and hairspray.

You tightened your grip on your badge as you and Bora made your way past the credentialed entrance.

“Don’t slouch,” she said without looking at you.

“I’m not slouching.”

“You’re slouching emotionally.”

“I’m anxious.”

“Then fake it. Shoulders back. Chin up. Pretend the entire K-pop industry is watching you.”

“They are.”

“Good. Maybe one of them will remember you when you’re famous and want to walk your next red carpet in your designs.”

Bora didn’t miss the sudden shift in your expression, the way your breath hitched slightly, and your eyes locked onto something invisible and far away.

She followed your gaze. “The thread?”

You gave a small, shaky nod. The golden line tugged violently at your pinky as it glowed. This happened last time he was close.

“Alright, follow it.”

You blinked. “What?”

She raised a brow. “You said he’s here, right? Go find him.”

“Bora, we’re in a high-security building, surrounded by idols, staff, and literal K-pop royalty. I can’t just walk around like I’m soul-radar?”

“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “Exactly like that.”

You hesitated, but the thread gave another soft pull, like it knew where it was going even if you didn’t. You swallowed. “Okay.”

Bora nodded approvingly. “Text me if you need backup or if you find the love of your life and need a witness. I’m going to go harass a logistics manager and pretend I’m scarier than I look.”

You slipped away from her with a grateful smile and started moving through the tower, following the quiet hum inside your chest. The thread guided you through backstage corridors, past bustling makeup stations and camera setups, winding deeper into the heart of the production floor.

People buzzed past in a blur of dark clothing and headset wires. You had to duck around racks of sequined suits, dodge a dancer mid-warm-up, and avoid getting smacked by a boom mic swinging around a corner. But still, the thread tugged, firm and calm, like a hand leading you through a storm.

Finally, it led you into a quieter hallway just behind the main performance stage. The sound of muffled bass pulsed through the walls, but this area was dimmer, calmer. Right in front of you was a dressing room door marked ‘Stray Kids’.

The golden thread attached to your pinky was practically buzzing now. It shimmered faintly in the low light, pulsing like a heartbeat. And it led directly to that door.

Your heart leapt into your throat. You took a shaky step forward and stopped because you heard voices on the other side. Laughter first, warm and familiar. Then words, quiet and close, as if someone had just leaned in near the door.

“…still glowing,” someone said. A low, accented voice, edged with awe. “Hyung, I’m serious. It’s glowing more now.”

A soft scoff followed, amused but not dismissive. “Maybe you’re just excited.”

“No, seriously,” the first voice insisted. “It’s like… vibrating. This has never happened before.” A pause. “Do you think they’re close? Like, right now?”

Your breath caught. Felix.

On the other side of that door, he was speaking about you.

You pressed your hand lightly against the wall, just beside the doorframe. The warmth of it grounded you.

Inside, another voice joined in. “You’re the only one whose string reacts that strongly. It’s gotta mean something. Didn’t you say it lit up like that when we walked out of the studio yesterday?”

“Yeah,” Felix murmured, quieter now. “It pulled hard. I think, I think they were nearby. I just didn’t know who.”

The conversation continued, but in Korean.

That’s when you decided to grab hold of your string and tug. Not forcefully, just enough to say you’re here.

Inside, the conversation stuttered. Words dropped off.

You held still, trembling, the golden thread thrumming like a live wire between you.

“…Hyung,” Felix’s voice came again, barely a whisper. “Did you feel that?”

More scrambling. Someone muttered something urgent in Korean.

Felix’s voice was closer now. Softer. He was near the door. “I just… I need air.”

The doorknob turned. Slowly.

You blinked, barely managing to step back as the door cracked open and Felix emerged.

He didn’t look at you at first. His gaze was on the floor, his shoulders rising with each unsteady breath. He was pale, and his lips parted as if he’d just run a mile, skin dewy from the heat of backstage lights.

And then, he looked up and locked eyes with you.

The golden thread between you flared violently, burning. Both of you flinched. Felix staggered back half a step, his hand flying to his chest, and you gasped as a searing warmth shot through your pinky like a lightning strike.

“Oh.” The word barely left his lips, but it rang out like a bell in a cathedral. Your whole body felt it.

“Oh,” he said again, softer this time. His eyes were wide.

You felt the heat in your pinky intensify, and the golden thread between you shimmered again, catching the light in a way that made it look like it was made of flame. It curled through the space between your hands like it had always belonged there.

Felix took a half-step forward, eyes never leaving yours. He lifted his hand slowly, fingers trembling slightly. “Is it… You?” he asked, voice nearly breaking on the last word.

You nodded. “I think so.”

Felix exhaled, and something in his posture released. His shoulders dropped slightly, like he’d been holding tension for years and was finally allowed to let go.

“Can I…?” he gestured hesitantly to your hand.

You didn’t trust your voice, so you offered your pinky forward in answer.

His fingers brushed against yours, and the moment they touched, the golden thread flared so brightly it lit up the space around you. And then it settled. It didn’t dim, it didn’t disappear, it just eased into a quiet glow.

Felix looked down at your hands, now linked pinky to pinky, and laughed softly under his breath. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Me neither.”

Felix looked up at you again as he moved his hand away. A small smile curved on his lips. “I don’t…I don’t even know your name.”

You let out a shaky laugh and said it. Just your name.

He repeated it back like a prayer.

“I’m Felix,” he said, though of course, you already knew. Still, hearing him say it that softly, like it was only meant for you, made a smile plastered on your face.

“I know,” you murmured.

Felix's smile widened just slightly, like he still wasn’t convinced this wasn’t all some fever dream.

But then, “Felix!” A sharp voice cut through the moment like a whip. You both jumped.

From inside the dressing room, a woman snapped at him, speaking to him.

Felix flinched. "잠깐만요! 잠깐만요!" he called back, waving a hand, eyes flicking between her and you. “Just, please, one minute!”

He turned to you, suddenly frantic. “Wait…wait, I have to…Can I? Here-” He fumbled in his pocket, yanked out his phone, and shoved it into your hands. “Please. Put your number in? So we can talk. Or meet. Tomorrow. I don’t, God, I don’t wanna lose you now. I just have an interview in ten minutes-”

You typed fast. Name. Number.

He took the phone back with a breath of visible relief, clutching it like it was suddenly the most important thing he owned.

“Tomorrow,” he promised, already backing away as his makeup artist stormed closer. “I swear. I’ll text you. I’ll find you. Please don’t disappear.”

You nodded, still dazed, heart pounding.

Then he was gone, swept back inside with a flurry of apologies and a final glance over his shoulder, golden thread trailing faintly behind him as the door shut.

You stood there alone in the hallway, the warmth of the thread still glowing at your pinky, and whispered into the quiet, just like you did on your eighteenth birthday:

“I think I found him.”

(A/N: Woah! Thank you for the support! -Deedee)

taglist (comment to be added): @hwangjoanna @shinygubbins @lizzygd @btch8008s @under--space @monniemons @chimmyn0chu @wickedbutlovely @hyunjinsculpture @beal-o @valkirymin @moonlitcelestial @wolfhallows4

#stray kids #skz #kpop #fanfic #kpop fanfic #skz fanfic #stray kids fanfic #felix x female reader #felix x reader #skz felix #stray kids felix #lee felix #felix #skz fanfiction #skz fandom #stray kids fanfiction

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yuta-nakamots · 2 months ago

Text

Criminal - L.Taemin

Pairing - Thief!Taemin x Luxury Designer!Reader

Genre(s) - Fluff (slight Action/Horror?)

Warning(s) - Taemin breaks into your apartment multiple times, slight violence, making out with Taemin, small injury (reader bites him lol), blood, hickeys, swearing

Summary - As a designer for a luxury brand, you’ve dealt with theft before, but never a thief who leaves kisses like fingerprints. Taemin slips through shadows and silk, stealing more than couture and designs as he draws you further into a dangerous game of desire.

Word Count - 4.0k

Author’s Note - It seems only fitting that a Taemin fic titled Criminal would be about him stealing luxury items like how he did to Kibum LMAO

Taglist - @k-vanity @cosyhomenet (fill out this google form if you'd like to be added!)

Written for The Mirror of Erised Collab hosted by @taem-min-archived.

Now playing: Criminal - Taemin, Heaven - Taemin, Sherlock - SHINee

As you arrive home after a long day of work, you let out a sigh of relief as you plop your heavy folder and bag onto the kitchen table. The contents of the folder splay out the slightest bit, your sketches for Gucci’s newest Spring and Summer collections, but you’re too tired to care, already heading to your bedroom and slipping into the shower, all too eager to wash away the day's stress. With deadlines for the new collection coming up, you had superiors hounding you for designs, but creativity cannot be rushed.

Once you finished showering, you began the familiar, soothing tasks of your night routine. Having dinner while watching a show, doing the dishes, brushing your teeth, and most importantly, choosing your outfit for tomorrow. As a rising designer for Gucci, there was nothing more important than dressing for the part. Everyone in your department showed up to work dressed to the nines, but it only made sense.

After setting aside your meticulously planned outfit, you finally slide under the covers of your bed as sleep calls your name. Checking your phone one last time, you set it down on the nightstand next to your bed and settle in for yet another night, hoping for a restful sleep before yet another day at work.

As you begin to drift off, feeling your consciousness slip from reality, a noise jolts you back to your senses. It sounded like it came from nearby, maybe within your apartment. But that’s impossible. You remember locking the doors and closing the windows before you went to sleep. It was probably not a big deal. Perhaps it was just a pillow that fell off the couch. Telling yourself that it’s not a big deal, you manage to persuade your body to calm down enough to attempt falling asleep again.

It almost worked until you heard a small thump. Definitely from somewhere in your apartment and definitely not a pillow falling off the couch. You thought up scenarios of different things that could have made the sound. A jacket falling off a hanger? A trinket rolling off a shelf? A shoe sliding off the rack? Plausible.

You were nearly convinced that it was just your apartment playing tricks on you, but then you heard the rustling. Rustling of papers…coming from the kitchen…your designs. You remembered the folder of your designs that you haphazardly threw onto the kitchen table when you first returned home, not bothering to clean them up because you were so tired.

Sitting up carefully, trying your hardest to remain silent as a feeling of dread took hold in your chest, praying to whatever high power was above, you hoped that it was just your papers being blown around by some stray air current caused by the lazy construction of the building. But in the case that someone was in your apartment, going through your designs and threatening the upcoming collection…you looked around for something to protect yourself and your designs.

As a designer for a luxury brand, you had heard stories about thieves breaking into the warehouses and offices. Your coworkers told you those accounts as if they were ghost stories, meant only to scare new hires into protecting their work and their valuables. You had seen the emails the company sent out whenever there was a report of a break-in, but none of that prepared you for your own encounter with a luxury thief.

You picked up your water cup from the nightstand, not sure what you were going to do with it, but decided it was the closest you were going to get to a weapon or at least a diversion. Creeping closer and closer to your bedroom door, you tried to listen for any more sounds coming from the other side of the door. The faint sound of papers being rifled through continued, and you were sure that it was coming from the kitchen, exactly where you left your designs.

Your hand softly gripped the doorknob as you pondered what your next move would be if there was indeed someone in your apartment. Would you splash the intruder with the water in your cup? Would you pour it on your designs to stop them from being stolen? What if the designs were already photographed and being sent to another brand? What if-

You heard footsteps. And they were growing closer. You watched the shadows shift from the crack at the bottom of your door. The footsteps stopped right in front of your bedroom door. It was now or never. You swung the door open, hitting whoever was standing on the other side, and you doused them with the water in your cup, hoping to earn at least a few seconds to get a hold of the situation.

The intruder fell against the wall, staggering from the impact of the doo,r and you took in their appearance. Male, wearing all black from head to toe (mayhaps a fashion faux pas), their face covered by a black ski mask, broad shoulders with a slender waist tapering into long, slim legs. On another day, if you had seen this person in any place aside from your apartment under the current circumstances, you might have considered going up to them to recruit them as a model.

His eyes flutter underneath the mask as he struggles to pull himself together. You were stuck between dealing with the intruder and going to check on your designs. The man in front of you had seemingly nothing on his person, no bag, no case to carry your hard work away. That must mean he had already taken pictures of them. Against your better judgment, you dashed to your kitchen, needing to know whether or not the papers were still on the table.

When you slid around the corner to the kitchen, you saw your folder with papers spilling out of it. Your sketches were laid haphazardly on the surface of the table, most of their contents fully exposed to any person who was lucky enough to lay eyes on them. With the way they were positioned, you knew the intruder had stolen pictures of them, rendering these papers of no use anymore.

You ran back out from the kitchen and into the hallway, determined to catch the man and delete whatever images he had on his phone. But he was gone. The hallway was empty, devoid of any person aside from yourself. You carefully made your way through your apartment, searching through your bedroom, bathroom, living room, even your closets and cupboards. Everything was in its place except for the coat missing from the back of your armchair. The coat that was from the 2024 Fall and Winter collection that the head designer had gifted to you after you commented on how flawless the draping was.

Double-checking the locks of your windows and doors, you found that they were all locked, leaving no trace of how the thief entered or exited. You hadn’t gotten a face, a name, or any evidence to prove that your intellectual property had been stolen. There was no way you were going to sleep tonight.

When you arrived at work the following morning, you were met by words of concern from your coworkers upon seeing the dark circles that outlined your eyes. You did not sleep a wink that night, no matter how hard you tried.

Yet it was not sleep that you yearned for. It was answers. You were dying to know who that man was, how he entered your apartment, how he exited, and just what the hell he wanted with your designs? How did he find you? How did he know that you worked for Gucci?

Your coworkers laughed at you for all the overthinking you did, chalking it up to a lack of sleep. Perhaps you imagined the whole thing. Maybe there wasn’t a man in your apartment after all. Surely, you had just been so exhausted from work that it was all just a bad dream.

When you returned home that day, your mind had been put at ease by your coworkers, all of their hypothetical scenarios having flooded your mind enough to force it into believing that there was no thief. You went through the normal motions of your regular night routine, except this time, you made sure to tidy up your design folder and tuck it back into your work bag.

You closed the bag with a slight smile, feeling the slightest bit foolish at your antics, because if there was no thief, then surely there was no reason to be doing this. But you couldn’t help it. You all but jumped into bed, your eyes begging to be put to rest. The sheets tangled in your legs as you finally grew comfortable and felt the signs of sleep taking over. Then you heard it. You heard something thump in your apartment. Really? The second night in a row? Were you really that easy of a target for them?

This time, you were prepared. You grabbed a heavy, studded necklace with sharp points on the centerpiece off your vanity, along with a pair of fabric scissors. Moving swiftly, you exited your bedroom and ghosted down the hallway towards your kitchen. Empty. No sketches on the table, no papers in sight. This couldn’t be.

Then you heard your designs calling to you from the living room, the rustling sounds of your paper catching your ear. Cautiously, you left the kitchen, floating down the hallway to the living room, and there he was.

The intruder sat lounging on your couch, your sketches in hand, as he rifled through them. He paused briefly, looking up at you and meeting your gaze before his lips pulled into a grin. “I was wondering when you’d find me.” The sound of his voice made the hairs on your arm raise, not out of fear, but from how smooth it was. He was calm, collected, maybe even elegant.

“Quite the repertoire you’ve got here,” he chuckled, throwing your papers onto the couch next to him. “How about you explain them to me?”

This man has got to be insane. “Who the hell are you?” You gritted out.

“The name’s Taemin,” the man said, his coy smile never leaving his face. “Please, come sit.” He motioned towards the armchair next to your couch. It was all so surreal, being told to sit in your own living room as if you were the guest, yet you obeyed, putting down the necklace and water onto the small table next to the chair. “I’d like to know your creative process, the thought behind these designs.”

“I’m not telling you,” you spit at him, your fingers gripping into the plush fabric of the chair.

Taemin chuckles. “It’s okay, you don’t have to tell me right now. We have all night.” You were frozen in your spot when he stood up. Fear rooted you to your spot, and you eyed his figure, trying to see if he had any weapons. You couldn’t tell if you were relieved or not to see that he had nothing in his hands, no bulky items hiding under his form-fitting clothing. When he swung a leg over the arm of your chair, his arm gripping the top of the back, effectively caging you in, your breath was caught in your chest.

It felt like everything in the world stood still as he hovered over you. When you finally looked up at Taemin, finding his eyes, you finally took a breath. You were overwhelmed by him. His deep, brown eyes, the light, clean, fresh scent of his fragrance, his dainty pink lips- No. “Why are you here?” You ask him, pulling yourself from falling down the gutter.

“I think you know the answer to that, darling.” Taemin stared down at you, his eyes boring into your soul. “I’m just here to pick apart your genius, get a glimpse into that brain of yours.”

“Who do you work for?” If you could get a company name or title, you would take it upon yourself to get justice.

Taemin pressed his forehead into yours with a laugh. “That doesn’t matter, dearest. It’s not about me right now. I want to know about you.”

“I’m not telling you jack SHIT!” You place your hands on his chest and attempt to push him off of you, but he is faster.

He drops his entire weight onto you, his knees falling to either side of your thighs, barely fitting in the seat of the armchair. His hands fell from the back of the chair to cup your cheeks. “You don’t have to tell me anything right now…I’ll be back.” Taemin’s lips brush against yours as he speaks, ending with the lightest kiss. You didn’t dare move, scared of what he would do if you kissed him back.

Taemin climbs off your lap, and you watch as he disappears into your bedroom, reemerging barely a second later with two of your handbags. “Hey! Put those down!” You shouted at him.

He brought a finger up to his lips, leaving you with a quiet “shhh” as he slipped out through your own front door. How rude of him. Taking your bags and using the door as if he lived here.

When the door clicked shut, you finally allowed yourself to breathe and collect yourself. Your mind worked at a million miles an hour, trying to piece together everything you knew. The man, called Taemin, slips in like a shadow at night, leaving behind nothing except the lingering scent of his expensive cologne while also stealing your designs and couture pieces. You had heard your fair share about luxury thieves. But none were as audacious or as infuriatingly charming as Taemin.

You show up to work the next morning equally as tired as the day prior, but you don’t tell your coworkers about Taemin. You didn’t want to tell them about him just yet. He was your little secret, your creative project. When you sat down at your desk, full of half-done sketches and notebooks of ideas, you got to work with more fire and fury than ever before.

Your designs sang of Taemin. Sleek, minimal, fully clad in black. The only accents on your pieces are gold or silver embellishments on the buckle of a belt, the button of a coat, or the clip of a bag. None of your designs matched with the Spring and Summer collection being developed, causing your fellow designers to cast a sideways glance at you, wondering just what was going on in your head.

Chaos reigned on your desk. The once light, floral pieces you were working on had been thrown aside for the hard, dark lines of your newest passion project. When 5 o’clock rolled around that day, you stashed your sketches into your bag and headed home with a twinge of excitement blooming in your chest.

After your arrival home, you followed your routine just as usual, eating dinner, washing up, and picking your ensemble for the following day. The only deviation from your routine was the way you left your folder of sketches on the couch, exactly where you had found Taemin the previous night.

You couldn’t deny that you were awaiting Taemin’s arrival. But what you were going to do once he was within the walls of your apartment…you had yet to figure that out. Use your designs as a ploy to catch him and report him? Offer your designs as ransom to leave you alone? Neither seemed enticing. Regardless, tonight was the night that you were determined to have him in your grasp.

When you heard the resounding creaks and groans of your furniture in the living room, your heart pounded. Sneaking out from your bedroom, you find your way to the living room in the dark, the thumping of your heart ringing in your ears. A wave of heat washes over you when you finally lay eyes on Taemin, clothed entirely in black, except this time, his attire had you freezing on the spot. He was without a mask.

Your eyes were glued onto his face, his arched eyebrows framing his sharp eyes, the strong slope of his nose, the curve of his lips– all of it made your heart race. Not from fear, but from the way his head tilted and lips pulled into a smirk before he closed the space between the two of you.

Taemin moved as silently as a ghost, approaching you briskly until his lips were close enough to steal your breath. His hands floated over your waist, barely touching you, and yet you swore you could feel the heat radiating off his skin. He stayed there, just millimeters away from you. Within your reach, all for your taking. “You should really strengthen your security,” Taemin rasped, his voice low while his lips brushed against yours.

You should strengthen your security. You should report him. But you didn’t, and instead, you kissed him.

You closed the almost nonexistent space between your bodies, bringing your lips fully against him and allowing your hands to find their way up to his broad shoulders. Without missing a beat, Taemin reciprocated your actions, leaning into your touches and his own hands finally landing on your hips. His lips moved in tandem with yours, biting and licking the soft flesh whenever you gave him the opportunity. You let out a soft moan when he dug into a particularly sensitive spot, and Taemin took the opening of your mouth as a chance to allow his tongue to slip in. You fought back with your own, delivering a particularly hard nip to his bottom lip to establish your dominance. He gasped, pulling away with heavy breaths, his eyes wide and pupils blown out.

The glint of fluid on his lips caught your eye, the mix of saliva and blood glistening under the moonlight shining in from the window. Your hand trailed up from his shoulder, up the side of his neck, across the ridge of his jaw, and onto the swollen skin of his lips. Running your fingers across the inflamed skin, you pressed gently against where the blood was pooling. “Sorry,” you whisper, just loud enough for the two of you to hear it.

“Don’t be,” Taemin responded before leaving a kiss on your fingers. “I’ll treasure it. Proof that I was here.”

He dives in for another kiss, aiming for your lips, but you turn away at the last second, causing his lips to fall upon your cheek instead. “Why are you here?” You ask him, determined to get your answers this time around.

Taemin chuckled as his thumb wiped the smidge of spit and blood from your cheek. “For you.”

Your eyes bore into his, and you raised an eyebrow inquisitively. “Not the designs?”

He shook his head. “Not this time.” You couldn’t deny the way your heart fell at his words, thinking about how you toiled at work earlier in the day, drawing countless sketches just from his very image. Taemin watched the way your expression changed. “Something on your mind, beautiful?”

“It’s nothing.”

His gaze left yours as he turned away to look upon the couch where your folder of papers sat. “Did you want me to take a look at your designs again? See what new treasures you came up with?” He turned back to face you with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Did you leave them for me?”

You nodded, your hands sliding down to his chest, giving him a gentle push to sit down on the plush cushions. He followed your gestures and fell backwards next to the folder, his hands never leaving your hips as he dragged you down on top of him. You straddled his lap, leaning back just enough room for him to pick up the thick folder, opening it up to reveal the bold, dark lines of your work. He flipped through them, his fingers tracing along where your pencil had driven deep and hard into the paper. “These are splendid.” You bit your lip at the praise, your heart soaring. “But I must admit, it’s unlike anything you’ve made recently.”

He looked up at you from the papers, finding you already staring down at him. “They’re for you.”

“For me, darling? You shouldn’t have.” Taemin’s lips curled into a smile as he set the folder aside, freeing his hands so they could grip your waist. His attention turned to your neck, his lips latching on and sucking harshly. You threw your head back, giving him even more surface area to leave his marks. His lips trailed down the column of your neck, down to your collarbones, ending at the hem of your shirt sitting right at your sternum. He finally pulled away when he was satisfied with his creations, the dark splotches blooming on your skin. “Everything about you is so divine, you don’t even know.”

You leaned into him, your hands tangling in his hair as your head fell into the crook of his neck, copying his actions. You left your own marks on Taemin’s pale skin as he arched into you. He moaned when you sucked on the area right beneath his ear and you felt him tense up beneath you. You pulled away quickly, eyes scanning across his face.

“W-we can’t-” he stuttered. “We can’t do this.”

“Why not?” You ask, hands coming to cup his cheeks the same way he did to you the night before. “You’re my muse.”

Taemin heaved a broken sigh, pulling your hands away from his face. “Trust me.”

Your shoulders sagged in defeat, and you swung your leg off of him so that you could sit next to him. “You’re right. We shouldn’t.”

Neither of you looked at each other as he stood and made his way to the door. “We shouldn’t,” he echoed, his voice a shadow of yours. Just like that, he was gone like a whisper of silk, leaving you nothing to remember him by except the throbbing patches of his work. Likewise, he took your marks because the truth is, you weren’t the only one who couldn’t stop thinking about the previous night.

You sink into the couch, allowing the cushions to suck you in. What was one to do when their muse is a thief? You adjusted to fully lie down when you realized your folder was gone. Taemin had taken the designs…and one of your Gucci-branded throw pillows.

Night after night, Taemin returns, slipping into your apartment through whatever unknown means, pressing you against million-dollar velvet and lace, taking what he wants and leaving you breathless. Despite every warning in your mind, you allow him to do all of it.

“What will my favorite robber do once he’s stolen every designer item from here?” You tease through heavy breaths as Taemin pushes you down against the satin sheets of your bed.

His ever-charming smirk appears once more. “I’m not a robber.”

“But you are.” You gasp as he hovers above you, and his lips kiss their way up from your exposed collarbones to your jaw.

Taemin pauses after leaving a kiss on the corner of your lips, lingering there as if he were being tempted to steal yet another kiss from you. “Darling, I fear you’re mistaken,” he began, his soft lips moving against your skin and making you arch into his touch. “A robber uses force or the threat of force to steal.” His hands caress the curves of your body, treasuring every bit that you allow him to. “A thief steals without such force.” Your breath caught in your throat as he began to leave love bites over the expanse of your skin. “And with you? I don’t even have to ask.”

The real theft isn’t the luxury pieces he takes, or even your designs. It’s the way he’s stealing your heart.

Autoplay: If you liked this, you may also like Groove - K.Jongin

#cosyhomenet #kvanity #shinee #lee taemin #shinee fanfic #shinee imagines #shinee scenarios #Taemin fanfic #Taemin imagines #Taemin scenarios #shinee fluff #Taemin fluff #shinee x reader #Taemin x reader

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cyberl6ve · 1 year ago

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𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐋𝐎𝐖 — 𝟒

⋆⭒˚🍊.⋆ Masterlist ⋆⭒˚🦌.⋆

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　　˚　

— STORY CONTAINS MATURE CONTENT !! —

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　　˚

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ : 𝐀𝐬 𝐈 ��𝐥𝐞𝐩𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐲, unaware of the passage of time, the three boys walked down the stairs with a playful determination in their eyes. Nick held the camera, ready to capture my reaction, while Chris gently shook my shoulder.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” Chris said softly, a hint of amusement creeping into his voice as he watched me slowly stir from my slumber. Matt hovered nearby, concern etched on his face as he called out my name, “Y/N, time to wake up.”

Nick aimed the camera at my face, capturing my gradual awakening. My eyelids fluttered open, revealing half-lidded, sleepy eyes that slowly focused on the three boys standing over me. I smiled lazily, still feeling the remnants of my dreamy state. “What time is it?”

Nick checked the time on his phone. “It’s 2 pm” he said, shifting to get a better angle for filming my reaction. I sat up and stretched, groaning as the last remnants of sleep dissipated.

As I got up from the couch, Matt called out for us to head out. Chris took this opportunity to wrap his arm around my shoulder, giving me a playful squeeze. “Looks like I tired you out” he whispered teasingly in my ear.

I rolled my eyes sleepily, still trying to fully wake up as Chris chuckled softly, enjoying the sight of my groggy state. “Shut up” I muttered, not quite managing to hide a smile at Chris's playfulness.

As we left the warehouse, I settled into the back seat behind Chris. Matt locked the door to the warehouse before jogging to the driver's side and climbing in. Nick followed and slid into the backseat behind Matt.

Matt turned the key in the ignition and the car started. He pulled out of the warehouse parking lot, weaving through the streets of LA.

Matt parked the car in front of the sleek, minimalistic building of a designer clothing store in downtown LA. The four of us made our way inside, stepping into the cool, dim interior. Racks of clothes lined the walls and mannequins displayed the latest trends.

With Matt leading the way, we began browsing through the racks, trying on clothes and making our way to the fitting rooms in the back of the store. Chris and I stood outside his fitting room, chatting while he changed. I leaned against the wall, crossing my arms.

Chris suddenly turned to me, his eyes sparkling with mischief. He leaned in close, whispering in my ear, “Want to try something?”

I raised an eyebrow, feigning nonchalance despite the heat rising to my cheeks at Chris's provocative whisper. “What exactly?” I asked, my voice steady. Chris chuckled, his breath warm against my ear as he leaned in closer. “Have you ever been fucked in a fitting room?”

I gasped, surprised at the explicit question. Chris was always playful, but this was a new level for him. I glanced towards the fitting room doors, where Matt and Nick were still inside. “Nice try,” I said with a teasing smile, pushing against Chris’s chest playfully.

Chris chuckled, his eyes glinting with amusement as he licked his teeth seductively, flashing me a grin that made my heart skip a beat. “Okay, okay,” he said, holding up his hands in defeat. “I’ll behave myself...”

“...for now,” Chris added with a wink. I rolled my eyes, trying to hide my blush as I pushed him away gently. “So unpredictable,” I muttered under my breath, but I couldn't help the smile that tugged at the corners of my lips.

As I was about to reply to Chris, Matt and Nick came out of the fitting rooms, both looking satisfied with their purchases. “What do you think, guys?” Nick asked, holding up a shirt he had tried on. “I think it looks great on you,” I said with a grin.

Matt and Nick brought their clothes to the register to pay. While we were waiting in line, Chris couldn't resist teasing me some more. “I still can't believe you’ve never fucked in a fitting room before,” he said with a smirk.

I playfully hit Chris's bicep, trying to shut him up. “Shut up, you're being so loud!” I whispered urgently, glancing around to make sure no one was paying attention to our conversation. Chris just chuckled, his eyes sparkling with mirth.

Matt and Nick paid for their clothes and we all left the store, the hot summer air hitting us as we stepped outside. As we walked down the sidewalk, Chris slung an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close to his side.

We all got into the car and Matt drove us to Top Golf. Once we arrived, we made our way inside and found a bay to tee off from. The sun was slowly setting, but the heat was still intense. “Damn, it's hot,” I whined.

Matt chuckled at my complaint, shaking his head. “Come on, you're such a baby,” he teased, his blue eyes glinting with amusement. “It’s not that bad.” Chris snorted in agreement, poking me in the side. “Toughen up, princess,” Chris smirked

I was slightly taken aback by the nickname Chris called me, my legs feeling suddenly weak. Chris just smirked, clearly enjoying the effect he had on me. “You’re a mess, you know that?” I rolled my eyes playfully, but didn't deny his statement.

Matt led us inside to the reception area, where a friendly staff member greeted us. We were directed to an open bay with our clubs already set up. The sleek, modern interior was a nice contrast to the outside heat. I watched as the others started hitting their balls, trying to get a feel for the club in my hands. Chris turned to me, his eyes dancing with mischief. “You’ve never done this before, have you?”

“Yes, I have,” I insisted with a slight edge of annoyance in my voice. “Prove it,” Chris challenged, moving behind me and grabbing my hips. He maneuvered me into position, his body close to mine.

I could feel his breath on my neck as he adjusted my posture. “There, that’s better,” he said with satisfaction in his voice. I felt a sudden flush in my cheeks, trying to ignore the feeling of his hands on my waist. Nick chuckled, panning the camera between us.

I caught sight of Nick filming us and my eyes widened. “Turn that camera off, Nicolas!” I hissed, trying to keep my voice down. Chris just leaned in closer, his lips brushing against my ear as he whispered, “Don't worry about him or the camera, focus on me instead.”

The soft, husky tone of Chris’s voice sent a shiver down my spine, his warm breath caressing my ear. I could feel his body pressed against mine, the heat radiating off him in the close quarters. “Focus on me,” he repeated, his fingers gently squeezing my hips.

With newfound intensity, I focused on Chris's words, the sensation of his body against mine. As I swung the club, the ball soared through the air, flying further than I ever imagined possible. “Whoa!” Chris exclaimed, a surprised grin spreading across his face. “Looks like someone's a natural,”

I couldn't help the smug smile that tugged at my lips as I watched the ball disappear over the horizon. Chris clapped me on the back, his hand lingering a moment longer than necessary. “Not bad, sweetheart” he teased, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement.

I handed over the club to Chris, watching as he effortlessly took his stance and swung. The ball shot through the air, soaring even further than mine had. “Show off,” I teased, but couldn't keep the admiration out of my voice.

Just as we were about to switch off again, Matt's voice cut through the air. “Pizza’s here, guys!” We turned to see him standing by the table, a steaming hot pizza waiting there on the table. Chris and I exchanged a look, both of us grinning as we headed over to grab slices.

As we ate our fill, we started taking turns again. I couldn't help but laugh as Nick missed the ball on his first try, but made it on his second, sending it flying further than ever.

“Not bad, Nick!” Chris chuckled. Matt was next, his shot soaring almost as high as Chris’s. I took a deep breath and focused on my swing, trying to ignore the butterflies in my stomach.

I missed, and the guys erupted in laughter, a blush creeping up my cheeks. “Sore loser,” Chris teased, poking me playfully. Before I knew it, I’d hidden myself in his back, trying to avoid being recorded by Nick’s camera.

As the sun began to set and the night air grew cooler, Matt asked me if I wanted to go. I waved my hand, indicating that I wanted to let him continue his game, too tired from the day’s events. “You sure?”

I gave a nod to Matt and he shrugged, continuing his game. I laid my head in Chris’s lap as he had his hands behind the couch, looking down at me with a gentle expression.

Chris's fingers brushed through my hair, tucking a stray strand behind my ear. “You’re exhausted, aren’t you?” he murmured, his voice a soothing rumble against my ear.

I hummed in response, feeling my eyelids drooping. Chris chuckled gently caressing my face with the back of his fingers. “You look beautiful, even when you’re tired,”

My eyes fluttered open in surprise, drinking in the sincerity of Chris’s words. It was different from any compliment I’d ever received before, laced with a warmth and affection I hadn't expected. Chris’s gaze met mine, realization dawning in his eyes. “Shit, sorry,”

My lips curled into a small, enigmatic smile as I reached out, tracing the contours of Chris's face with my fingertips. I grazed the defined line of his jaw, felt the softness of his cheeks beneath my touch, the slight roughness of stubble just beginning to emerge.

Chris let out a soft laugh at the caress, his eyes sliding shut as he leaned into my touch, enjoying the feeling of my fingers on his skin. He brought his hand up to meet mine, placing a soft kiss in the palm of my hand.

I chuckled softly, watching as Chris leaned in closer to my ear, my body reacting instinctively, my breath hitching at the desire evident in his voice. “I wish I could kiss you right now,” he whispered huskily.

My gaze locked with Chris’s, drinking in the depths of his eyes, dark with unspoken emotion. Lost in the moment, I couldn't help but marvel at the beauty of his features, the intensity of his stare. In my mind, a whispered thought echoed: “He’s so breathtaking...”

The silence stretched between us, punctuated only by our heavy breaths. I could see the desire in Chris's eyes, and I felt it too— a pulsing need for more than just this moment. My heart raced in my chest, every inch of my body feeling heightened and sensitive.

I found myself biting my lower lip, teasing him. “What’s stopping you?” I asked, breathlessly. My eyes sparkled with a playful challenge as I waited for his response. A small part of me hoped that he would take the bait and give in to the desire between us.

Chris let out a deep chuckle, shaking his head at my boldness. “You know damn well what's stopping me,” he said, his voice low and husky. He glanced over at the camera, pointing it out to Matt with a smirk. “The camera’s still rolling, remember?”

I smirked up at Chris, unfazed by his warning about the camera. “What about it?” I repeated, my voice smooth as silk. “It’s just a little kiss. I'm sure your little fans will be okay with it.” I leaned in closer, my lips parting slightly, inviting him.

Chris's eyes darted back to mine, his pupils dilating with desire as he took in the sight of my parted lips. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “You're such a tease,” he breathed out, shaking his head in amusement and frustration.

Mumbling the word "pussy" under my breath, I stood up and walked over to Matt, who was focused on filming Nick hitting golf balls. I wrapped my arm around his, snuggling into his shoulder. Matt turned to look at me with a warm smile.

Matt’s smile sent a flutter through my chest, but I quickly schooled my features into a relaxed expression. I leaned into him, enjoying the comforting warmth of his body against mine as he turned his attention back to Nick.

Chris watched my every move with growing jealousy, his eyes never leaving the sight of me pressed against Matt. I could almost feel his gaze like a physical touch, the air thick with unspoken tension.

As I felt the jealousy emanating from Chris, I couldn't help but think about the dynamics of our little game. I couldn't deny the fact that I felt used by him, a mere sex toy to satisfy his desires.

A mischievous smirk played on my lips as the devious plan took shape in my mind. If making him jealous would force him to confess, then so be it. I'd play the hard way. Let's see how he likes being on the receiving end of such tactics.

As I continued to engage with Matt and Nick, I could feel Chris's gaze intensifying. His jealousy was palpable, and I knew I had struck a nerve. The thought of winning this twisted game brought a sense of satisfaction that made me smirk even wider.

Chris suddenly stood up, his voice laced with a hint of desperation and jealousy as he declared, “Let's head home. I'm getting tired.” He couldn't take it anymore.

I let out a playful laugh, feigning innocence as I asked, “Aww, already tired? We were having so much fun just a couple of minutes ago.” My eyes sparkled with mirth as I glanced over at Chris, unable to hide the truth— he looked absolutely hot when he was jealous.

Matt, noticing Chris's sour mood, weighed in with a concerned chuckle. “Alright, alright, let's head home before he gets crankier.”

As we made our way back to the house, the atmosphere in the car was charged with unspoken emotions. Matt drove, with Chris, Nick, and I relegated to the backseat. We chatted lightly about the day’s events, but the underlying tension was impossible to ignore.

As we pulled into the garage, Chris was the first one to exit the car. He walked straight into the house through the garage door, bypassing any greetings or lingering chatter. Nick furrowed his brow in confusion and asked, “What's wrong with him?”

Matt and I shared a look, both equally puzzled by Chris’ sudden mood shift. We shrugged our shoulders in response to Nick’s question, deciding not to dwell on it for too long. Instead, we made our way up the stairs, leaving Chris and his mysterious mood behind us.

We settled onto the couch, ready to film the outro. “Well thank you for joining us today. Unfortunately, Chris had head to sleep early, so he won't be able to join us for the outro.”

Nick continued, “But we’ll see you guys soon.” He flashed a friendly smile at the camera. Matt and I chimed in, waving goodbye in unison as the camera captured our farewell.

Once the camera was down, Nick heaved a weary sigh and announced, “Well, I think I’m going to head to bed. Today drained me.” He stood, stretching his arms above his head before turning to make his way up the stairs to his bedroom.

Matt and I were silent for a moment after Nick left, taking in the sudden quietness of the room. “G’night, Nick,” Matt called out, his voice laced with a teasing tone. I grinned, chuckling softly, before settling back into the cushions on the couch.

I glanced back at the clock on my phone, realizing a few minutes had passed. I broke the silence, saying, “I should probably head home.” I then stood, beginning to gather my belongings. Matt peered at me, concern etched in his expression.

“Are you sure?” He questioned, “It’s pretty late. You can stay if you want.” He tilted his head as he watched me, clearly hinting at his own hope for some company.

I hesitated, considering Matt’s suggestion for a moment before ultimately shaking my head. “I have errands to run in the morning,” I explained, forcing myself to smile.

Matt rose to his feet, his demeanor softening as he walked towards me. He responded with a tender voice, “Well, I’ll walk you out.”

I nodded, feeling a sense of warmth in his offer. Together, we made our way down the stairs and out the front door. Under the glow of the streetlights, I walked to my car, with Matt trailing behind me, the gentle click of his footsteps a comforting accompaniment to the silence.

Once we reached the car, I opened the door and climbed into the driver's seat. Turning the ignition on, I lowered the window to speak with Matt one last time. I looked up at him, meeting his eyes and said, “I’ll see you guys probably later tomorrow.”

Matt nodded in response, a small smile playing on his lips. He took a step back as I reversed out of the parkway and then watched me drive off, his hands buried in his pockets. His silhouette standing still for a moment before he turned and headed back into the house, hands tucked into his pockets.

TO BE CONTINUED…

#chris sturniolo #chris sturniolo smut #chris sturniolo x reader #christopher sturniolo #cyberl6ve #matt sturniolo #nick sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #smut

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oldiesstationlover11607 · 10 months ago

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Fairly Local - Blurryface/Tyler Joseph x reader

Relationship: Blurryface/Tyler Joseph × Reader

Warnings: Blurryface

Word Count: 1955

A/N: On the set of Fairly Local, Tyler decides to let Blurryface out.

Tyler had invited me to be on most of the sets for the Blurryface music videos, knowing I was interested in both his work and the filming process. This week the boys were focusing on Fairly Local, a video directed by Mark and designed by Tyler. I was glad he’d invited me onto the set. While Tyler had designed the music video to include Blurryface, I hated the idea of him deliberately switching into the headspace for it. We were standing outside the set. I was holding a mirror for Tyler while he applied his regular black paint to his hands and neck–something he’d started to do for this album cycle.

“I still don’t think this is a good idea,” I muttered. My arm was growing tired as he spread the paint across his skin. We’d both found it funny how so many people thought they were tattoos despite the fact that half the time he didn’t have the paint on.

“It’s going to be okay, trust me,” he urged, putting the bowl and brush down.

“I trust you, I just don’t trust him,” I defended, watching Tyler grab his red beanie and fix it on his head.

“I’ve lived with him for years, I have it under control,” he reassured. We headed into the warehouse and through to the hallway where Tyler would be filming the majority of his Blurryface scenes. The hallway was lined with doorways and almost completely dark with the exception of a neon lit bar atop the door at the end.

“Tyler I don’t want you forcing yourself into a position that’s going to be hard to get out of,” I continued to protest. Crew members were running around the sets, ensuring that everything was ready for the video.

“Tyler you’ve got about 15 minutes before we start shooting,” a male in a black t-shirt with ‘crew’ written on it declared. Tyler nodded, grabbing my hand and slipping away through one of the doorways. The room was empty other than a clothing rack with the white jacket Tyler was going to wear in the video. He reached over, grabbing it and putting it on–it fit perfectly against his body, not too tight, not too baggy.

“I’ve got a couple of scenes to shoot without him,” he sighed, running a hand over his head. I nodded, letting him go. We turned the lights off in the hallway, making the scene dark and snowy. Josh and I stood behind the camera watching the shoot.

“I don’t know why you agreed to let him do this Josh,” I huffed, crossing my arms. Tyler was lip-syncing along to the lyrics of the song as they played it over the loudspeakers, his silhouette clear against the frosted glass.

Josh turned to look at me. “If he thinks he can do it then he can do it. He’s made sure you’re here so if he needs you then he’s got you,” he explained. Josh was the voice of reason in our friendship, it was why when I would have panic attacks he was always the one to calm me down. If Josh thought Tyler was telling the truth then I should trust him, right? Tyler finished shooting the scenes and Mark moved onto Josh’s drum parts. Tyler grabbed my hand, dragging me back into the dressing room. I could practically feel the tension growing through his body. His chest was rising and falling slower than it normally would, his breath calm and slowed.

“I need to change him over,” he declared. He stood in front of the mirror, closing his eyes and stretching his neck while I stood behind him. His hands rolled into fits, fingernails digging into his palms. A pained groan left his lips as his left hand went to grip his neck. “I’m ready,” he murmured, leaving the room. The crew had moved back into the hall and the neon light had been turned on, an orangey-red color filling the space. Josh returned to my side and Mark was standing behind the camera, watching the monitor.

“How was your filming?” I asked, looking up at him.

“Good, good. It’s fun playing my drums with snow on them,” he beamed. I laughed, knowing that the second Tyler came up with the idea we both knew Josh would love the idea. It was going to be 100% worth it, even with the amount of time it took to set up each drum so they’d be able to disappear throughout the scene. Tyler moved to stand below the neon light at the end of the hallway, closing his eyes and locking in. The music from the speaker continued to play as Mark called for the cameras to start rolling.

“I know who I truly am, I truly do have a chance, tomorrow I'll switch the beat, to avoid yesterday's dance,” Tyler sang, looking away from the camera and keeping his stiff composure. It was as if he was speaking to the wall and in intense pain. I wanted desperately to yell cut and run to him but Josh had placed a hand on my shoulder, clearly sensing my worry. “Yo, this song will never be on the radio.” Tyler rolled his head around so he was staring down the camera lens in complete numbness. His eyes were glowing the same orangey-red color as the neon light, telling both Josh and I that Blurryface now had total control over Tyler. His eyes darted around as he continued to rap the lyrics, once to the wall and the short glimpse of a terrified Tyler appeared on his face, making my breath hitch in my throat. His eyes shot to the camera again before quickly leaving again. I could tell something was wrong, the feeling sat deep in my stomach.

“Cut! That’s a wrap!” Mark called and the camera operator stopped recording. Tyler walked reservedly into the dressing room, Blurryface clearly still in control. I turned to Josh who was already looking at me.

“Go Y/N, he’s going to need you,” he sighed. I left, walking in after Tyler. The room was hot, the windows covered with condensation from Tyler’s body heat. He was back in front of the mirror, staring at himself in seriousness.

“Tyler?” I made myself known. His eyes darted to mine via the mirror, his back still to me. A large smirk grew on his face.

“Hello Y/N. Long time no see, am I right?” he turned around in one swift motion, taking a step towards me. I nodded in response to him, trying not to show any emotion–Blurryface had a history of being able to sense my emotions and use them to his advantage. “I said, am I right?” he continued with a stronger tone this time.

“Yes, it has been a while,” I responded, holding my own hand to stop it from shaking.

“Interesting how Joseph thought he could come back after letting me out again. He’s naïve to even think he can keep me in.” He took the red beanie off and threw it onto a chair, causing me to jump.

“Ah, there she is. The real Y/N. You know, you’re pretty when you’re scared,” he smirked, taking another step towards me. Of course he had noticed it.

“Tyler, I need you to take a deep breath and try to come back to me.” I ignored his words, trying to focus on getting Tyler back from inside his head.

“You and I both know Tyler’s not here right now,” he smirked, curling a strand of my hair around his index finger. I continued trying to reach Tyler, the longer Blurryface was out the harder it was going to be to get Tyler back and make sure he was okay.

“How can I get you to bring him back?” I asked, staying as still as I could while Blurryface navigated himself around me like a vulture stalking its prey.

“Well that depends on what you’re willing to give me Y/N,” he said.

“What do you want?” I seethed, not wanting to give in to Tyler’s inner demon. His facial expression fell slightly, a long sigh escaping his lips. For a second I thought Tyler had managed to fight back himself–returned without needing my help–but Blurryface snapped back.

“I want to continue having a voice. I want you to talk to Tyler about giving me more of a voice,” he muttered. Blurryface had never shown a side like this, something vulnerable, raw. He wanted a voice in Tyler’s story, and I understood that. I nodded, willing to do anything to get Tyler back.

“Yeah–yeah I can do that,” I nodded, my agreement seeming to put him at ease.

“Good.” Blurryface stepped away from me, walking back toward the mirror and staring at himself once again. He took a deep breath and looked at me through the mirror. “It was nice seeing you again Y/N,” he spoke with sincerity, “until next time.” He closed his eyes, rolling his neck and letting out a painful wince. Tears left his eyes as they faded back to Tyler’s cool brown color.

“Tyler?” I moved next to him, rubbing my hands up and down his arms. “Are you okay?” He shook his head, wiping away his tears. “What do you need? What can I do?” I pleaded. I knew he wasn’t going to be okay, that he would struggle to get back to himself. He was hyperventilating and panicking, I felt like there was nothing I could do to stop it. He grasped my hand and looked desperately into my eyes.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he cried, eyes bloodshot and hands shaking.

“No, Tyler, it's okay. He’s gone, you’re okay,” I wrapped my arms around him and pressed my lips to his temple, trying to avoid the black paint on his skin.

“I–I should’ve listened to you. I thought I had control but clearly–” he trailed off, muttering words to himself that I couldn’t hear. I sighed, running my hands over his shoulders and through his hair, trying to calm him down.

“It’s okay, you’ve learned what you can handle and you’ve shot the video so he’s not going to come back for a while,” I reassured. He turned around to face me, his tired face on full display, dark circles and all. He needed rest desperately, he needed to go home.

“Thank you for looking after me,” he croaked, pulling me in close.

“We should head home,” I suggested, packing up everything we needed into a duffle bag. Tyler nodded, staying relatively quiet, more so than usual. Josh walked past the doorway, stopping and furrowing his brows as if to ask if we were okay. I nodded, knowing Tyler would want to talk to him later rather than right now. We walked out of the warehouse and towards our car, Tyler getting in the passenger seat and I in the driver’s. Before I could start the engine he placed a hand on my thigh, capturing my attention.

“You’re special Y/N, I don’t know what I would’ve done if you weren’t here today,” he breathed. A smile crept onto my face. “I mean it,” he urged. I didn’t know what to say, the love I had for this man grew with each and every moment we spent together, we were both special.

“The feeling is mutual Ty, the feeling is mutual,” I smiled, starting the car and driving us home. Blurryface wouldn’t be bothering us for a long time and Tyler was going to be okay. The promise I’d made I would uphold, I just needed to find the right time to have the conversation–which wasn’t going to be any time soon.

Hope you enjoyed! Requests are open!

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industrialstoragesolutions · 20 days ago

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Why Mezzanine Floors Are a Smart Way to Expand Warehouse Storage?

Modern warehouses are constantly under pressure to store more — but expanding physical space isn’t always an option. That’s where Mezzanine Floors come in as a smart, efficient solution.

Mezzanine systems allow businesses to make use of unused vertical height in their facilities. Instead of renting additional storage space or constructing new buildings, companies can add an extra level within the same footprint. This upper level can be used for storing inventory, packaging operations, or even light office setups.

Because Mezzanine Floors are modular, they can be custom-fitted to existing layouts and future storage needs. They’re also scalable — meaning as operations grow, so can the mezzanine structure. Many setups are designed using durable steel frames and grating, offering both strength and flexibility.

Whether it’s an industrial plant, e-commerce hub, or distribution center, mezzanines offer an ideal balance of space optimization and cost-efficiency. With minimal disruption during installation, they’re a fast, practical upgrade for growing businesses.

For businesses looking to maximize space without expanding their footprint, mezzanine flooring is a solution worth considering.

#industrial racking systems #mezzanine racking system #mezzanine floor systems #mezzanine floor warehouse system #heavy duty racks #industrial racking #mezzanine floor design #mezzanine warehouse system

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nahisummerhold · 5 months ago

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Mosaic

Nahi left the other women and headed back to the contractor’s office, the light was on so she knocked softly. “It’s open,” a masculine voice called and when she opened the door he looked up from the paperwork he was doing. “It was the mosaic idea, wasn’t it?”

Full lips twitched and then a smile drew them up, “Was I so easy to puzzle out?” She chuckled and moved in to take the seat she had vacated a little while before, the broken pieces of the tiles laid out where they had been left.

“I saw the art you have waiting to hang in your home and when you were asking for plain, clean lines it didn’t fit the woman who would buy that art. It wasn’t all that much of a gamble,” he smirked at her, the wrinkles at the sides of his eyes becoming more pronounced.

Since the older man had helped her with the little ‘Victim’ problem she had a soft spot for him, but until he suggested this little tile art project nothing had really convinced her. She thought that getting something basic would allow her to personalize the space so it all had been down to budget and time range right up until she came to see his final presentation and sprung the idea of the entire back wall of her shower being a mosaic made from tiles that were left over from other projects.

Taking her back into a warehouse with building materials, he showed her the leftover unopened boxes of tiles and a bucket of broken pieces, “They are already paid for, so I won’t charge you a second time for the materials.” That sounded too good to be true, so she waited for the other shoe to drop, “What will cost you is the design, that will take time to put together and a lot more work than a standard tile job.” They talked about his idea, arranging some of the broken tiles on top of another box, him showing her how they could be used to form new patterns.

Almost the moment she stepped from his office she ran into Tinn, Pyra and Kara the three,of them talking about art that they all loved and how special those individual pieces that someone would make for you were. Granted, the contractor was going to be paid well to do a job for her, but the romantic notion that the art pieces she bought right before the fall of Dalaran had inspired him in some way helped to convince her. “I am happy to sign the contract tonight, but I need to add a heated towel rack, my friend says they are a must…”

(Minor tags for @kharrisdawndancer @pyraelia and @karaamberlight )

#New house #Renovations #Inspiration #Art is special

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planovashopfittingsolutions · 1 year ago

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Optimizing Store Layout: Enhancing Retail Performance through Strategic Shelving Solutions

Creating a visually appealing and well-organized store environment is critical in the competitive retail market for attracting customers and boosting sales. Retail display shelves and shelving solutions are critical in optimising store layout, increasing space efficiency, and delivering a smooth shopping experience. This article examines the importance of retail display shelves and shelving systems, with a particular emphasis on the contributions of space planners and custom fitting solutions.

Retail display shelves are more than just storage units; they are important components of visual merchandising that showcase products in an appealing way. These shelves are available in a variety of shapes, sizes, and materials to meet the varying needs and aesthetics of various retail spaces. Retail display shelves, whether independent units, wall-mounted displays, or specialty fixtures, are deliberately placed around the store to catch customer attention and emphasise specific items.

Retail display shelf design and layout are crucial for generating an interesting shopping experience. Space planners are critical in optimising retail layout by taking elements such as customer flow, product assortment, and overall store ambiance into account. Their knowledge enables them to strike a balance between product displays, aisle spacing, and customer navigation, ensuring that customers can quickly navigate the store and find what they need with minimal effort.

Space planners work closely with retail establishments to ascertain the optimal positioning of retail display shelves. This positioning is determined with reference to product categories, sales targets, and an examination of customer behaviour. When designing a coherent and aesthetically pleasing layout, they take into account a variety of aspects, including high-traffic areas, focal spots, and the overall aesthetic of the retail establishment. Retailers are able to improve their customers' experiences, length of time spent in their stores, and ultimately their sales by utilising the expertise of workspace planners.

Shelving solutions, on the other hand, provide merchants with the adaptability and personalization essential for maximising the use of available space and enhancing the effectiveness of their stores. Shelving systems that are provided by custom fitting solutions are customised to meet the specific requirements of each individual retail enterprise. When designing shelf layouts, these solutions take into account a variety of aspects, including product size, inventory turnover, and brand image. The end result is a configuration that maximises storage space and makes products easy to access.

Retailers are able to change their shelf systems to specific product categories, changing seasons, or promotional campaigns by utilising custom fitting solutions, which provide them more flexibility. The capacity to adapt and efficiently organise products is enabled through shelving units that are adjustable, designs that are modular, and accessories that are versatile. This makes it possible for businesses to easily rearrange shelves in order to make room for newly arrived products, showcase featured items, or reorganise the layout in order to fit changing customer requirements.

Additionally, bespoke fitting solutions improve inventory management by maximising the stock's visibility and accessibility. This results in improved efficiency. Labeling and signage that is easy to see, as well as the incorporation of barcodes, enable quick stock rotation and guarantee precise inventory control. Retailers are able to streamline restocking procedures, reduce the number of errors that occur, and minimise the amount of time spent on chores related to inventory management by introducing customized fitting solutions. Because of this, employees are able to concentrate more on providing excellent service to customers and increasing overall shop productivity.

For businesses who are interested in maximising the benefits of retail display shelves and shelving solutions, it is vital for them to work together with workspace planners and producers of customized fitting solutions. These professionals contribute their knowledge in the areas of shop layout optimization and the design of individualised shelving systems. They collaborate closely with shops to learn about their one-of-a-kind needs, goals, and brand identities, and then they turn that information into solutions that are both functional and aesthetically pleasing.

Retailers get access to specialist knowledge, as well as the finest practises and most innovative design concepts in their field, when they form partnerships with workspace planners and providers of bespoke fitting solutions. These collaborations result in store layouts and shelving systems that are customised to meet the particular requirements of the retailer. As a result, product visibility, customer experience, and operational efficiency are all improved.

In conclusion, retail display shelves, custom fitting solutions and shelving solutions are essential components of an efficient shop layout that also contribute to the overall profitability of the business. The knowledge of workspace planners ensures that retail display shelves are properly placed in order to create a shopping experience that is both interesting and unobstructed. Retailers may improve their space usage and inventory management with the help of customized fitting solutions since these solutions offer retailers the flexibility and adaptability they require. Retailers may unlock the full potential of their retail display shelves and shelving systems by engaging with workspace planners and producers of bespoke fitting solutions. This will ultimately lead to higher consumer happiness and enhanced business success.

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ajqwrites · 13 days ago

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COD: Modern Warfare Reboot (Under Siege - Book 1)

John drove at ease while his hand tightened on the steering wheel. The leather creaked under the pressure of his grip as the morning sunlight filtered through the windshield, highlighting the tight line of his jaw and his face as his narrowed eyes focused on the road.

Her words about her mother—how she worked in intelligence, always busy with military operatives and classified cases. It had seemed vague, but now it made sense on what her mother does for a living.

Kate Laswell.

Her mother.

The girl he was falling for was the daughter of his superior.

He tightened his grip as his nose scrunched.

Fucking hell.

The base came into view, its slate-gray structure rising from the trees like a fortress cut from stone—remote, contained, and heavily secured. But this wasn't any military compound.

This was the 141 base.

Tucked deep within the bounds of a larger British military facility outside London, the building stood apart—isolated behind an additional layer of fencing, surveillance, and coded entry. Way behind was the woods that was meant for training or hunting purpose, twenty minutes away from the base to Simon and Gabby's house. No other forces step their foot here. Just him and his team.

John slowed only to swipe his clearance badge at the outer gate.

The reinforced steel doors slid open with a mechanical hiss, and he drove through, watching the world outside slip away behind thick, electric fencing. He parked just outside the main structure and stepped out. Even from the lot, you could tell this place wasn't standard issue.

To the right of his SUV sat Soap's old truck—a beat-up, blue-green 1975 Chevrolet C/K, still caked in dried mud from god-knows-what backroad in Scotland. The body had dents that looked like they'd been earned, not repaired. It ran loud and stubborn—just like him.

Next to it was his daughter, Cam's bright yellow Jeep Wrangler Sport, doors removed like she preferred. There were claw marks scratched across the paint from a training mishap in the woods last spring—she'd left them on purpose.

On the other side of the lot, Gaz's car stood sleek and clean—a matte gray Aston Martin DBX707, understated but sharp, polished like the man himself. Tactical, quiet, fast. The kind of car that looked like it could disappear in a second and leave no trace. Practical luxury—exactly what Kyle would choose.

And then there was Gabby's beast—a towering black Dodge Ram 2500 Big Horn Off-Road, tires thick as tree trunks, hood bug-splattered from long, late-night drives between recon stops and home. The windows were tinted dark, the bumper reinforced. It looked like it could survive a landmine—and knowing Gabby, she tested that theory. He'll assume that Simon's motor vehicle wasn't here. So, he must have tagged along with Gabby.

Heading towards the building, it looked more like a retrofitted warehouse from the outside—long, high-ceilinged, no windows facing the front. But inside, every inch was hand-picked and designed with care, meant for Task Force 141 alone. The ground floor was meant for a massive hangar, built large enough to house two fighter jets, a helicopter, a C-130, and space for several ground vehicles. Tool chests, crates, and racks lined the walls, every piece of equipment labeled and locked in tight rows. Making the air inside to be cool, metallic, and still.

At the back corner of the hangar sat a small steel-paneled office, plain at first glance. But inside, behind a hidden biometric panel, was his classified mission room and his office—his main room. The room was soundproof, lined with encrypted servers, stacked with files, maps, and black ops case logs no one else had clearance to see. Only he held the key, including Simon, Soap, and Gabby.

Just right of that office was a windowless interrogation room, where they had dealt with Rich and Harkin last time. It was stuffy but it has purpose to make it look like an interrogation room like crime drama shows would set the mood as one.

To the left, a metal staircase led upward to the second floor.

At the top were two heavy doors: one marked only with a sticker that read "Keep Ear Protection On", leading to the shooting range, lined with soundproof walls and reinforced floors.

The second door opened into the gym/training room, fitted with everything from weight benches and sparring mats to a caged ring where they ran drills or settled grudges in silence.

Back downstairs, a side door from the hangar led directly into the living quarters—starting with a hangout lounge. The space was comfortably cluttered: a worn leather couch, mismatched chairs, a wall-mounted screen, and a corner shelf stacked with half-read books and beat-up decks of cards.

A speaker hummed low in the background, often forgotten but always playing.

There was even a hint of dog toys strewn around since their 141-guard dog, Jasper, is Simon's pet. But, Jasper is still a pet to the 141. Meant to be treated as a guard dog and K-9 type to sniff and snuff out insurgents.

Which, John like about Jasper. He can love and bite at the same time.

His two bowls were empty and needed to be cleaned anyways.

Beside the lounge, an open kitchen stood stocked. Nothing fancy—just enough for a team always running on caffeine and food to survive. The fridge was filled with energy drinks and leftover food that Cam, Gaz, and Gabby usually cook or bring some from their homes.

A narrow hallway beside the kitchen branched off to ten small bedrooms—five on each side—each room uniform in size but personalized with minimal touches: old posters, spare uniforms, and boots lined in straight rows.

At the very end was the laundry room.

Off the kitchen, a small conference room used for non-classified mission prep, quick huddles, or the occasional argument over intel. It had a whiteboard stained from dry-erase markers and a tactical digital table at the center, its screen blank for now. Beyond the back doors, a stretch of woodland forest bordered the base—dense and wild. The team often used it for training and stealth drills, where the crunch of leaves under boots was the only sound, and they learned to move like shadows.

Everything here was designed for a living and going to war. No one came in without his say. No one stayed unless they earned it. And today, he was walking into his den of his own making.

Exhaling slowly, he opened the door and entered the debriefing room—the team was already gathered around the long table that doubled as both mission hub and war room.

Soap leaned casually against the edge, arms folded across his chest, wearing his usual off-duty look: a faded hoodie, dark jeans, and scuffed boots. His hair was slightly mussed, like he'd either just rolled out of bed or finished a quick workout—probably both.

Gabby sat at the far end, one leg hooked over the other, fingers flying over her laptop keyboard as she was typing. She wore a black leather jacket layered over a faded maroon tee, jeans, and black combat boots laced tight to her calves. Her brows were furrowed in concentration, though she spared a glance upward when John entered.

Cam was perched on the arm of the couch near the wall, twirling her red hair between her fingers. Her yellow hoodie contrasted with the dark tones of the room, sleeves shoved up past her elbows, jeans ripped at the knees with vanguard shoes. She didn't say a word—just watched her father stepped in.

Gaz sat on a chair nearby with his arms crossed. He wore his usual grey hoodie with matching sweatpants and nike black and white shoes. His sharp gaze flicked up as soon as the door opened.

"Good night, boss?" Gaz asked with a subtle smirk.

John paused at the entrance, letting the door close behind him with a soft click. He looked down briefly at himself—still in the dark navy shirt and pants from last night, though now clean and freshly groomed.

"Didn't know I had to dress for you lot," he said dryly.

Gaz gave a low chuckle. "Just sayin', you've got that morning-glow on you."

Soap grinned, already amused. "Aye, I noticed that too."

His eyes narrowed at both of them. "Don't start."

Soap raised his hands. "What? Can't a man point out when his captain looks shagged out?"

"Johnny, I'm right here." Cam frowned.

Gabby snorted under her breath but didn't stop typing.

"You leave the base doors unlocked again?" John leveled his look at Soap sharp enough to skin a man.

"Technically, they weren't locked after training yesterday."

"Technically," John echoed, biting the word off. "This isn't a youth hostel. Lock. The. Fucking. Doors."

"Alright, alright," Soap said, backing off with his eyes rolled. "Don't have to be stormin' in like a bloody thundercloud this morning."

"Yeah? Try waking up to find out your superior is the mother of the girl you've—" John caught himself and exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Never mind."

Simon, seated in the corner with his hood up and stern glance, spoke, "Reckon that's one hell of a debrief to walk into."

John didn't respond right away. His jaw flexed, eyes icy as they flicked between Cam and Gabby.

"For the record," Gabby said without glancing up, still typing. "I didn't know either. Not until Kate showed me Charlie's file. And yeah, she is beyond pissed."

"She's en route now," Cam said, voice soft but direct. "Should be here any minute."

John rubbed his face before dragging a hand down his face. "Brilliant."

"So, uh... you gonna tell her?" Soap asked, almost nervous.

"I'm going to tell her exactly what she needs to hear," John said it straight and frowned. "And nothing more."

Silence fell over the room for a beat—until Gaz turned toward the kitchenette and grabbed the coffee pot.

"You want morning shot, Captain?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Black. Strong. Don't water it down." John answered straight.

“Yes, sir.”

As Gaz poured, John stepped closer to the table, eyes scanning the scattered files, satellite photos, and mission notes. His shoulders were tense, jaw tight.

"Alright," he said finally, voice dropping back into command mode. "Let's start with what we know. And someone brief me before Kate walks through those doors swinging a bloody axe."

Gabby finally looked up from her laptop, eyes serious. "Then let's make it count."

***

Every detail of the plan ran through his head like a well-rehearsed script. The intel they had gathered over the past few weeks had finally come together, and in a couple of days, they would execute the plan.

Gabby hovered near the map with him, her sharp eyes scanning the details. They had been collecting bits and pieces of information from various sources until they had enough to break Zakhorov's arms deal network wide open. The plan was set for a night op when Zakhorov's men would least expect it. They would hit the shipment channels hard, severing the lines and keeping his operation running. It was risky, but it was the kind of risk John was used to taking.

Up to his second cup of coffee, his fingers traced a path along the map. His eyes narrowed as he went over the key points of the operation once more. The locations of the warehouses where Zakhorov's shipments were being stored.

Everything was marked with accuracy in the docks where the arms were loaded. It was meant to hit the right places at the right time to disrupt the entire network without tipping Zakhorov off too early.

"We've got everything in place," Gabby said. "Our contacts in Prague confirmed the shipment is set to move in two days. If we hit them now, his whole operation crumbles."

"What about the docks? Have we got eyes on them?" Gaz asked.

"Simon will take care of that. He's got overwatch on the docks, and our contact there will keep us updated if anything changes," Gabby explained.

John nodded, his gaze flickering over to where Soap and Simon were reviewing the final details of the mission. He trusted his team implicitly—each knew their role and what needed to be done.

They'd done this before, too many times to count. But this mission was more at stake, not just for them, but for their home. Their country. And Charlie.

The thought of her being oblivious to the danger made his heart clenched. He hadn't told her what he would do—not because he didn't trust her, but because he didn't want her to know and worry about him. She had enough on her plate, with her thesis, school, day job, and normal life to live. And as long as he kept her out of it, she would be safe. But John couldn't deny that part of him was conflicted.

She had slipped into his life, and now, she was rooted in his heart (and his mind) in ways he hadn't expected. And while he knew how to control his emotions.

He couldn't ignore the nagging thought at the back of his mind: What if it goes wrong?

Biting his inside of his cheek, John breathed out his nose. Gabby could sense the tension in him. Her eyes softened as she studied him.

"It's going to be fine, John. No mistakes."

His eyes moved to hers. He gave her a curt nod.

As if on cue, Soap wandered over, and he glanced down at the map. "So, Cap'n, you think we'll finish this in one smooth strike? Or you think Zakharov's gonna throw us a curveball?"

"Zakharov's smart. He'll have contingencies in place. But we'll be ready." John said without looking at Soap.

Soap crossed his arms. "Aye, that's what I like to hear. We'll hit 'em hard and fast; by the time they know what's happened, we'll be long gone."

John nodded and turned to face the rest.

"Listen up, this isn't about taking out the shipment channels. Zakharov's network stretches far beyond this, and if we do this right, we'll cripple his operations. But we need to be smart. We hit them before they know we were there."

Simon nodded and continued. "We'll need to keep eyes on the ground even after the strike. Zakharov's got too many allies for us to assume it'll end well."

John nodded in agreement, his eyes flickering back to the map one last time. "As soon as Laswell gives us a green light."

"Dad, she's here," Cam called out after she put her phone away.

They heard the door knock and Kate Laswell stepped in. She wore her tailored navy blazer over a cream blouse, dark trousers, and ankle boots. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun, not a strand out of place. Her presence could make the seasoned operatives stand at attention. Her sharp blue eyes scanned where the group was with a calculating gaze as her heels clicking against the concrete floor as she entered. Her expression was neutral, but there was a sternness in her demeanor that wasn't lost on anyone.

"Morning," she said curtly, her gaze swept over the group. Her eyes lingered on John for a fraction longer before she turned her attention to Gabby, who stood closest to the table. "I trust everyone's been briefed?"

"Yes, ma'am," Gabby said, her tone respectful but tinged with unease.

Soap, sensing the tension, shifted uncomfortably. Gaz offered a small nod in greeting, his usual humor subdued.

Cam looked away and tried to act normal by being casual.

Then, Laswell landed back on John. Her eyes studied his outfit and she frowned.

"John," she said sternly.

"Laswell," he replied, crossing his arms. Though the sharpness in his tone hadn't softened.

There was a brief silence as the two stared at each other. The air between them was taut with unspoken words. The rest of the team exchanged glances, sensing that this was more than just debriefing.

"Before we get into the details, I want to make clear to all of you," she said in her cool and even tone. "I did not expect my daughter becoming involved in this operation—let alone tangled up with one of mine."

John didn't flinch, but his jaw tightened.

"She was never meant to be a part of this," Laswell added, voice lowering just slightly. "Yet here we are."

Her eyes stayed forward, trained on them all. "Charlie isn't built for this. I've spent my whole life trying to keep her sheltered from my world." Then her gaze cut to John. "Until now."

John met her stare without blinking.

Then Laswell landed her on him. "Starting with you Soap."

Soap straightened instinctively, caught off guard. "Ma'am?"

Her gaze narrowed. "You're the one who set him up, right?"

"Uh... yeah, technically—"

"Don't 'technically' me," Laswell cut him off. "You thought it'd be funny?"

"I was just trying to get him out of his cave, y'know?” Soap shifted, scratching the back of his neck. "Didn't expect it to go this far. And I swear, Laswell. I didn't know Charlie was related."

"Well, now you know," Laswell snapped. "You lit the fuse, MacTavish. You might've thought it was a joke, but now you've dragged my daughter into a circle she was never meant to be in!"

Soap opened his mouth, but Laswell didn't give him the chance.

"And if anything happens to her—anything—because of this..." Her voice dropped to a chilling calm. "It won't just be on John. It'll be on all of you."

She looked around at them—Gaz, Gabby, Cam, even Simon—her sharp stare pinning them each to the floor.

"I trust all of you to handle war zones. Assassinations. Ghost operations in enemy territory. But if you can't protect a single civilian—my daughter—from the fallout of your choices, then maybe I put my trust in the wrong people."

Soap swallowed hard.

"I'm not asking for favors," Laswell continued. "I'm telling you—if this gets worse, and she bleeds, her blood's on this floor. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes ma'am," all of have said together except John.

And then, she set her eyes on John.

"A word with you."

He tightened his jaw and watched Laswell step out of the room, and he followed her behind without a word.

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✨Chapter 74✨

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#cod fanfic #call of duty fanfic #military romance #call of duty #modern warfare #under series #under siege #cod modern warfare #writeblr #john price #john price x oc #writing

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