John "Soap" MacTavish
Soap wakes up, stretches, reaches for you- and hits cold sheets. He blinks. You're not in the kitchen. Not in the bathroom. Not anywhere. His first instinct is: you're gone. Fully, completely, left-in-the-night gone. Panic chokes him. He checks his phone-no messages. His heart sinks. He starts pacing, nearly dialing Ghost for backup when the door swings open. You walk in casually, holding a bag of milk and eggs. He stares. "I thought you LEFT ME!" you blink. "I went to buy cereal="" You abandoned me for cereal!" He full-body tackles you into a hug. "Next time I'm comin' with. I don't care if I'm in my boxers."
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Ghost is eerily quiet as he searches the house. You're not in bed. Not in the kitchen. Not on the porch. Your phone's gone, but you didn't say a word. His chest tightens. Thoughts spiral: Did something happen? Did you... leave him? He clenches his jaw, eyes cold, trying to suppress the old fear of abandonment. Just as he's reaching for his keys to search the streets, the front door creaks. You walk in with a fresh loaf of bread. He doesn't say anything at first-just pins you with a look. "Next time," he growls lowly, pulling you into a crushing embrace, "tell me. I thought you were never coming back."
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
Gaz is brushing his teeth when he realizes the house is too quiet. Towel slung over his shoulder, he calls your name once. Twice. No answer. He checks every room, the garage, even under the blanket pile. Nothing. Dread seeps in. Did he say something wrong last night? He checks his phone-no texts. His hand hovers over the call button when the door swings open and you waltz in holding coffee and a croissant. "Morning!" you chirp. Kyle just gapes. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?" He yanks you into a bear hug. "Next time, even a post-it would save me five years of stress."
John Price
Price wakes to silence. Not unusual. But the empty side of the bed is cold. No coffee brewed. No note. Just... gone. His instincts scream. He calls your name once-nothing. Checks the windows. Garage. Backyard. He' s halfway into his boots when your car rolls up outside. You hop out, humming, holding a newspaper and a breakfast sandwich." Morning!" Price doesn't even reply-just marches over, wraps you in his arms, and presses a firm kiss to your temple. "You scared the hell out of me." You blink. "I went to grab your favorite scone--" "Next time, just wake me up, love. Don't go ghost on a soldier."
Gary "Roach" Sanderson
Roach doesn't even notice at first. He's playing with your cat, half-asleep, when he realizes... where's your voice? Your warmth? He checks the bathroom-empty. Checks the fridge-you didn't even take breakfast. He starts to panic. Did something happen? Are you mad? Did you just... leave? Anxiety tangles in his chest. He's on the
verge of texting your best friend when you waltz in with a bouquet of sunflowers and a muffin. "Surprise!" He almost deflates. "I thought you left me for good over burnt toast or something!" You laugh. "I left to get you muffins." He tackles you with kisses anyway. "Muffin accepted. Heart rate recovering."
Nikolai
Nikolai wakes up late-rare for him. He yawns, stretches, and immediately notices your absence. "Milaya?" Silence. He checks the bathroom, the garden, even your secret snack stash. His smile fades. A thousand what-ifs hit him like bullets. Had he said something wrong? Pushed too hard? He's just reaching for his coat when you stroll in, casually sipping tea and holding a pack of that weird chocolate he loves. "I ran to the market." He just stares. Then pulls you close, presses his face into your shoulder. "I thought you vanished like a ghost." "Kolya, I was gone twenty minutes." "Exactly. Too long." Now he demands a tracker.
Alejandro Vargas
Alejandro wakes up alone and instantly panics. You always snuggle in, steal his side of the bed, mumble nonsense into his neck. But now? Cold sheets. Quiet kitchen. No note. His heart thunders. He thinks: Did I dream you? Is this my punishment? Then the front door creaks open. You appear, cheerful, holding tamales and a cold drink. "You were still sleeping, sol-" "I thought you left forever," he blurts, wrapping his arms around you like a lifeline. You laugh against his chest. "I just got food!" "Never. Again. You wake me up or I follow you barefoot into traffic. Your choice."
Rodolfo "Rudy" Parra
Rudy is the quiet type-but when he wakes and finds your side of the bed empty, the panic starts slow and sharp. He checks everywhere. No signs. The house echoes with absence. He stares at the front door. Did you... leave him? His chest tightens until your voice calls out, "I brought empanadas!" He turns, heart still pounding, and sees you smiling with a food bag in hand. "I thought you were craving them." He exhales shakily. "I was craving you." You soften. He pulls you into a long hug, murmuring into your hair, "I thought I was waking up to goodbye."
Valeria Garza
Valeria wakes up annoyed. First at the sun, then at your empty side of the bed. "Where the fuck are they?" she mutters, stomping through the house. No note. No sound. Her anger turns to panic far too quickly.She storms out the front door only for you to pull up with a full cart of groceries and a cheeky smile. "Surprise breakfast!" "Are you insane? "she hisses. "I nearly blew up the house thinking you ran off!" "I was gone fifteen minutes." "Long enough to plan a murder- suicide pact with my feelings." You snort. She kisses you anyway."Next time, I'm installing surveillance."
Keegan Russ
Keegan notices your absence the second he reaches for his morning coffee and your mug is untouched. Your keys are gone. You didn't say anything. No text. He tries not to overreact-maybe you went for a walk-but every passing minute adds weight to the pit forming in his stomach. He checks your location, sees "grocery store," but still-he knows how quickly things can change. When you come back, humming and holding a bundle of fruit, he meets you at the door, eyes shadowed. "You didn't tell me." You blink, caught off guard. "I didn't want to wake you." "Next time.... please do. I thought l lost you."
König
König wakes slowly, reaching instinctively for you. The space is cold. He calls softly- nothing. Anxiety grips him like a vice. He checks the house, heart thudding louder with every room. Then the silence starts
screaming. No note. No message. Just... gone. His mind spirals: maybe he was too much. Maybe you left without a word. When you walk in, holding a bouquet of his favorite bakery rolls, he nearly collapses in relief. "I went to get breakfast," you explain. He doesn't say anything-just hugs you, burying his face in your shoulder. Later, in a whisper, he murmurs, "Don't disappear. Please. Even if it's just for bread."
Nikto
Nikto is used to loss. That's what makes the fear snap like a trap when he realizes you're not in the house. You didn't say a word. Left your side of the bed cold. The silence feels accusatory. He paces like a caged animal. Then your name appears on his phone-bank ATM. You're just running errands. But he doesn't relax until he sees you walk back in. "Why didn't you tell me? " he growls. You arch a brow. "I was gone thirty minutes." "Enough time to vanish forever." You sigh. He pulls you close with a scowl and a kiss to your hair. "Next time. Say something."
Krueger
Krueger doesn't panic like others. He shuts down-sharp, silent. You're gone, no message. The house is too still. He waits twenty minutes. Thirty. That's all it takes for him to start assuming the worst. But then the lock clicks, and you walk in holding cleaning supplies and fresh croissants. "Surprise-I thought we could spring clean." He stares at you. "You didn't say anything." "I didn't think you'd notice." You expect a scolding. Instead, he steps forward, cups your cheek gently, and says, "I always notice you. Always." You swallow. Later, you find him dusting the bookshelf with your playlist playing softly in the background.
Philip Graves
Graves wakes to birds chirping and the distant hum of traffic-and no you. At first, he thinks you're in the kitchen. Then the bathroom. Then the backyard. When all options fail, he starts panicking like a man late to the most important mission of his life. He calls once- no answer. Twice. Nothing. Then you walk in like nothing happened, holding hardware store bags. "Surprise, I fixed the squeaky door! "You barely finish the sentence before you're pulled into his arms. "You don't disappear on a man like that," he grumbles. "You nearly gave me a damn heart attack." You smirk. "I'm fine." "And now you're grounded."
Alex Keller
Alex stretches, yawns, and rolls over-right into a pillow instead of your chest. Weird. You always sleep in. He checks the kitchen. Nothing. His smile fades. You're nowhere. He calls out, heart rate climbing. Still nothing. He's mid-shoe when you swing the door open, humming, carrying iced coffee and groceries. "Morning!" "Where were you?!" he blurts. "I thought I got dumped while dreaming!" You blink. "I wanted to surprise you with donuts!" "You surprised me with abandonment." He scoffs, yanks you into a hug. "You're not allowed to go places alone. Even the donut shop." "You'll follow me to the bathroom at this rate." Correct."
Farah Karim
Farah is a light sleeper, so waking up to an empty bed already has alarms blaring. She checks her phone. Nothing from you. She's dressed and out the door in five minutes, scanning the neighborhood like she's tracking a fugitive. Just as she's about to call your entire contact list, you stroll up with a tote full of fruit and a grin. "You were out of oranges." She freezes. "You didn't leave a note." "You were sleeping." She doesn't scold, not really.Just walks over, rests her forehead to yours, and murmurs, "Next time, wake me up. I'd rather go with you even if it's just for oranges."
Hadir Karim
Hadir wakes to birds and light and a quiet he doesn't trust. He checks your side of the bed. Cold. House? Empty. Car? Gone. No message. His pulse spikes, mind jumping to conclusions faster than reason can catch up. He's about to call when you waltz in with a grin and a bag of takeout. "I thought I'd surprise you!" "You did. I thought I was being ghosted in real time." You laugh, but he's serious-hands trembling as they cradle your waist. "Next time," he murmurs, eyes intense, "let me worry about you with you in the car." You promise. He doesn't let go for hours.
Kate Laswell
Kate notices your absence immediately. The house is always full of your sound- your humming, your clutter, your warm presence. Now? Just quiet. She checks every room. Nothing. Her jaw tightens. Her hands shake. Was she too late? Did you just... leave? Then the front door opens, and you breeze in, cheeks flushed, holding a little box. "I went to the post office!" She exhales like she's been holding her breath for hours. "Jesus, Y/N." "I brought you that rare tea you love?" "You almost brought me an early funeral." She pulls you into her arms, voice soft. "Don't ever go missing like that again."
Vladimir Makarov
Makarov doesn't panic when you're gone. He gets quiet. Cold. Calculating. He assumes the worst, because that's all life has taught him. He checks your drawers. Clothes still here. He checks your phone tracker-offline.He nearly snaps. Then the door opens and you walk in, humming, holding two steaming paper cups. "I went out for coffee," you say cheerfully. He doesn't answer. He just strides over, yanks you into a crushing kiss, then stares at you like he's memorizing your face. "Say goodbye next time," he growls. "I was about to level the whole block." You blink." ...It was coffee, not war." He glares. Same thing to him.
Feels like Summer when I’m with You | Vladimir Makarov x Fem!Reader
WARNINGS: Completely fluff. This may include some light cuss words, plus the fluff content itself that audiences may find uncomfortable (approach me if I missed something on warnings.) Suitable for minors, still read at your own risk.
NOTES: Based on the song “Pantropiko” released by a Filipino Pop Group, BINI. They recently performed the song during the 2026 COACHELLA.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Expect grammatical and typographical errors, english and russian isn’t my first language. Bare with me.
Summary: Vladimir Makarov, the man you barely knew. The man you met during your summer trip in Russia, turned into something you never expected to.
You are on your summer vacation trip at Russia, to freshen up your mind and rest from a very long time at work. You found your way into Laskovy Beach, filled with tourists but something felt like home for you. The clean sand, beautiful scenery, and the people around you that makes you feel calm.
You felt the sand in your feet, it’s tickling you and relaxing at the same time. Finishing up your time on the beach, you walked at the little restaurant—filled with some tourists and locals. The vibe was the one that let you stepped in, the seashells on the wall and the vibrant colors around the walls. The refreshing shakes, dishes, and juice. It all felt familiar and calm.
You sat at the bar counter, the young man asked you for your order. “Доброе утро (Good morning), Ma’am. Seems like the beach pulls you in here, is there anything you want in our menu?” and you replied, “Sure. Can I have the mango shake together with the Sharlotka?” and the waiter replied, “Is that all, Miss?”
“Ikaw ay nasilayan sa ’di inakalang panahon. Lumapit nang biglaan, para bang ’di nagkataon.”
“Yes, thank you.” you smiled at him. A man who seems a local tourist sat beside you, patiently waiting for someone to take his orders. You looked and locked eyes with him, you smiled and he smiles slightly. He asked you, “Tourist?” it felt strange, no greetings at all. Just a question, and you replied, “Yes. Took a leave from work, I just need to freshen up.”
“That’s good. Seems like you’re alone, Леди (lady). Take care of yourself, some people you’ll meet here not truly appears like what they seem. Be careful.” he said, and it is weird for you. You want to thank him for saying that since he's a local, but you seem scared of what he just said. You said, “Thank you. I’ll take note of that.” and you smiled at him.
The waiter returned together with your meal, placing your meal in front of you. The man beside you said, “Nice choice for a first time tourist around here. И отличный выбор для красивой женщины. (And nice choice for a pretty woman like you.)” you didn’t clearly understand what he said but you just let it slide and thanked him.
You’re finding for some available tables since the restaurant was filled with lots of people, you found one beside the wall. You chose to sat there and eat your food in silence, when suddenly someone asked you “Is this seat available?” pointing at the seat in front of you. It’s the man from earlier, you smiled and said yes to him.
“Ito nga ba’y tadhana? Tangi kong hiling sa mga tala, mga pintig ng puso’y nakalaan para sa ’yo.”
Expert with some small talks, you asked him about his name and he replies to it calmly. “Vladimir. What about you, красивый (beautiful)?” and you said, “Y/N’s the name, Vladimir.” His rough accent lingers to you, and the things he said in russian. You didn’t mind asking him what he just said, you thought he may not just be comfortable speaking in english.
After finishing your meals, he asked you to walk around the beach. And you agreed to him, as he seems like a decent man. And being with someone who’s a local tourist made you feel safe around the beach.
As you trip around the beach, you talked out some things about the both of your lives. You learned that he’s serving in a military for the most of his life, that’s why being in here makes him feel calm too. He also learned about you too, what your field of work is and some little information.
There’s something about him that makes you feel better, the way he jokes around you and the way he taught you things around the beach. Which you jokes to him casually and saying he looks like a tourist guide for it. The little things he opens up about his childhood. It feels good. His heterochromia eyes resembling the calmness that you feel while you’re around him.
“From following your footprints in the sand, to walking you with you in this island. Guided by the grip of your hand, I can feel you’re holding my world.”
That’s where the closeness starts, he held your hand when you almost tripped over on the rock. He checks up on you and held your hand tightly, asking you “Are you okay?” voice filled with concern. You said yes and urging him to just continue on what he’s saying. He checks up on you one last time. He said, “You should rest, Y/N. You seem tired, you just land here right? You can call me tomorrow to accompany you. I’ll be there, моя любовь (my love).” and you asked him, “Thank you. But what does that mean?” filled with confusion and he looks away. “Nothing.”
He gave you his number to call him whenever you need to. As you part ways, both of you were struck to find that hands are still intertwined. You looked away and bid goodbyes to him.
Days had passed, you enjoyed your own company. Little did you know, Vladimir was still picturing the moment he met you. He’s still thinking about the way your hands intertwined with him, the calmness he felt around you. How you didn’t judge him for what he looks like, how you didn’t seem scared away by the scars on his hand, how you didn’t flinched on how he looked at you. How you entertained him like he’s the only one that matters the most.
He’s not used for all of it, but one thing he’s sure of—he likes you. He’s willing to give you everything just for your existence in his life, he’s willing to burn the whole world down just for you. And if all’s fair in love and war, he won’t force anything just to be close to you. He’s willing to show up for every moment in your life, willing to give in and be there until you realized that you’ll love him too. If all’s fair in love and war, can he have it too? Despite of everything he did in his past.
“Fucking ironic.” he mumbles, all the thoughts he’s having; he is shocked for it too. Vladimir Makarov, the madman. Finally feeling something called “love” and yearning for someone that may not see him or his intentions at all. Yearning for something impossible for him to have.
One last time, he calls you. Reaching out with all of his strength and fears in his heart and you picked up. “Hello? This is Vladimir, am I right?” voice lovely. The sound he’s longing to hear and he replied, “Yes, Y/N. Are you still here in Russia? Do you mind if we’ll meet?”
You said, “I’m sorry if I didn’t called you for the past days, I just needed to enjoy my own company. But hey! I missed you." you chuckles, “And yes! I’m still here. We can meet though, just pin me your location and I can come.”
Vladimir said, “No need, Y/N. I’ll be there. Wait for me.” and you quickly agreed to him. Finally, Vladimir heard your lovely voice and the words that told him that you missed him. Fuck, that’s something he never expected.
You meet him at the same place again, and finally—the familiarity felt like home. He’s wearing the same thing, his white longsleeve. The one that made him stand out, or maybe stand out just for you?
He came to you, greets you good evening together with flowers. You felt overwhelmed for him and you chuckled nervously saying, “Hey. You don’t need to, but thank you for the gift.” and Vladimir asked you, “Let’s order the same thing again?” you agreed.
After placing your orders, he asked you. Words you’ll never expect from him, words that you’ll never from someone you just met. Unbeknownst to you, you reached his hand. And you didn’t even contemplate once, you trust him really well.
“Ano ba itong nadarama? Oh, shucks, ito ba’y pag-ibig na? Totoo ba ang ’pinadama, ’cause, boy, it feels so good.”
Vladimir asked you, “Can I court you, Y/N?” he was nervous. He was used to get anything he want, no matter what happens. He was used to not anything let out of his way, he’ll get what he desires. But now, he’s asking someone? What a change.
And without asking anything, you said “Yes, Vladimir.” even you—you were shocked and nervous too. You never expected for this to happen, but there you are, getting asked out by a man you just met once. And you couldn’t believe that you just said yes, but you didn’t doubt yourself for it. You didn’t even think about it twice, you agreed without regrets.
“Let’s just see where this thing goes, Vladimir.” you said, and he held your hand tightly. Saying, “You’ll never regret this, Y/N.”
“I'll give you the world. The moon. The fucking stars. Anything you ask, it's yours. I’m yours.” it felt like a wedding vow but you didn’t mind, you’re just listening to him. “I’ll be the best man for you, Y/N.”
Finishing up your meals, you left the beach wit him. He invites you at his house and that’s where everything starts. He plans to tell you anything without secrets, because for him—loving someone is as the same as being vulnerable around them.
You agreed to everything and you got along with him. Leaving the place with just one glance, you are happy. That’s why the place felt familiar, because that’s where you will found your love.
With one glance, you said “Thank you, Laskovy.” and with it, you intertwined your hand with him. Ready to get to know him more and begin your tales with the man that you just met. Happiness is an understatement for what you feel because you feel more than that. You felt everything at once and it feels good. “Can’t wait to go back with you, Vladimir.”
“Bawat araw mas sumasaya pag ika’y kapiling na, nawawalan ng pangangamba ’pag ika’y kapiling na. Feels like summer when I’m with you (ooh), parang islang pantropiko (oh). Can’t wait to go back with you (ooh) sa islang pantropiko.”
– taglist: @livelyinborderland
– credits for the gifs that I used: @uzmacchiato, @clarke-mason
The joke starts in the break room, the way most office gossip does casual, thoughtless, designed to kill time between meetings.
"You know what the scariest thing about Director Nanamin is?" Jisoo says, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed, voice dropping into that conspiratorial tone people use when they're about to say something they shouldn't.
You barely glance up from your coffee. You're mentally reviewing the quarterly report you're supposed to present later, running through the numbers one more time. "His emails?"
Jisoo snorts. "No. The fact that he's never dated anyone. Ever."
You frown slightly, still half-focused on whether you should adjust the projection model for Q3. "That's not scary," you mutter, stirring your drink. "That just means he has standards."
Jisoo gives you a look the kind that suggests you've missed something obvious. "No, it means he's not human. I mean think about it, no ring, we never hear of him being seen with a woman. Come on he's rich and has one of the highest positions at a top company."
A few people laugh. Someone from accounting adds, "I can't even picture him liking someone. Like what would that even look like? Him holding hands? Absolutely not."
You huff quietly, taking a sip. Director Nanamin doesn't strike you as the type to even notice people like that. He's efficient. Cold. Focused. The kind of boss who remembers every detail of every project but never asks about your weekend.
"Hey," Jisoo nudges you suddenly, and her voice drops even lower. "You work closest with him, right? One-on-one reports and all that?"
You nod. It's true you've been his direct report for almost eight months now. He's demanding, but fair. You've learned more under his supervision than you did in two years at your previous company.
"…Does he ever act weird around you?"
You pause mid-sip.
Weird?
You think about it really think about it for the first time. About the way he stands too close when reviewing your work, close enough that you can smell his cologne, something clean and expensive. The way his hand lingers just a second too long when passing documents, fingers brushing yours. The way he adjusts your collar sometimes, like it's part of his job description, like you're incapable of dressing yourself properly.
But that's just... him being particular, right? He's meticulous about everything.
"…No," you say slowly, genuinely puzzled by the question. "He's just strict."
Jisoo goes quiet in a way that feels loaded.
Someone behind you mutters, "That's worse."
You turn. "What?"
"Nothing," Jisoo says quickly, exchanging a glance with someone else. "Forget it."
You shrug it off. People are always reading into things that aren't there. Office gossip is just noise.
By the time you get back to your desk, his message is already waiting.
Director Nanami: Come to my office.
No greeting. No explanation. Typical.
You sigh, grab your tablet with the revised presentation loaded, and head down the hall. You're actually proud of this one, you caught an error in the vendor contract that would've cost the company a significant amount. You're hoping he'll acknowledge it, maybe even in that subtle way he has, where his expression doesn't change but his tone shifts just slightly.
The moment you step inside his office, the temperature drops.
You shiver automatically, goosebumps rising on your arms. "It's freezing in here."
Nanami doesn't look up immediately. He finishes signing something with that expensive fountain pen he always uses, movements calm, composed, perfect as always. Everything about him is controlled. Precise. You've never seen him flustered, never seen him make a mistake.
Then his eyes lift to you.
Sharp.
Observing.
Lingering in a way that makes you want to check if there's something on your face.
"…You didn't bring a jacket," he says.
It's not a question. It's a statement of fact, delivered with the same tone he uses when pointing out a miscalculation in a spreadsheet.
"I'm fine," you reply, shifting your weight. You are fine. It's just a little cold. You've worked through worse.
A beat of silence.
He stands.
Your eyes track the movement automatically, he's tall, taller than you remember sometimes, and there's something about the way he moves that's unnaturally fluid. Deliberate. Like every action is calculated three steps ahead.
He crosses the room.
Before you can react, his hand is at your shoulder firm, steady, warm as he shrugs off his blazer and drapes it over you.
The fabric is heavy. Expensive. It settles around your shoulders like something deliberate, something that carries weight beyond just warmth. It smells like him that same clean, expensive scent, but stronger now. Almost overwhelming.
"You'll get sick," he says.
You blink, surprised by the gesture. "Director, I really don't—"
"Wear it."
The tone isn't loud. It's not even particularly harsh.
But it ends the conversation with the finality of a door closing.
"…Okay."
You adjust it awkwardly, feeling ridiculous. The sleeves swallow your hands completely. You probably look like a child playing dress-up in adult clothes. Professional. Very professional.
Nanami watches you for a second too long.
There's something in his expression you can't quite read something that might be satisfaction, or possession, or both. His eyes track the way the fabric drapes over your frame, the way you're swimming in something that belongs to him.
Then he steps closer.
Too close.
Close enough that you have to tilt your head back slightly to maintain eye contact.
"Hold still."
His fingers brush your neck.
You freeze.
He's adjusting your collar again but this time slower. More precise. His thumb presses lightly just below your ear, where your pulse is probably visible, where your skin is most sensitive. You can feel the warmth of his hand, the controlled strength in his fingers.
Your breath catches. "Is… something wrong?"
"…No."
His voice is quieter now. Closer. You can feel it more than hear it.
"Your presentation," he continues, like his hand isn't currently touching your throat, like this is completely normal, "needs revision."
You nod quickly, trying to focus on work, on the actual reason you're here. "Right. I'll fix it. I think the vendor analysis in section three could be stronger—"
His hand doesn't move right away.
When it finally does, it drags, just slightly, along your shoulder before he pulls back. The touch is deliberate. Possessive. Like he's marking something.
You don't notice.
You're already thinking about the presentation, about which sections need work, about how you can tighten the argument in the third quarter projections.
"Sit," he says.
You do, settling into the chair across from his desk, his blazer still wrapped around you. You pull out your tablet, ready to take notes on his feedback. This is what you're good at taking criticism, improving, and iterating. You've built your career on being coach-able.
You don't notice how the hallway outside has gone completely silent.
You don't notice the way two coworkers pass by the glass wall, the office has partial glass walls for "transparency," though right now the blinds are angled just enough to obscure most of the view, only to immediately look away, faces tight, uneasy. You don't see the way they hurry past, the way one of them grabs the other's arm and pulls them along faster.
You don't notice the way the air around you feels… heavier. Thicker. Like something has settled into the space between you and him, something that doesn't dissipate even when he returns to his seat.
Something that doesn't belong to you.
Something you can't name because you don't have the framework to recognize it.
Nanami returns to his seat with that same fluid grace, settling into his chair like a predator that's already caught its prey and is simply deciding when to bite down. His gaze fixes on you steady, unwavering, intense in a way that would make most people uncomfortable.
But you just open your tablet, stylus ready.
Steady.
Calculating.
He's thinking about how you walked into his office without hesitation, how you wear his jacket without understanding what it means, how you sit there completely oblivious to the fact that every alpha in a three-floor radius can now smell him on you. How you don't notice the way people have started giving you a wider berth in the hallways, the way conversations stop when you enter a room.
You're brilliant with numbers, with strategy, with analysis.
But you can't see what's right in front of you.
You can't smell the danger lurking around every corner, the territorial lines he's been drawing around you for months now, the way he's been slowly, methodically isolating you from anyone who might interfere.
And that's exactly why you need him.
Why you'll always need him.
"…Start," he says, his voice carrying that edge of command that makes something in your hindbrain want to obey, even as your conscious mind just registers it as his normal professional tone.
You begin walking through your presentation, pointing out the cost analysis, the risk assessment, the projected ROI. You're confident here. This is your domain. You've triple-checked every number, every source, every assumption.
You're so focused on the data that you don't notice the way his eyes never leave your face.
The way he's not looking at the screen at all.
The way he's watching you like you're the only thing in the room that matters.
Like you're something precious that needs to be protected.
Or possessed.
Or both.
The meeting ends forty-five minutes later with a list of revisions that aren't actually that extensive—mostly minor adjustments to the formatting, a few clarifications on the vendor terms. Reasonable feedback. Professional. You leave his office with his blazer still draped over your shoulders because he'd given you that look when you tried to return it, the one that meant the conversation was over before it started.
You'll give it back later. After lunch, maybe. When he's in a meeting.
The relief hits you the moment you're back at your desk.
It's not that the meeting was bad, Director Nanami's feedback was actually helpful, precise as always, but there's something about being in that office with him that makes your shoulders tense in ways you don't fully understand. The weight of his attention, maybe. The way he watches you like he's waiting for you to make a mistake, even when you don't.
You drape his blazer over the back of your chair and let yourself breathe.
The office feels lighter out here. Warmer. The afternoon sun streams through the windows, and there's the comfortable ambient noise of keyboards clicking, phones ringing, the coffee machine gurgling in the distance. Normal. Safe.
You're just pulling up the presentation file to start on those revisions when Hana appears at your desk.
"Hey," she says, leaning against the partition with that easy smile she always has. Hana's in operations, a beta like you, competent and friendly without being overbearing. You've worked together on a few cross-departmental projects. She's... easy to talk to. Uncomplicated.
"Hey," you reply, glancing up. "What's up?"
"Just wanted to see if you survived the director's office." She grins. "You were in there a while. Did he tear apart the presentation?"
You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "Not as badly as I expected, actually. Just some formatting stuff and clarifications."
"See? I told you it was solid." Hana pulls up a chair, sitting backward on it with her arms folded over the backrest. "You always overthink these things."
"Because he notices everything," you say, but there's no heat in it. Just fact. "If there's a typo on slide thirty-seven, he'll find it."
"That's because he's a robot," Hana says matter-of-factly. "I'm convinced. No one is that precise naturally."
You snort, an actual, genuine sound that surprises even you. "A robot?"
"Think about it. Have you ever seen him eat? Like, actually eat?"
You pause, considering. "...He has coffee."
"Coffee isn't food. That proves nothing." Hana leans forward conspiratorially. "I bet he plugs into an outlet at night. Charges up. That's why he's always here before everyone else."
The image is so absurd that you can't help it, you laugh.
Really laugh.
Not the polite, professional chuckle you use in meetings. Not the quiet huff you give when something is mildly amusing. An actual laugh that comes from your chest, that makes your shoulders shake slightly, that feels good in a way you haven't felt in weeks.
"That's—" you try to speak through it, "—that's ridiculous."
"Is it though?" Hana grins wider, clearly pleased with herself. "Explain the coffee thing. Explain how he never looks tired. Explain—"
"He's just disciplined," you manage, still smiling. Your cheeks almost hurt from it. When was the last time you smiled like this at work? "Very, very disciplined."
"Disciplined robots. That's what I'm saying."
You shake your head, trying to compose yourself, but the smile won't leave. It sits on your face, warm and comfortable, like something that belongs there. You feel... light. Unburdened. Like you've been holding your breath for months and finally remembered how to exhale.
This is nice.
This is easy.
Just talking. Just existing without the weight of expectation pressing down on your shoulders.
You don't notice the way the temperature drops.
Not at first.
Across the floor, behind glass walls and Venetian blinds angled just enough to provide the illusion of privacy—
Nanami hears it.
Not the words.
The tone.
Light.
Unrestrained.
Wrong.
His pen stills mid-signature, ink pooling slightly on the document beneath it. He doesn't notice. Doesn't care.
Slowly, deliberately, he looks up.
Through the gaps in the blinds, his gaze finds you instantly, like it always does, like some part of him is always aware of exactly where you are in any given space.
And there it is.
That expression.
That softness in your face he's only seen in glimpses, in moments before you notice him watching. That smile you never wear in front of him.
You're laughing.
With someone else.
At something someone else said.
Looking at someone else with that open, unguarded warmth that should be
His jaw tightens.
Something cold and sharp unfurls in his chest, spreading through his ribs like frost. It's not anger. Anger is too hot, too uncontrolled. This is colder. More precise.
Possessive.
Territorial.
Wrong.
The word echoes in his mind as he watches you duck your head slightly, still smiling, still so completely at ease in a way you never are with him. The beta he doesn't even bother learning their name—is leaning too close. Casual. Familiar.
Touching the back of your chair.
Making you laugh.
Taking something that isn't theirs.
Nanami stands.
The movement is fluid, controlled, but there's something deliberate about it. Predatory. He doesn't rush. Doesn't need to.
He simply moves.
You're still smiling when Hana suddenly stops mid-sentence.
Her expression shifts—subtle, but noticeable. The easy warmth drains from her face, replaced by something more cautious. Alert.
"...Did it just get colder?" she asks quietly.
You blink, confused. "What?"
But Hana isn't looking at you anymore.
She's looking past you.
Toward the office.
You feel it then that prickle of awareness at the back of your neck, the one that makes your spine straighten automatically. The one you've learned to recognize over eight months of working under Director Nanami.
You turn.
He's standing just outside his office door.
Watching.
The smile drops from your face immediately. Not completely, you're not sure you could erase it that fast even if you tried, but enough. Enough that your expression shifts back into something more appropriate. More professional.
More careful.
"Director Nanami," you say, standing automatically. Your voice comes out steady, but there's a question in it. "Did you need something?"
He doesn't answer right away.
His gaze flicks once, brief, dismissive, cold toward Hana.
The temperature drops another degree.
Around you, you notice peripherally that conversations have quieted. Someone's phone stops ringing. The coffee machine seems louder in the sudden silence.
Then—
"Leave."
It's quiet.
Flat.
But it isn't directed at you.
Hana stiffens. You see her throat work as she swallows. "I—right. I have that report to finish anyway."
She stands quickly, not quite meeting your eyes. Not looking at him either.
She just... leaves.
Faster than necessary.
You watch her go, confused. The report isn't due until next week. You know because you helped her with part of the data analysis last Thursday.
But before you can process that, Nanami is moving again.
Closer.
Not rushed. Not hesitant.
Measured.
Each step deliberate, like he's already calculated exactly how many it will take to reach you. He stops just inside your personal space, closer than professional, closer than necessary, close enough that you have to tilt your head back slightly to maintain eye contact.
Close enough that you can smell his cologne again, that clean expensive scent that's been clinging to his blazer, the one still draped over your chair.
"You seem," he says slowly, each word precisely placed, "in a good mood."
Your fingers tighten slightly around the edge of your desk. "Just discussing work."
A beat of silence.
His eyes move over your face like he's cataloging something. Like he's trying to memorize exactly what you looked like thirty seconds ago so he can systematically erase it.
"You don't sound like that," he says, voice lower now, dropping into a register that makes something in your head sit up and pay attention, "when you speak to me."
Your breath catches—just slightly. "I—"
"You were smiling."
It's not an accusation.
Like he's pointing out an error in your work. A miscalculation. Something that needs correction.
You don't know how to respond to that. What are you supposed to say? Yes, I was smiling, is that not allowed? It sounds absurd even in your head. So you default to the safest thing, the most professional response you can manage:
"...I'm sorry?"
The words come out uncertain. Questioning.
Because you genuinely don't understand what you're apologizing for.
Silence stretches between you.
Then—
His hand lifts.
You already know what's coming. You've been through this enough times now that it's almost routine. He's going to adjust your collar. Again. Because apparently you're incapable of dressing yourself properly, or because he has standards about professional appearance that border on obsessive, or because
His fingers brush your collar.
Adjusting.
Straightening.
But this time, it's different.
Firmer.
More deliberate.
His thumb presses just enough against the side of your neck.
Right over your gland.
You flinch.
It's instinctive. Immediate. That spot is sensitive in ways you don't fully understand, in ways that make your hindbrain scream too close, too vulnerable, wrong wrong wrong—
"...Director?"
His eyes don't leave your face.
For a moment, something darker flickers there something sharper than his usual controlled calm, something that makes your pulse jump for reasons you can't name.
Then it's gone.
Smoothed over.
Professional.
His hand drops, but slowly. Deliberately. Like he's making a point.
"Prepare your things," he says.
You blink, trying to reorient yourself, trying to push past the lingering sensation of his thumb against your gland. "For...?"
"We're leaving tomorrow."
"...Leaving?"
"A business trip."
Your confusion must show on your face because you're not even trying to hide it anymore. "No one mentioned—"
"I'm mentioning it now."
The finality in his tone shuts down the rest of your question before it can form.
You swallow. "...Where?"
Nanami's hand drops completely from your collar, but his gaze stays.
Heavy.
Intent.
Possessive in a way you don't have the framework to recognize.
"Somewhere," he says, and his voice drops even lower, intimate in a way that makes your skin prickle, "you won't be... distracted."
A pause.
He turns and walks away like nothing happened. Like he didn't just decide something that changes everything for you. Like this is completely normal. You stand there for a moment.
Still.
Trying to piece it together.
A business trip? With him? Alone? You don't remember seeing anything about this on the calendar. Don't remember any emails about client meetings or site visits or conferences.
When did this get scheduled?
Why didn't anyone tell you?
"...What just happened?" you murmur to yourself.
Across the office, you catch sight of Jisoo. She's staring at you wide-eyed, her coffee cup frozen halfway to her mouth.
Minho is at the desk next to her. He looks like he's about to say something, mouth opening slightly. Then he closes it. Thinks better of it. Looks away.
The office is too quiet.
You notice it now the way conversations haven't quite resumed their normal volume. The way people are very carefully not looking in your direction.
The way the air feels heavier.
Thicker.
Wrong.
You shake your head slightly, trying to clear it. You're overthinking this. It's just a business trip. Probably something last-minute. Director Nanami is always getting pulled into unexpected meetings, urgent client situations. This is probably just one of those things.
Professional.
Normal.
You sit back down at your desk, pulling up your calendar to figure out what you'll need to reschedule.
You don't notice the way Jisoo and Minho exchange a look.
You don't notice the way Hana hasn't come back to her desk.
You don't notice the way Director Nanami is standing in his office again, watching you through the blinds.
Still.
Patient.
Satisfied.
Because whatever line existed before whatever boundary separated professional from personal, appropriate from possessive—
He just erased it.
And you have no idea.
Minho knew something was wrong the second you walked past him. After your meeting with him.
It hit him before he even looked up.
Warm.
Deep.
Rich—
Like freshly brewed coffee left too long on a burner, thickening into something darker, heavier.
You were already halfway down the hall, clutching your tablet, completely unaware of the way the air shifted around you. Like a pressure drop. Like a warning.
Minho’s stomach twisted.
“…No way,” he muttered.
Jisoo followed his gaze—and immediately stiffened.
“Oh my god.”
“Do you smell that?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer.
She nodded slowly. “That’s not just her scent anymore.”
It couldn’t be.
Not like that.
Not this strong.
Not this layered.
They both looked toward the office door just as it clicked shut behind you.
Silence stretched between them.
Then—
“Should we… do something?” Minho asked, though it sounded weak even to him.
Jisoo let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Do what? Walk in there and tell him to stop?”
Minho didn’t answer.
Because they both knew who him was.
Director Nanami didn’t just run their department—he controlled it. Every promotion, every evaluation, every transfer.
And right now?
He was marking someone in broad daylight.
A few before your meeting had rapped up. Minho couldn’t help it.
He passed by the office.
Just… to check.
That’s all.
The glass wall made everything visible.
Too visible.
You were sitting across from the desk, shoulders slightly hunched, clearly nervous but focused, flipping through your notes like this was just another meeting.
Like nothing was wrong.
Like you couldn’t feel it.
Nanami stood beside you.
Not behind his desk.
Not across from you.
Too close.
His hand rested on the back of your chair, fingers curled just enough to brush your shoulder.
Possessive.
Casual.
Intentional.
Minho’s throat went dry.
“…He’s not even hiding it,” he whispered.
Inside, Nanami leaned down slightly, saying something to you calm, composed.
His other hand lifted.
Adjusted your collar.
Again.
Slow.
Deliberate.
His fingers lingered at your neck.
Right over your glands.
Minho physically recoiled.
“Jesus—”
Jisoo grabbed his sleeve, yanking him back before he could stare any longer. “Stop looking. If he notices—”
“He wants people to notice,” Minho cut in under his breath. “That’s the problem.”
They both fell quiet.
Because that was the worst part.
This wasn’t sloppy.
It wasn’t accidental.
It was controlled.
Measured.
A message.
Across the room, someone else spoke up in a hushed voice:
“…Is she seriously not reacting?”
Jisoo shook her head slowly. “I told you her sense of smell is bad.”
Minho exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “So she has no idea she’s basically walking around covered in—”
“—him,” Jisoo finished.
Silence again.
Heavy this time.
Uneasy.
Because now it didn’t feel like gossip anymore.
It felt like watching something unfold that no one was supposed to interfere with.
Something territorial.
Something dangerous.
Minho glanced back at the office one last time.
Through the glass, Nanami had finally returned to his seat.
But his gaze hadn’t left you.
Not once.
It followed every movement.
Every shift.
Every breath.
Like you were something he’d already decided belonged to him
And was just waiting for the rest of the world to accept it.
Minho looked away first.
“…She’s in trouble,” he said quietly.
Jisoo didn’t disagree.
Two weeks later.
The hotel keycard feels too light in your hand.
“That’s… one room,” you say, staring at it like it might change if you look long enough.
Beside you, Nanami doesn’t even glance down.
“Yes.”
You blink. “…There has to be a mistake.”
“There isn’t.”
Simple.
Final.
You hesitate. “I can go back to the front desk—”
“No.”
The word cuts clean through your sentence.
You go quiet.
He finally looks at you then calm, composed, like always.
But there’s something under it.
Something that makes your chest tighten.
“It’s late,” he continues. “We have an early meeting. This is the most efficient arrangement.”
Efficient.
Right.
That makes sense.
It has to.
“…Okay,” you murmur.
The room is quiet when the door shuts behind you.
Too quiet.
You set your bag down quickly, moving toward the window, the desk anywhere that isn’t standing in the middle of the room with him.
There’s only one bed.
You try not to look at it.
“I can take the couch,” you say quickly, even though there isn’t really one just a small love seat by the window.
Nanami sets his things down with deliberate calm.
“That won’t be necessary.”
Your stomach tightens.
“It’s fine, I don’t mind—”
“I said,” he interrupts, voice low, “it won’t be necessary, I'll take the couch.”
Silence.
You nod.
Nanami watches you move around the room. Too aware. Too careful. Keeping distance.
Always keeping distance. It irritates him more than it should. More than it ever has.
Because not to long ago at work.
That laugh.
That smile.
It replays in his mind with perfect clarity.
Not for him.
Never for him.
His jaw tightens slightly.
Unacceptable.
You feel his presence before you see him.
Close again.
Always close.
“Turn around.”
You freeze for a second then obey.
“…Yes?”
His gaze drags over your face, slower than it should be.
Assessing.
Measuring.
Like he’s looking for something that’s no longer there.
“…You’re quieter now,” he says.
You frown slightly. “We’re not at the office.”
“That’s not an explanation.”
You don’t know how to answer that.
So you don’t.
His hand lifts.
Your breath catches automatically.
Fingers brush your collar adjusting, like always.
But this time, there’s no one watching.
No glass walls.
No coworkers.
Just you.
And him.
His thumb presses lightly against your neck.
Right over your gland.
You flinch.
“…You react,” he murmurs.
Confusion flickers across your face. “To being touched?”
A pause.
His eyes darken bjust slightly.
“You don’t react to me.”
Your brows pull together. “I do. I listen. I—”
“That’s not what I mean.”
His voice drops.
Quieter.
He steps closer. Close enough that your back nearly hits the edge of the desk.
“At work, before” he says, “you were… different.”
Your heart starts beating faster, though you’re not sure why.
“I was just talking—”
“You were smiling.”
There it is again. That same observation. That same weight behind it.
You swallow. “…I smile sometimes.”
“Not like that.”
The words come out softer.
More controlled.
But they land heavier.
Nanami’s thoughts narrow, sharpen. He can still feel it. That shift in you.That warmth you give so easily to others. while standing so carefully, so neutrally, with him. As if he’s something to endure. Not something to want. His fingers press more firmly against your neck.
Not enough to hurt.
Enough to remind.
To ground.
To claim.
You don’t even realize what you are.
How you affect him.
How long he’s allowed this distance to exist.
Too long.
Your breath stutters slightly. “Director… Nanami?”
A warning.
A question.
You’re not even sure which.
His name sounds different like this.
Softer.
Uncertain.
He notices.
Of course he does.
His grip loosens, but doesn’t disappear.
“…You don’t understand,” he says quietly.
“Understand what?”
A pause.
Then—
“You will.”
Something in your chest tightens at that.
“…This is just a work trip,” you say, like you’re trying to convince both of you.
Nanami’s gaze holds yours. Unblinking.
“No,” he says.
The word is calm.
Certain.
Terrifying in how simple it is.
“It isn’t.”
Silence stretches between you.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
You don’t know what he means.
But you feel it.
That something has shifted.
That the lines you thought were there
aren’t anymore.
Nanami finally steps back. Just enough to give you space.
Not enough to feel safe.
“We'll go over everything during dinner,” he says.
Like nothing happened.
Like everything is still under control.
But as he turns away
his thoughts settle into something firm.
Decided.
Measured.
It’s time.
No more distance.
No more misunderstandings.
No more watching you give pieces of yourself to people who don’t recognize what they’re being given. You don’t know it yet.
But you will.
Soon.
The knock comes at seven-thirty.
You've been staring at your laptop for the past twenty minutes, the same paragraph of the presentation blurring in and out of focus. The room is nice too nice, actually. The kind of hotel room that makes you acutely aware of the budget approval Nanami must have signed off on. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, a king bed with crisp white linens, a sitting area with a couch and love seat that probably costs more than your monthly rent.
You're changed into something professional but comfortable,a soft sweater and slacks, because you'd showered and changed after the flight, trying to wash away the anxiety that's been clinging to your skin since this morning, after Nanami went out for some work related stuff, do he said.
It doesn't work.
When you open the door, Nanami is standing there in his shirtsleeves, jacket discarded, top button undone. It's the most casual you've ever seen him, and somehow that makes it worse.
More intimate.
More real.
"I ordered dinner," he says. "It should arrive shortly."
You blink. "Oh I was going to just order something light—"
"We need to discuss tomorrow's agenda, as I said before." His tone is matter-of-fact. Professional.
Of course it is.
Of course this is about work.
You step aside, letting him in, and try to ignore the way your heart rate picks up as he moves past you into your space. He's carrying a leather portfolio and his own laptop this really is just a working dinner. You're being ridiculous.
"I hope you don't mind," he continues, setting his things on the small dining table by the window. "I took the liberty of ordering wine as well. The hotel has an excellent selection."
"That's—that's fine," you manage.
You do mind, actually. Not the wine itself, but the thoughtfulness of it. The consideration. It feels too personal, too attentive, and you don't know what to do with that.
Room service arrives fifteen minutes later—two attendants wheeling in covered dishes, a bottle of red wine already opened to breathe, proper glassware that catches the light. Nanami tips them generously and waits until they leave before gesturing to the table.
"Sit."
You do.
The food is beautiful—some kind of fish with delicate sauce, roasted vegetables, a small salad. The kind of meal that requires you to think about which fork to use. Nanami serves the wine himself, pouring yours first.
The glass is fuller than you expected.
"Thank you," you murmur.
He pours his own barely two fingers and sets the bottle within easy reach.
Your reach, you'll realize later.
Not his.
The first sip of wine helps.
It's good smooth and rich, the kind of wine you'd never order for yourself because you wouldn't know what to look for. It warms your throat, settles in your chest, takes the edge off the nervous energy that's been humming under your skin all day.
Nanami opens his laptop, pulling up tomorrow's schedule. "The client meeting is at nine. I'll handle the initial presentation, but I want you to lead the technical breakdown."
You nod, taking another sip. Focusing on work helps too. This is familiar territory. Safe.
"I've prepared supplementary materials," you say, pulling up your own files. "The cost-benefit analysis and the implementation timeline—"
"Good." His eyes flick to you briefly before returning to his screen. "Walk me through your approach."
So you do.
And as you talk, you drink.
Not consciously at first. Just your glass is there, and your throat is dry from talking, and the wine makes everything feel slightly less intense. Slightly more manageable.
You don't notice when you finish the first glass.
But Nanami does.
He reaches for the bottle without breaking eye contact with his screen, refilling your glass with the same casual efficiency he does everything.
"Continue," he says.
By the time you're halfway through the main course, you've lost track of how much you've had.
Three glasses? Four?
The bottle is significantly lighter than it was.
But you feel better. Looser. The anxiety that's been coiled in your chest since this morning has finally started to unwind. You're talking more freely now, gesturing with your fork as you explain your reasoning for certain data points, even laughing softly when you catch a small error in your own notes.
"I can't believe I missed that," you say, shaking your head. "I checked this three times."
"You're thorough," Nanami says. "But not infallible."
There's something in his tone, something almost warm that makes you glance up.
He's watching you.
Not your screen. Not the documents.
You.
"I just—I want it to be perfect," you admit. The wine has made you honest in ways you wouldn't normally allow. "You have high standards. I don't want to disappoint you."
Something flickers in his expression.
"You haven't," he says quietly.
The weight of his gaze makes your skin feel warm. You take another sip of wine to cover the flush creeping up your neck.
Nanami's own glass sits mostly untouched beside his plate. He'd taken one sip early on you'd seen it peripherally, but it hasn't moved since.
You don't notice.
You're too focused on the way the room feels smaller now, warmer, the city lights beyond the window blurring into soft halos.
"Tell me something," Nanami says suddenly.
You blink, pulled from your thoughts. "What?"
"Earlier. In the office." He sets down his fork with deliberate precision. "You were laughing. With that beta from operations."
Your stomach tightens slightly. "Hana? We were just—"
"You seemed comfortable."
It's not a question.
You shift in your seat. "She's easy to talk to."
"And I'm not."
The words hang between you.
You open your mouth. Close it. The wine has made you too honest, but not honest enough to say what you're thinking: You terrify me. You make me second-guess everything. I can never tell if I'm doing well or failing, if you're pleased or disappointed, if I'm—
"You're my boss," you say instead. "It's different."
"Different how?"
You take another drink, buying time. The wine is making everything feel slightly unreal, like you're watching this conversation happen to someone else.
"I don't know," you admit. "It just is."
Nanami leans back in his chair, and the movement draws your attention to the way his shirt pulls across his shoulders, the way the lamplight catches the sharp line of his jaw.
You look away quickly.
Too quickly.
He notices.
Of course he does.
"You're nervous," he observes.
"I'm not—"
"You've had five glasses of wine."
Your hand freezes halfway to your glass. Five? That can't be right. You'd been keeping track—
Except you hadn't. You look at the bottle. It's nearly empty.
When did that happen?
"I'm sorry," you say automatically. "I didn't mean to—I'll pay for—"
"I don't care about the wine." His voice is quiet. Controlled. But there's something underneath it that makes your pulse jump. "I care that you feel you need it, but right now I'm not complaining it'll help with tonight."
The concern in his tone catches you off-guard.
He sounds... worried. Considerate. Like a boss who's noticed his employee is struggling and wants to help.
That's all this is, you tell yourself. Professional concern.
"I'm just—" You struggle to find the words. The wine has made your thoughts fuzzy, harder to organize. "This is new. Being here. Alone. With you. I mean—not alone, obviously we're working, but—"
You're rambling.
You never ramble.
"I understand," Nanami says.
And the way he says it low and certain makes something in your chest constrict.
He stands, and for a moment you think he's leaving, that you've made this too awkward, that you've crossed some line.
But he doesn't move toward the door.
He moves toward you.
Your breath catches as he stops beside your chair. Close enough that you can smell his cologne again, that clean expensive scent that's been haunting you all day.
"You don't need to be nervous," he says quietly.
His hand lifts—
And for a moment, you think he's going to touch you.
But he just reaches past you, picking up the wine bottle.
"You've had enough," he says.
It's not a suggestion.
You nod mutely, not trusting your voice.
Nanami sets the bottle on the far counter, out of reach, and when he turns back, his expression is unreadable.
He'd needed to see it.
Needed to watch you soften.
Needed to hear you talk without that careful professional filter you always maintain.
Needed to confirm what he already knew:
That underneath all that competence and control, you're vulnerable.
Uncertain.
His.
"You should stand," he says. "Sitting too long after drinking."
It sounds reasonable. Considerate, even.
You push yourself up from the chair, and the room tilts just slightly. Not enough to lose your balance, but enough that you have to steady yourself against the table.
Nanami's hand is there immediately.
On your elbow. Steadying you.
"Careful."
His voice is closer than it should be.
You turn your head, and he's right there, close enough that you can see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the precise edge of his collar, the way his throat moves when he swallows.
"I'm fine," you manage. "Just—the wine—"
"I know."
Something in his tone makes your skin prickle.
He doesn't step back.
Instead, his hand slides from your elbow to your upper arm, and the touch is warm even through your sweater. Grounding. You should pull away this is too close, too familiar, but the wine has made everything feel slightly distant, like you're watching this happen through frosted glass.
"You're flushed," Nanami observes.
His other hand lifts, and you think he's going to touch your face, check for fever, something professional and appropriate.
But he doesn't.
His fingers brush against your collar instead.
The same gesture he's done a dozen times in his office, adjusting fabric that doesn't need adjusting.
Except this time, his knuckles graze the side of your neck.
Right over your scent gland.
Your breath catches.
"Director—"
"Nanami," he corrects quietly. "We're not in the office."
The intimacy of it, his first name, spoken in this low voice, in this hotel room with the city lights blurring beyond the window, makes something flutter in your chest.
His hand is still at your collar.
Still touching your neck.
And then he leans in.
Not quickly. Not suddenly.
Slowly. Deliberately.
Like he's giving you time to stop him.
But you don't.
You can't.
The wine has made you slow, made your thoughts thick and syrupy, and by the time you realize what's happening, his face is already near the curve of your neck.
Not touching.
Just—
Close.
You feel the warmth of his breath against your skin first.
Then the deliberate, measured inhale.
He's—
He's scenting you.
The realization cuts through the fog, sharp and sudden.
Alphas don't do this. Not casually. Not with colleagues. This is intimate. Possessive. This is—
"Director—" Your voice comes out breathless. Uncertain.
"Shh." The sound is barely a whisper against your throat. "You're trembling."
You are.
You didn't realize it until he said it, but your whole body is shaking, fine tremors that you can't control, can't stop.
"I'm just—" You try to form words, try to explain, but his nose brushes against the sensitive skin below your ear and all thought scatters.
Another inhale.
Deeper this time.
Like he's drawing your scent into himself. Memorizing it. Claiming it.
Your hands come up instinctively to push him away, to steady yourself, you're not sure but they just hover uselessly in the air between you.
"You smell different when you're relaxed," Nanami murmurs.
The words vibrate against your skin.
"Less guarded. More..." He pauses, and you feel rather than see the slight curve of his mouth. "...honest."
This isn't professional.
This isn't appropriate.
This is—
But the wine has made everything soft and hazy, and his hand is still on your arm, grounding you, and the warmth of him is seeping into your skin, and you can't quite make your body move away.
Can't quite make yourself.
"I don't—" You swallow hard. "I don't understand."
"I know."
His nose traces up the line of your throat, following your pulse.
Another inhale.
Your knees feel weak.
"This is—we shouldn't—"
"Why not?"
The question is so simple. So direct.
And you don't have an answer.
Or rather, you have a dozen answers because he's your boss, because this is inappropriate, because you're drunk and he's not, because this feels like something you can't take back, but none of them make it past the fog in your head.
"I'm just checking," Nanami says, his voice still that same low, reasonable tone. "You were nervous earlier. Anxious. I want to make sure you're alright."
That's—
That's all this is?
A wellness check?
It sounds absurd even as you think it, but the alternative is too overwhelming to process.
"I'm fine," you whisper.
"Are you?"
His hand slides from your arm to your waist, and the touch is so warm, so steady, that you find yourself leaning into it without meaning to.
"Your heart is racing," he observes.
It is.
You can feel it hammering against your ribs, can hear the blood rushing in your ears.
"That's just—the wine—"
"Is it?"
Another inhale, this one right at the junction of your neck and shoulder. The most sensitive part of your scent gland. Your whole body shudders.
A soft sound escapes your throat, not quite a gasp, not quite a whimper and you feel Nanami's grip on your waist tighten fractionally.
Possessive.
Satisfied.
"You're so responsive," he murmurs, and there's something in his voice that makes heat pool low in your stomach. "Even when you don't understand why."
You should ask what he means.
Should demand an explanation.
Should move.
But you don't.
You just stand there, trembling, while he breathes you in like you're something ... Something he's been waiting for.
Something that's already his.
When he pulls back this time, something has changed.
You see it in his eyes first the careful control that's been there all evening, all these months, finally cracking at the edges.
Not breaking.
Shifting.
"The bed," he says.
Not a suggestion. A statement of fact.
His hands guide you backward, and your legs hit the mattress before you realize you've moved. The wine makes everything slow, makes your protests form too late, makes your body comply before your mind catches up.
"Wait—"
"No."
The word is quiet. Absolute.
He follows you down as you sink onto the sheets, his weight settling over you with deliberate precision. Not crushing. Commanding.
Your hands come up to push him away, to create space but he catches your wrists. Both of them. Pins them above your head with one hand.
The ease of it makes your breath catch.
"Director—"
"Nanami." His free hand traces down your side, slow and purposeful. "Say it."
You shake your head, and his grip on your wrists tightens fractionally.
"Say. It."
"Nanami—" It comes out breathless. Uncertain.
"Good."
His hand finds the hem of your sweater, and you feel the cool air against your skin as he pushes the fabric up. Not roughly. Methodically. Like he's unwrapping something he's been patient about for far too long.
"We can't—" You try to twist away, but his weight keeps you pinned. "This isn't—"
"It is."
Two words. Certain as gravity.
His mouth finds your throat again, and this time there's no pretense of checking on you, no professional distance. He's marking you. Claiming you. His teeth graze your scent gland and your whole body arches involuntarily.
The sound you make is mortifying.
"That's it," he murmurs against your skin. "Stop thinking."
His hand slides lower, and you feel his fingers hook into your waistband.
"No—wait—" The protest is weak even to your own ears.
"You're not saying no." His voice is dark. Knowing. "Your body is saying yes."
And he's right.
You hate that he's right.
Your hips have tilted toward his touch. Your breathing has gone shallow and quick. The wine has made everything feel distant and immediate at once, and you can't quite make your body obey your mind.
Can't quite make yourself want him to stop.
His fingers slip beneath the fabric, and the first touch against your slick heat makes you gasp.
"Already wet," he observes. Not surprised. Satisfied.
"That's not—I don't—"
"Shh."
His fingers move with the same deliberate precision he does everything. Circling. Pressing. Finding exactly where you're most sensitive with devastating accuracy.
Your back arches off the bed.
"Please—"
"Please what?" His thumb finds your clit, and the pressure is perfect, maddening. "Please stop? Or please don't?"
You can't answer.
Can't think.
"please don't"
The wine and his touch have turned your thoughts to static, and all you can do is feel, his weight, his heat, his fingers working you with methodical intent.
"I've been patient," Nanami says quietly. "So patient. Watching you. Waiting for you to understand."
His fingers slide inside you, and the stretch makes you whimper.
"But you never did." He curls them, finding that spot that makes your vision blur. "So I'll make you understand now."
"I can't—this is—"
"Mine." The word is final. Possessive. "You're mine. You've always been mine."
His thumb presses harder against your clit, his fingers moving faster, and you feel the pressure building low in your belly inevitable, overwhelming.
"Say it," he commands.
You shake your head, even as your body tightens around his fingers.
"cum, and be my Good girl."
The praise shouldn't affect you like it does.
Shouldn't make you clench around his fingers, shouldn't make heat flood through you, shouldn't make you want—
But it does.
His fingers drive deeper, his thumb circling with relentless precision, and you feel yourself coming apart under his touch. Not gently. Not slowly.
Completely.
The orgasm hits you like a wave, and you cry out—his name, a plea, you're not sure—as your body convulses around his fingers.
He doesn't stop.
Doesn't slow.
Works you through it with the same methodical intensity, drawing out every tremor, every aftershock, until you're shaking and oversensitive and completely undone.
Only then does he withdraw his hand.
You lie there, gasping, your mind foggy and your body boneless.
Nanami shifts above you, and you feel him removing his belt. The sound of the buckle is loud in the quiet room.
"Wait—" Your voice is weak. Slurred. "I can't—"
"You can." He positions himself between your thighs, and you feel the blunt pressure of him against your entrance. "And you will."
"Please—"
"I know." His hand cups your face, thumb brushing your cheek with unexpected gentleness. "I know you're scared. I know you don't understand."
He pushes forward, slow and inexorable, and the stretch is overwhelming.
"But you will," he promises. "By morning, you'll understand exactly what you are to me."
He sinks deeper, and your body accepts him too easily, too perfectly like you were made for this.
Made for him.
"Mine," he murmurs again, and this time it sounds like a vow.
The joke starts in the break room, the way most office gossip does casual, thoughtless, designed to kill time between meetings.
"You know what the scariest thing about Director Nanamin is?" Jisoo says, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed, voice dropping into that conspiratorial tone people use when they're about to say something they shouldn't.
You barely glance up from your coffee. You're mentally reviewing the quarterly report you're supposed to present later, running through the numbers one more time. "His emails?"
Jisoo snorts. "No. The fact that he's never dated anyone. Ever."
You frown slightly, still half-focused on whether you should adjust the projection model for Q3. "That's not scary," you mutter, stirring your drink. "That just means he has standards."
Jisoo gives you a look the kind that suggests you've missed something obvious. "No, it means he's not human. I mean think about it, no ring, we never hear of him being seen with a woman. Come on he's rich and has one of the highest positions at a top company."
A few people laugh. Someone from accounting adds, "I can't even picture him liking someone. Like what would that even look like? Him holding hands? Absolutely not."
You huff quietly, taking a sip. Director Nanamin doesn't strike you as the type to even notice people like that. He's efficient. Cold. Focused. The kind of boss who remembers every detail of every project but never asks about your weekend.
"Hey," Jisoo nudges you suddenly, and her voice drops even lower. "You work closest with him, right? One-on-one reports and all that?"
You nod. It's true you've been his direct report for almost eight months now. He's demanding, but fair. You've learned more under his supervision than you did in two years at your previous company.
"…Does he ever act weird around you?"
You pause mid-sip.
Weird?
You think about it really think about it for the first time. About the way he stands too close when reviewing your work, close enough that you can smell his cologne, something clean and expensive. The way his hand lingers just a second too long when passing documents, fingers brushing yours. The way he adjusts your collar sometimes, like it's part of his job description, like you're incapable of dressing yourself properly.
But that's just... him being particular, right? He's meticulous about everything.
"…No," you say slowly, genuinely puzzled by the question. "He's just strict."
Jisoo goes quiet in a way that feels loaded.
Someone behind you mutters, "That's worse."
You turn. "What?"
"Nothing," Jisoo says quickly, exchanging a glance with someone else. "Forget it."
You shrug it off. People are always reading into things that aren't there. Office gossip is just noise.
By the time you get back to your desk, his message is already waiting.
Director Nanami: Come to my office.
No greeting. No explanation. Typical.
You sigh, grab your tablet with the revised presentation loaded, and head down the hall. You're actually proud of this one, you caught an error in the vendor contract that would've cost the company a significant amount. You're hoping he'll acknowledge it, maybe even in that subtle way he has, where his expression doesn't change but his tone shifts just slightly.
The moment you step inside his office, the temperature drops.
You shiver automatically, goosebumps rising on your arms. "It's freezing in here."
Nanami doesn't look up immediately. He finishes signing something with that expensive fountain pen he always uses, movements calm, composed, perfect as always. Everything about him is controlled. Precise. You've never seen him flustered, never seen him make a mistake.
Then his eyes lift to you.
Sharp.
Observing.
Lingering in a way that makes you want to check if there's something on your face.
"…You didn't bring a jacket," he says.
It's not a question. It's a statement of fact, delivered with the same tone he uses when pointing out a miscalculation in a spreadsheet.
"I'm fine," you reply, shifting your weight. You are fine. It's just a little cold. You've worked through worse.
A beat of silence.
He stands.
Your eyes track the movement automatically, he's tall, taller than you remember sometimes, and there's something about the way he moves that's unnaturally fluid. Deliberate. Like every action is calculated three steps ahead.
He crosses the room.
Before you can react, his hand is at your shoulder firm, steady, warm as he shrugs off his blazer and drapes it over you.
The fabric is heavy. Expensive. It settles around your shoulders like something deliberate, something that carries weight beyond just warmth. It smells like him that same clean, expensive scent, but stronger now. Almost overwhelming.
"You'll get sick," he says.
You blink, surprised by the gesture. "Director, I really don't—"
"Wear it."
The tone isn't loud. It's not even particularly harsh.
But it ends the conversation with the finality of a door closing.
"…Okay."
You adjust it awkwardly, feeling ridiculous. The sleeves swallow your hands completely. You probably look like a child playing dress-up in adult clothes. Professional. Very professional.
Nanami watches you for a second too long.
There's something in his expression you can't quite read something that might be satisfaction, or possession, or both. His eyes track the way the fabric drapes over your frame, the way you're swimming in something that belongs to him.
Then he steps closer.
Too close.
Close enough that you have to tilt your head back slightly to maintain eye contact.
"Hold still."
His fingers brush your neck.
You freeze.
He's adjusting your collar again but this time slower. More precise. His thumb presses lightly just below your ear, where your pulse is probably visible, where your skin is most sensitive. You can feel the warmth of his hand, the controlled strength in his fingers.
Your breath catches. "Is… something wrong?"
"…No."
His voice is quieter now. Closer. You can feel it more than hear it.
"Your presentation," he continues, like his hand isn't currently touching your throat, like this is completely normal, "needs revision."
You nod quickly, trying to focus on work, on the actual reason you're here. "Right. I'll fix it. I think the vendor analysis in section three could be stronger—"
His hand doesn't move right away.
When it finally does, it drags, just slightly, along your shoulder before he pulls back. The touch is deliberate. Possessive. Like he's marking something.
You don't notice.
You're already thinking about the presentation, about which sections need work, about how you can tighten the argument in the third quarter projections.
"Sit," he says.
You do, settling into the chair across from his desk, his blazer still wrapped around you. You pull out your tablet, ready to take notes on his feedback. This is what you're good at taking criticism, improving, and iterating. You've built your career on being coach-able.
You don't notice how the hallway outside has gone completely silent.
You don't notice the way two coworkers pass by the glass wall, the office has partial glass walls for "transparency," though right now the blinds are angled just enough to obscure most of the view, only to immediately look away, faces tight, uneasy. You don't see the way they hurry past, the way one of them grabs the other's arm and pulls them along faster.
You don't notice the way the air around you feels… heavier. Thicker. Like something has settled into the space between you and him, something that doesn't dissipate even when he returns to his seat.
Something that doesn't belong to you.
Something you can't name because you don't have the framework to recognize it.
Nanami returns to his seat with that same fluid grace, settling into his chair like a predator that's already caught its prey and is simply deciding when to bite down. His gaze fixes on you steady, unwavering, intense in a way that would make most people uncomfortable.
But you just open your tablet, stylus ready.
Steady.
Calculating.
He's thinking about how you walked into his office without hesitation, how you wear his jacket without understanding what it means, how you sit there completely oblivious to the fact that every alpha in a three-floor radius can now smell him on you. How you don't notice the way people have started giving you a wider berth in the hallways, the way conversations stop when you enter a room.
You're brilliant with numbers, with strategy, with analysis.
But you can't see what's right in front of you.
You can't smell the danger lurking around every corner, the territorial lines he's been drawing around you for months now, the way he's been slowly, methodically isolating you from anyone who might interfere.
And that's exactly why you need him.
Why you'll always need him.
"…Start," he says, his voice carrying that edge of command that makes something in your hindbrain want to obey, even as your conscious mind just registers it as his normal professional tone.
You begin walking through your presentation, pointing out the cost analysis, the risk assessment, the projected ROI. You're confident here. This is your domain. You've triple-checked every number, every source, every assumption.
You're so focused on the data that you don't notice the way his eyes never leave your face.
The way he's not looking at the screen at all.
The way he's watching you like you're the only thing in the room that matters.
Like you're something precious that needs to be protected.
Or possessed.
Or both.
The meeting ends forty-five minutes later with a list of revisions that aren't actually that extensive—mostly minor adjustments to the formatting, a few clarifications on the vendor terms. Reasonable feedback. Professional. You leave his office with his blazer still draped over your shoulders because he'd given you that look when you tried to return it, the one that meant the conversation was over before it started.
You'll give it back later. After lunch, maybe. When he's in a meeting.
The relief hits you the moment you're back at your desk.
It's not that the meeting was bad, Director Nanami's feedback was actually helpful, precise as always, but there's something about being in that office with him that makes your shoulders tense in ways you don't fully understand. The weight of his attention, maybe. The way he watches you like he's waiting for you to make a mistake, even when you don't.
You drape his blazer over the back of your chair and let yourself breathe.
The office feels lighter out here. Warmer. The afternoon sun streams through the windows, and there's the comfortable ambient noise of keyboards clicking, phones ringing, the coffee machine gurgling in the distance. Normal. Safe.
You're just pulling up the presentation file to start on those revisions when Hana appears at your desk.
"Hey," she says, leaning against the partition with that easy smile she always has. Hana's in operations, a beta like you, competent and friendly without being overbearing. You've worked together on a few cross-departmental projects. She's... easy to talk to. Uncomplicated.
"Hey," you reply, glancing up. "What's up?"
"Just wanted to see if you survived the director's office." She grins. "You were in there a while. Did he tear apart the presentation?"
You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "Not as badly as I expected, actually. Just some formatting stuff and clarifications."
"See? I told you it was solid." Hana pulls up a chair, sitting backward on it with her arms folded over the backrest. "You always overthink these things."
"Because he notices everything," you say, but there's no heat in it. Just fact. "If there's a typo on slide thirty-seven, he'll find it."
"That's because he's a robot," Hana says matter-of-factly. "I'm convinced. No one is that precise naturally."
You snort, an actual, genuine sound that surprises even you. "A robot?"
"Think about it. Have you ever seen him eat? Like, actually eat?"
You pause, considering. "...He has coffee."
"Coffee isn't food. That proves nothing." Hana leans forward conspiratorially. "I bet he plugs into an outlet at night. Charges up. That's why he's always here before everyone else."
The image is so absurd that you can't help it, you laugh.
Really laugh.
Not the polite, professional chuckle you use in meetings. Not the quiet huff you give when something is mildly amusing. An actual laugh that comes from your chest, that makes your shoulders shake slightly, that feels good in a way you haven't felt in weeks.
"That's—" you try to speak through it, "—that's ridiculous."
"Is it though?" Hana grins wider, clearly pleased with herself. "Explain the coffee thing. Explain how he never looks tired. Explain—"
"He's just disciplined," you manage, still smiling. Your cheeks almost hurt from it. When was the last time you smiled like this at work? "Very, very disciplined."
"Disciplined robots. That's what I'm saying."
You shake your head, trying to compose yourself, but the smile won't leave. It sits on your face, warm and comfortable, like something that belongs there. You feel... light. Unburdened. Like you've been holding your breath for months and finally remembered how to exhale.
This is nice.
This is easy.
Just talking. Just existing without the weight of expectation pressing down on your shoulders.
You don't notice the way the temperature drops.
Not at first.
Across the floor, behind glass walls and Venetian blinds angled just enough to provide the illusion of privacy—
Nanami hears it.
Not the words.
The tone.
Light.
Unrestrained.
Wrong.
His pen stills mid-signature, ink pooling slightly on the document beneath it. He doesn't notice. Doesn't care.
Slowly, deliberately, he looks up.
Through the gaps in the blinds, his gaze finds you instantly, like it always does, like some part of him is always aware of exactly where you are in any given space.
And there it is.
That expression.
That softness in your face he's only seen in glimpses, in moments before you notice him watching. That smile you never wear in front of him.
You're laughing.
With someone else.
At something someone else said.
Looking at someone else with that open, unguarded warmth that should be
His jaw tightens.
Something cold and sharp unfurls in his chest, spreading through his ribs like frost. It's not anger. Anger is too hot, too uncontrolled. This is colder. More precise.
Possessive.
Territorial.
Wrong.
The word echoes in his mind as he watches you duck your head slightly, still smiling, still so completely at ease in a way you never are with him. The beta he doesn't even bother learning their name—is leaning too close. Casual. Familiar.
Touching the back of your chair.
Making you laugh.
Taking something that isn't theirs.
Nanami stands.
The movement is fluid, controlled, but there's something deliberate about it. Predatory. He doesn't rush. Doesn't need to.
He simply moves.
You're still smiling when Hana suddenly stops mid-sentence.
Her expression shifts—subtle, but noticeable. The easy warmth drains from her face, replaced by something more cautious. Alert.
"...Did it just get colder?" she asks quietly.
You blink, confused. "What?"
But Hana isn't looking at you anymore.
She's looking past you.
Toward the office.
You feel it then that prickle of awareness at the back of your neck, the one that makes your spine straighten automatically. The one you've learned to recognize over eight months of working under Director Nanami.
You turn.
He's standing just outside his office door.
Watching.
The smile drops from your face immediately. Not completely, you're not sure you could erase it that fast even if you tried, but enough. Enough that your expression shifts back into something more appropriate. More professional.
More careful.
"Director Nanami," you say, standing automatically. Your voice comes out steady, but there's a question in it. "Did you need something?"
He doesn't answer right away.
His gaze flicks once, brief, dismissive, cold toward Hana.
The temperature drops another degree.
Around you, you notice peripherally that conversations have quieted. Someone's phone stops ringing. The coffee machine seems louder in the sudden silence.
Then—
"Leave."
It's quiet.
Flat.
But it isn't directed at you.
Hana stiffens. You see her throat work as she swallows. "I—right. I have that report to finish anyway."
She stands quickly, not quite meeting your eyes. Not looking at him either.
She just... leaves.
Faster than necessary.
You watch her go, confused. The report isn't due until next week. You know because you helped her with part of the data analysis last Thursday.
But before you can process that, Nanami is moving again.
Closer.
Not rushed. Not hesitant.
Measured.
Each step deliberate, like he's already calculated exactly how many it will take to reach you. He stops just inside your personal space, closer than professional, closer than necessary, close enough that you have to tilt your head back slightly to maintain eye contact.
Close enough that you can smell his cologne again, that clean expensive scent that's been clinging to his blazer, the one still draped over your chair.
"You seem," he says slowly, each word precisely placed, "in a good mood."
Your fingers tighten slightly around the edge of your desk. "Just discussing work."
A beat of silence.
His eyes move over your face like he's cataloging something. Like he's trying to memorize exactly what you looked like thirty seconds ago so he can systematically erase it.
"You don't sound like that," he says, voice lower now, dropping into a register that makes something in your head sit up and pay attention, "when you speak to me."
Your breath catches—just slightly. "I—"
"You were smiling."
It's not an accusation.
Like he's pointing out an error in your work. A miscalculation. Something that needs correction.
You don't know how to respond to that. What are you supposed to say? Yes, I was smiling, is that not allowed? It sounds absurd even in your head. So you default to the safest thing, the most professional response you can manage:
"...I'm sorry?"
The words come out uncertain. Questioning.
Because you genuinely don't understand what you're apologizing for.
Silence stretches between you.
Then—
His hand lifts.
You already know what's coming. You've been through this enough times now that it's almost routine. He's going to adjust your collar. Again. Because apparently you're incapable of dressing yourself properly, or because he has standards about professional appearance that border on obsessive, or because
His fingers brush your collar.
Adjusting.
Straightening.
But this time, it's different.
Firmer.
More deliberate.
His thumb presses just enough against the side of your neck.
Right over your gland.
You flinch.
It's instinctive. Immediate. That spot is sensitive in ways you don't fully understand, in ways that make your hindbrain scream too close, too vulnerable, wrong wrong wrong—
"...Director?"
His eyes don't leave your face.
For a moment, something darker flickers there something sharper than his usual controlled calm, something that makes your pulse jump for reasons you can't name.
Then it's gone.
Smoothed over.
Professional.
His hand drops, but slowly. Deliberately. Like he's making a point.
"Prepare your things," he says.
You blink, trying to reorient yourself, trying to push past the lingering sensation of his thumb against your gland. "For...?"
"We're leaving tomorrow."
"...Leaving?"
"A business trip."
Your confusion must show on your face because you're not even trying to hide it anymore. "No one mentioned—"
"I'm mentioning it now."
The finality in his tone shuts down the rest of your question before it can form.
You swallow. "...Where?"
Nanami's hand drops completely from your collar, but his gaze stays.
Heavy.
Intent.
Possessive in a way you don't have the framework to recognize.
"Somewhere," he says, and his voice drops even lower, intimate in a way that makes your skin prickle, "you won't be... distracted."
A pause.
He turns and walks away like nothing happened. Like he didn't just decide something that changes everything for you. Like this is completely normal. You stand there for a moment.
Still.
Trying to piece it together.
A business trip? With him? Alone? You don't remember seeing anything about this on the calendar. Don't remember any emails about client meetings or site visits or conferences.
When did this get scheduled?
Why didn't anyone tell you?
"...What just happened?" you murmur to yourself.
Across the office, you catch sight of Jisoo. She's staring at you wide-eyed, her coffee cup frozen halfway to her mouth.
Minho is at the desk next to her. He looks like he's about to say something, mouth opening slightly. Then he closes it. Thinks better of it. Looks away.
The office is too quiet.
You notice it now the way conversations haven't quite resumed their normal volume. The way people are very carefully not looking in your direction.
The way the air feels heavier.
Thicker.
Wrong.
You shake your head slightly, trying to clear it. You're overthinking this. It's just a business trip. Probably something last-minute. Director Nanami is always getting pulled into unexpected meetings, urgent client situations. This is probably just one of those things.
Professional.
Normal.
You sit back down at your desk, pulling up your calendar to figure out what you'll need to reschedule.
You don't notice the way Jisoo and Minho exchange a look.
You don't notice the way Hana hasn't come back to her desk.
You don't notice the way Director Nanami is standing in his office again, watching you through the blinds.
Still.
Patient.
Satisfied.
Because whatever line existed before whatever boundary separated professional from personal, appropriate from possessive—
He just erased it.
And you have no idea.
Minho knew something was wrong the second you walked past him. After your meeting with him.
It hit him before he even looked up.
Warm.
Deep.
Rich—
Like freshly brewed coffee left too long on a burner, thickening into something darker, heavier.
You were already halfway down the hall, clutching your tablet, completely unaware of the way the air shifted around you. Like a pressure drop. Like a warning.
Minho’s stomach twisted.
“…No way,” he muttered.
Jisoo followed his gaze—and immediately stiffened.
“Oh my god.”
“Do you smell that?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer.
She nodded slowly. “That’s not just her scent anymore.”
It couldn’t be.
Not like that.
Not this strong.
Not this layered.
They both looked toward the office door just as it clicked shut behind you.
Silence stretched between them.
Then—
“Should we… do something?” Minho asked, though it sounded weak even to him.
Jisoo let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Do what? Walk in there and tell him to stop?”
Minho didn’t answer.
Because they both knew who him was.
Director Nanami didn’t just run their department—he controlled it. Every promotion, every evaluation, every transfer.
And right now?
He was marking someone in broad daylight.
A few before your meeting had rapped up. Minho couldn’t help it.
He passed by the office.
Just… to check.
That’s all.
The glass wall made everything visible.
Too visible.
You were sitting across from the desk, shoulders slightly hunched, clearly nervous but focused, flipping through your notes like this was just another meeting.
Like nothing was wrong.
Like you couldn’t feel it.
Nanami stood beside you.
Not behind his desk.
Not across from you.
Too close.
His hand rested on the back of your chair, fingers curled just enough to brush your shoulder.
Possessive.
Casual.
Intentional.
Minho’s throat went dry.
“…He’s not even hiding it,” he whispered.
Inside, Nanami leaned down slightly, saying something to you calm, composed.
His other hand lifted.
Adjusted your collar.
Again.
Slow.
Deliberate.
His fingers lingered at your neck.
Right over your glands.
Minho physically recoiled.
“Jesus—”
Jisoo grabbed his sleeve, yanking him back before he could stare any longer. “Stop looking. If he notices—”
“He wants people to notice,” Minho cut in under his breath. “That’s the problem.”
They both fell quiet.
Because that was the worst part.
This wasn’t sloppy.
It wasn’t accidental.
It was controlled.
Measured.
A message.
Across the room, someone else spoke up in a hushed voice:
“…Is she seriously not reacting?”
Jisoo shook her head slowly. “I told you her sense of smell is bad.”
Minho exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “So she has no idea she’s basically walking around covered in—”
“—him,” Jisoo finished.
Silence again.
Heavy this time.
Uneasy.
Because now it didn’t feel like gossip anymore.
It felt like watching something unfold that no one was supposed to interfere with.
Something territorial.
Something dangerous.
Minho glanced back at the office one last time.
Through the glass, Nanami had finally returned to his seat.
But his gaze hadn’t left you.
Not once.
It followed every movement.
Every shift.
Every breath.
Like you were something he’d already decided belonged to him
And was just waiting for the rest of the world to accept it.
Minho looked away first.
“…She’s in trouble,” he said quietly.
Jisoo didn’t disagree.
Two weeks later.
The hotel keycard feels too light in your hand.
“That’s… one room,” you say, staring at it like it might change if you look long enough.
Beside you, Nanami doesn’t even glance down.
“Yes.”
You blink. “…There has to be a mistake.”
“There isn’t.”
Simple.
Final.
You hesitate. “I can go back to the front desk—”
“No.”
The word cuts clean through your sentence.
You go quiet.
He finally looks at you then calm, composed, like always.
But there’s something under it.
Something that makes your chest tighten.
“It’s late,” he continues. “We have an early meeting. This is the most efficient arrangement.”
Efficient.
Right.
That makes sense.
It has to.
“…Okay,” you murmur.
The room is quiet when the door shuts behind you.
Too quiet.
You set your bag down quickly, moving toward the window, the desk anywhere that isn’t standing in the middle of the room with him.
There’s only one bed.
You try not to look at it.
“I can take the couch,” you say quickly, even though there isn’t really one just a small love seat by the window.
Nanami sets his things down with deliberate calm.
“That won’t be necessary.”
Your stomach tightens.
“It’s fine, I don’t mind—”
“I said,” he interrupts, voice low, “it won’t be necessary, I'll take the couch.”
Silence.
You nod.
Nanami watches you move around the room. Too aware. Too careful. Keeping distance.
Always keeping distance. It irritates him more than it should. More than it ever has.
Because not to long ago at work.
That laugh.
That smile.
It replays in his mind with perfect clarity.
Not for him.
Never for him.
His jaw tightens slightly.
Unacceptable.
You feel his presence before you see him.
Close again.
Always close.
“Turn around.”
You freeze for a second then obey.
“…Yes?”
His gaze drags over your face, slower than it should be.
Assessing.
Measuring.
Like he’s looking for something that’s no longer there.
“…You’re quieter now,” he says.
You frown slightly. “We’re not at the office.”
“That’s not an explanation.”
You don’t know how to answer that.
So you don’t.
His hand lifts.
Your breath catches automatically.
Fingers brush your collar adjusting, like always.
But this time, there’s no one watching.
No glass walls.
No coworkers.
Just you.
And him.
His thumb presses lightly against your neck.
Right over your gland.
You flinch.
“…You react,” he murmurs.
Confusion flickers across your face. “To being touched?”
A pause.
His eyes darken bjust slightly.
“You don’t react to me.”
Your brows pull together. “I do. I listen. I—”
“That’s not what I mean.”
His voice drops.
Quieter.
He steps closer. Close enough that your back nearly hits the edge of the desk.
“At work, before” he says, “you were… different.”
Your heart starts beating faster, though you’re not sure why.
“I was just talking—”
“You were smiling.”
There it is again. That same observation. That same weight behind it.
You swallow. “…I smile sometimes.”
“Not like that.”
The words come out softer.
More controlled.
But they land heavier.
Nanami’s thoughts narrow, sharpen. He can still feel it. That shift in you.That warmth you give so easily to others. while standing so carefully, so neutrally, with him. As if he’s something to endure. Not something to want. His fingers press more firmly against your neck.
Not enough to hurt.
Enough to remind.
To ground.
To claim.
You don’t even realize what you are.
How you affect him.
How long he’s allowed this distance to exist.
Too long.
Your breath stutters slightly. “Director… Nanami?”
A warning.
A question.
You’re not even sure which.
His name sounds different like this.
Softer.
Uncertain.
He notices.
Of course he does.
His grip loosens, but doesn’t disappear.
“…You don’t understand,” he says quietly.
“Understand what?”
A pause.
Then—
“You will.”
Something in your chest tightens at that.
“…This is just a work trip,” you say, like you’re trying to convince both of you.
Nanami’s gaze holds yours. Unblinking.
“No,” he says.
The word is calm.
Certain.
Terrifying in how simple it is.
“It isn’t.”
Silence stretches between you.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
You don’t know what he means.
But you feel it.
That something has shifted.
That the lines you thought were there
aren’t anymore.
Nanami finally steps back. Just enough to give you space.
Not enough to feel safe.
“We'll go over everything during dinner,” he says.
Like nothing happened.
Like everything is still under control.
But as he turns away
his thoughts settle into something firm.
Decided.
Measured.
It’s time.
No more distance.
No more misunderstandings.
No more watching you give pieces of yourself to people who don’t recognize what they’re being given. You don’t know it yet.
But you will.
Soon.
The knock comes at seven-thirty.
You've been staring at your laptop for the past twenty minutes, the same paragraph of the presentation blurring in and out of focus. The room is nice too nice, actually. The kind of hotel room that makes you acutely aware of the budget approval Nanami must have signed off on. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, a king bed with crisp white linens, a sitting area with a couch and love seat that probably costs more than your monthly rent.
You're changed into something professional but comfortable,a soft sweater and slacks, because you'd showered and changed after the flight, trying to wash away the anxiety that's been clinging to your skin since this morning, after Nanami went out for some work related stuff, do he said.
It doesn't work.
When you open the door, Nanami is standing there in his shirtsleeves, jacket discarded, top button undone. It's the most casual you've ever seen him, and somehow that makes it worse.
More intimate.
More real.
"I ordered dinner," he says. "It should arrive shortly."
You blink. "Oh I was going to just order something light—"
"We need to discuss tomorrow's agenda, as I said before." His tone is matter-of-fact. Professional.
Of course it is.
Of course this is about work.
You step aside, letting him in, and try to ignore the way your heart rate picks up as he moves past you into your space. He's carrying a leather portfolio and his own laptop this really is just a working dinner. You're being ridiculous.
"I hope you don't mind," he continues, setting his things on the small dining table by the window. "I took the liberty of ordering wine as well. The hotel has an excellent selection."
"That's—that's fine," you manage.
You do mind, actually. Not the wine itself, but the thoughtfulness of it. The consideration. It feels too personal, too attentive, and you don't know what to do with that.
Room service arrives fifteen minutes later—two attendants wheeling in covered dishes, a bottle of red wine already opened to breathe, proper glassware that catches the light. Nanami tips them generously and waits until they leave before gesturing to the table.
"Sit."
You do.
The food is beautiful—some kind of fish with delicate sauce, roasted vegetables, a small salad. The kind of meal that requires you to think about which fork to use. Nanami serves the wine himself, pouring yours first.
The glass is fuller than you expected.
"Thank you," you murmur.
He pours his own barely two fingers and sets the bottle within easy reach.
Your reach, you'll realize later.
Not his.
The first sip of wine helps.
It's good smooth and rich, the kind of wine you'd never order for yourself because you wouldn't know what to look for. It warms your throat, settles in your chest, takes the edge off the nervous energy that's been humming under your skin all day.
Nanami opens his laptop, pulling up tomorrow's schedule. "The client meeting is at nine. I'll handle the initial presentation, but I want you to lead the technical breakdown."
You nod, taking another sip. Focusing on work helps too. This is familiar territory. Safe.
"I've prepared supplementary materials," you say, pulling up your own files. "The cost-benefit analysis and the implementation timeline—"
"Good." His eyes flick to you briefly before returning to his screen. "Walk me through your approach."
So you do.
And as you talk, you drink.
Not consciously at first. Just your glass is there, and your throat is dry from talking, and the wine makes everything feel slightly less intense. Slightly more manageable.
You don't notice when you finish the first glass.
But Nanami does.
He reaches for the bottle without breaking eye contact with his screen, refilling your glass with the same casual efficiency he does everything.
"Continue," he says.
By the time you're halfway through the main course, you've lost track of how much you've had.
Three glasses? Four?
The bottle is significantly lighter than it was.
But you feel better. Looser. The anxiety that's been coiled in your chest since this morning has finally started to unwind. You're talking more freely now, gesturing with your fork as you explain your reasoning for certain data points, even laughing softly when you catch a small error in your own notes.
"I can't believe I missed that," you say, shaking your head. "I checked this three times."
"You're thorough," Nanami says. "But not infallible."
There's something in his tone, something almost warm that makes you glance up.
He's watching you.
Not your screen. Not the documents.
You.
"I just—I want it to be perfect," you admit. The wine has made you honest in ways you wouldn't normally allow. "You have high standards. I don't want to disappoint you."
Something flickers in his expression.
"You haven't," he says quietly.
The weight of his gaze makes your skin feel warm. You take another sip of wine to cover the flush creeping up your neck.
Nanami's own glass sits mostly untouched beside his plate. He'd taken one sip early on you'd seen it peripherally, but it hasn't moved since.
You don't notice.
You're too focused on the way the room feels smaller now, warmer, the city lights beyond the window blurring into soft halos.
"Tell me something," Nanami says suddenly.
You blink, pulled from your thoughts. "What?"
"Earlier. In the office." He sets down his fork with deliberate precision. "You were laughing. With that beta from operations."
Your stomach tightens slightly. "Hana? We were just—"
"You seemed comfortable."
It's not a question.
You shift in your seat. "She's easy to talk to."
"And I'm not."
The words hang between you.
You open your mouth. Close it. The wine has made you too honest, but not honest enough to say what you're thinking: You terrify me. You make me second-guess everything. I can never tell if I'm doing well or failing, if you're pleased or disappointed, if I'm—
"You're my boss," you say instead. "It's different."
"Different how?"
You take another drink, buying time. The wine is making everything feel slightly unreal, like you're watching this conversation happen to someone else.
"I don't know," you admit. "It just is."
Nanami leans back in his chair, and the movement draws your attention to the way his shirt pulls across his shoulders, the way the lamplight catches the sharp line of his jaw.
You look away quickly.
Too quickly.
He notices.
Of course he does.
"You're nervous," he observes.
"I'm not—"
"You've had five glasses of wine."
Your hand freezes halfway to your glass. Five? That can't be right. You'd been keeping track—
Except you hadn't. You look at the bottle. It's nearly empty.
When did that happen?
"I'm sorry," you say automatically. "I didn't mean to—I'll pay for—"
"I don't care about the wine." His voice is quiet. Controlled. But there's something underneath it that makes your pulse jump. "I care that you feel you need it, but right now I'm not complaining it'll help with tonight."
The concern in his tone catches you off-guard.
He sounds... worried. Considerate. Like a boss who's noticed his employee is struggling and wants to help.
That's all this is, you tell yourself. Professional concern.
"I'm just—" You struggle to find the words. The wine has made your thoughts fuzzy, harder to organize. "This is new. Being here. Alone. With you. I mean—not alone, obviously we're working, but—"
You're rambling.
You never ramble.
"I understand," Nanami says.
And the way he says it low and certain makes something in your chest constrict.
He stands, and for a moment you think he's leaving, that you've made this too awkward, that you've crossed some line.
But he doesn't move toward the door.
He moves toward you.
Your breath catches as he stops beside your chair. Close enough that you can smell his cologne again, that clean expensive scent that's been haunting you all day.
"You don't need to be nervous," he says quietly.
His hand lifts—
And for a moment, you think he's going to touch you.
But he just reaches past you, picking up the wine bottle.
"You've had enough," he says.
It's not a suggestion.
You nod mutely, not trusting your voice.
Nanami sets the bottle on the far counter, out of reach, and when he turns back, his expression is unreadable.
He'd needed to see it.
Needed to watch you soften.
Needed to hear you talk without that careful professional filter you always maintain.
Needed to confirm what he already knew:
That underneath all that competence and control, you're vulnerable.
Uncertain.
His.
"You should stand," he says. "Sitting too long after drinking."
It sounds reasonable. Considerate, even.
You push yourself up from the chair, and the room tilts just slightly. Not enough to lose your balance, but enough that you have to steady yourself against the table.
Nanami's hand is there immediately.
On your elbow. Steadying you.
"Careful."
His voice is closer than it should be.
You turn your head, and he's right there, close enough that you can see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the precise edge of his collar, the way his throat moves when he swallows.
"I'm fine," you manage. "Just—the wine—"
"I know."
Something in his tone makes your skin prickle.
He doesn't step back.
Instead, his hand slides from your elbow to your upper arm, and the touch is warm even through your sweater. Grounding. You should pull away this is too close, too familiar, but the wine has made everything feel slightly distant, like you're watching this happen through frosted glass.
"You're flushed," Nanami observes.
His other hand lifts, and you think he's going to touch your face, check for fever, something professional and appropriate.
But he doesn't.
His fingers brush against your collar instead.
The same gesture he's done a dozen times in his office, adjusting fabric that doesn't need adjusting.
Except this time, his knuckles graze the side of your neck.
Right over your scent gland.
Your breath catches.
"Director—"
"Nanami," he corrects quietly. "We're not in the office."
The intimacy of it, his first name, spoken in this low voice, in this hotel room with the city lights blurring beyond the window, makes something flutter in your chest.
His hand is still at your collar.
Still touching your neck.
And then he leans in.
Not quickly. Not suddenly.
Slowly. Deliberately.
Like he's giving you time to stop him.
But you don't.
You can't.
The wine has made you slow, made your thoughts thick and syrupy, and by the time you realize what's happening, his face is already near the curve of your neck.
Not touching.
Just—
Close.
You feel the warmth of his breath against your skin first.
Then the deliberate, measured inhale.
He's—
He's scenting you.
The realization cuts through the fog, sharp and sudden.
Alphas don't do this. Not casually. Not with colleagues. This is intimate. Possessive. This is—
"Director—" Your voice comes out breathless. Uncertain.
"Shh." The sound is barely a whisper against your throat. "You're trembling."
You are.
You didn't realize it until he said it, but your whole body is shaking, fine tremors that you can't control, can't stop.
"I'm just—" You try to form words, try to explain, but his nose brushes against the sensitive skin below your ear and all thought scatters.
Another inhale.
Deeper this time.
Like he's drawing your scent into himself. Memorizing it. Claiming it.
Your hands come up instinctively to push him away, to steady yourself, you're not sure but they just hover uselessly in the air between you.
"You smell different when you're relaxed," Nanami murmurs.
The words vibrate against your skin.
"Less guarded. More..." He pauses, and you feel rather than see the slight curve of his mouth. "...honest."
This isn't professional.
This isn't appropriate.
This is—
But the wine has made everything soft and hazy, and his hand is still on your arm, grounding you, and the warmth of him is seeping into your skin, and you can't quite make your body move away.
Can't quite make yourself.
"I don't—" You swallow hard. "I don't understand."
"I know."
His nose traces up the line of your throat, following your pulse.
Another inhale.
Your knees feel weak.
"This is—we shouldn't—"
"Why not?"
The question is so simple. So direct.
And you don't have an answer.
Or rather, you have a dozen answers because he's your boss, because this is inappropriate, because you're drunk and he's not, because this feels like something you can't take back, but none of them make it past the fog in your head.
"I'm just checking," Nanami says, his voice still that same low, reasonable tone. "You were nervous earlier. Anxious. I want to make sure you're alright."
That's—
That's all this is?
A wellness check?
It sounds absurd even as you think it, but the alternative is too overwhelming to process.
"I'm fine," you whisper.
"Are you?"
His hand slides from your arm to your waist, and the touch is so warm, so steady, that you find yourself leaning into it without meaning to.
"Your heart is racing," he observes.
It is.
You can feel it hammering against your ribs, can hear the blood rushing in your ears.
"That's just—the wine—"
"Is it?"
Another inhale, this one right at the junction of your neck and shoulder. The most sensitive part of your scent gland. Your whole body shudders.
A soft sound escapes your throat, not quite a gasp, not quite a whimper and you feel Nanami's grip on your waist tighten fractionally.
Possessive.
Satisfied.
"You're so responsive," he murmurs, and there's something in his voice that makes heat pool low in your stomach. "Even when you don't understand why."
You should ask what he means.
Should demand an explanation.
Should move.
But you don't.
You just stand there, trembling, while he breathes you in like you're something ... Something he's been waiting for.
Something that's already his.
When he pulls back this time, something has changed.
You see it in his eyes first the careful control that's been there all evening, all these months, finally cracking at the edges.
Not breaking.
Shifting.
"The bed," he says.
Not a suggestion. A statement of fact.
His hands guide you backward, and your legs hit the mattress before you realize you've moved. The wine makes everything slow, makes your protests form too late, makes your body comply before your mind catches up.
"Wait—"
"No."
The word is quiet. Absolute.
He follows you down as you sink onto the sheets, his weight settling over you with deliberate precision. Not crushing. Commanding.
Your hands come up to push him away, to create space but he catches your wrists. Both of them. Pins them above your head with one hand.
The ease of it makes your breath catch.
"Director—"
"Nanami." His free hand traces down your side, slow and purposeful. "Say it."
You shake your head, and his grip on your wrists tightens fractionally.
"Say. It."
"Nanami—" It comes out breathless. Uncertain.
"Good."
His hand finds the hem of your sweater, and you feel the cool air against your skin as he pushes the fabric up. Not roughly. Methodically. Like he's unwrapping something he's been patient about for far too long.
"We can't—" You try to twist away, but his weight keeps you pinned. "This isn't—"
"It is."
Two words. Certain as gravity.
His mouth finds your throat again, and this time there's no pretense of checking on you, no professional distance. He's marking you. Claiming you. His teeth graze your scent gland and your whole body arches involuntarily.
The sound you make is mortifying.
"That's it," he murmurs against your skin. "Stop thinking."
His hand slides lower, and you feel his fingers hook into your waistband.
"No—wait—" The protest is weak even to your own ears.
"You're not saying no." His voice is dark. Knowing. "Your body is saying yes."
And he's right.
You hate that he's right.
Your hips have tilted toward his touch. Your breathing has gone shallow and quick. The wine has made everything feel distant and immediate at once, and you can't quite make your body obey your mind.
Can't quite make yourself want him to stop.
His fingers slip beneath the fabric, and the first touch against your slick heat makes you gasp.
"Already wet," he observes. Not surprised. Satisfied.
"That's not—I don't—"
"Shh."
His fingers move with the same deliberate precision he does everything. Circling. Pressing. Finding exactly where you're most sensitive with devastating accuracy.
Your back arches off the bed.
"Please—"
"Please what?" His thumb finds your clit, and the pressure is perfect, maddening. "Please stop? Or please don't?"
You can't answer.
Can't think.
"please don't"
The wine and his touch have turned your thoughts to static, and all you can do is feel, his weight, his heat, his fingers working you with methodical intent.
"I've been patient," Nanami says quietly. "So patient. Watching you. Waiting for you to understand."
His fingers slide inside you, and the stretch makes you whimper.
"But you never did." He curls them, finding that spot that makes your vision blur. "So I'll make you understand now."
"I can't—this is—"
"Mine." The word is final. Possessive. "You're mine. You've always been mine."
His thumb presses harder against your clit, his fingers moving faster, and you feel the pressure building low in your belly inevitable, overwhelming.
"Say it," he commands.
You shake your head, even as your body tightens around his fingers.
"cum, and be my Good girl."
The praise shouldn't affect you like it does.
Shouldn't make you clench around his fingers, shouldn't make heat flood through you, shouldn't make you want—
But it does.
His fingers drive deeper, his thumb circling with relentless precision, and you feel yourself coming apart under his touch. Not gently. Not slowly.
Completely.
The orgasm hits you like a wave, and you cry out—his name, a plea, you're not sure—as your body convulses around his fingers.
He doesn't stop.
Doesn't slow.
Works you through it with the same methodical intensity, drawing out every tremor, every aftershock, until you're shaking and oversensitive and completely undone.
Only then does he withdraw his hand.
You lie there, gasping, your mind foggy and your body boneless.
Nanami shifts above you, and you feel him removing his belt. The sound of the buckle is loud in the quiet room.
"Wait—" Your voice is weak. Slurred. "I can't—"
"You can." He positions himself between your thighs, and you feel the blunt pressure of him against your entrance. "And you will."
"Please—"
"I know." His hand cups your face, thumb brushing your cheek with unexpected gentleness. "I know you're scared. I know you don't understand."
He pushes forward, slow and inexorable, and the stretch is overwhelming.
"But you will," he promises. "By morning, you'll understand exactly what you are to me."
He sinks deeper, and your body accepts him too easily, too perfectly like you were made for this.
Made for him.
"Mine," he murmurs again, and this time it sounds like a vow.
Imagine getting kidnapped by a Yandere because you remind them of their Dead Darling.
People already know I'm a big sucker for Regretful Yanderes with Dead Darlings, but can you imagine it when you add another person to the equation?
Really you didn't do anything. You've never even seen this crazy person. But they had seen you. And they thought you were so.. so similar to their Darling.
The Yandere had been going off the deep end for the past months after their Darling passed away, so seeing you, someone who reminded them of their Darling so much.. they needed to have you.
You had thought that if you got kidnapped, your captor would be some insane maniac who'd torture you in the most horrific ways imaginable. But the captor your stuck with is.. kinda pathetic.
They felt more like a puppy trying to appease you, like they're trying too hard to get your approval and love.
They're so meek. Always second-guessing themselves, always hesitating like they're afraid of upsetting you.
"I was thinking that we could cook dinner together.. or if you don't want to cook- that's fine too! I can just cook for you. And uh well if you don't like my cooking that's fine too! I'll.. I'll just order take out."
It was so weird, with how they acted it almost felt like you were the captor here and they were your captive.
You remember one time you tried to escape and they caught you, they were fuming and you were almost sure that this was it, when the nice act was gone and they'd hurt you.
But then seeing your scared face made them stop immediately and instead they broke down, trembling and sobbing.
"Please.. I-I'm sorry I will never do it again.. don't go, please..." They'd cry, sniffling, trembling, god they looked pitiful.
In the end you were left comforting your own captor. This was the most odd dynamic you had ever experienced.
Still they had this side to them that left you concerned and questioning what had really went on before they had taken you.
Sometimes you'd catch them talking to someone who wasn't there, they always looked frantic and desperate when they did that.
Sometimes they'd call you by a name you don't recognize, immediately correcting themselves when they were met by your confused face.
When they got drunk it was even worse, the way they'd cling to you, apologizing over and over for things that they had never done to you but with the way they looked at you it was clear they were imagining whoever they had hurt in your place.
Some of the clothes they gave you to wear clearly didn't belong to them. Like they were once someone else's. And they looked so damn happy seeing you in them.
They also seemed to have this weird obsession with the freezer, one time you were in the kitchen and almost opened the freezer they screamed at you to get away from it. That was one of the very few moments they had ever raised their voice at you.
And that left you curious. Why were they so protective over a damn freezer? What could possibly be in it? So one night, with the Yandere fast asleep.. you decided to have look.
Opening the freezer door and being met with the decapitated head of someone who looks relatively similar to you started to make a lot of things make sense....
Both in an arranged marriage, their lives completely consumed by their jobs, barely exchanging a few words a day. Sometimes when things got real busy and travel was involved they’d go an entire week or more without talking.
They don’t meddle in each others lives, the deal was they get married and then each of them can live their separate lives. So it’s safe to say that the wife wasn’t surprised when she started seeing the signs. Feminine perfume, dark red blotches on her husbands neck, a new excited gleam in his eyes she’s never seen before.
He’d fallen in love.
Not surprising. But it stings nonetheless. It’s just a reminder of their tragic reality. A loveless marriage out of convenience.
Her husband was a stoic workaholic, things like love, attraction and sex didn’t interest him. For fucks sake if he just wanted to fuck he had a woman who was literally his wife for that, and it would be a mutual understanding between the both of them. Just sex. Making the best of it since they’re married.
But no.
He wasn’t even ever really interested.
And even though that leaves a bitter pit in her chest curiosity bloomed nonetheless. What type of person could’ve caught his attention? She decided you must be special.
And it turns out you were.
She did her research and figured out everything about you. She feels terrible for it but she resorted to following you around in her car. Just to see how her husband behaved around you! To see him in a different light.
To see how it could have been with her had circumstances been slightly different.
She would observe you. How you had that youthful glow about you, a smile that made everyone swoon, a nice laugh that made his eyes twinkle and bite back his own smile. She’d never seen him smile like that. And she had no problem admitting you had an attractive body.
She gets it.
She gets why he fell for you.
She continues watching the both of you almost in awe. She felt like she was watching a romance movie. Eyes bouncing back and forth between the two of you, noting the different reactions you bring out of each other, how you gaze into each others eyes with that love sick look on your faces. As time went by her focus started to be directed more towards you..
Your laugh
Your smile
Your hair
Your eyes
Noting every single detail. She couldn’t get her eyes off of you.
She also couldn’t help but notice a black car that tailed you constantly and a certain clad in black man who watches you while speaking into his earpieces. She recognized both the man and the car to belong to her husband.
Oh god..
He was obsessed with you.
He was watching you all the time.
As was she.
At first she understood why he fell for you. Now, she really gets it. Because she had too. She’s falling into the same obsessive pit he fell into.
And now it’s only a matter of time before they butt heads over you.
She gulps down the last of her drink in her hand, head thrown back and eyes closed as she relaxes further into the soft cushioned chair in the dim living room, the only sounds are the crackling of the fire place and the occasional clink of her nails tapping on the glass.
A small soft smile pulls at her lips as your face flashes behind her eyelids.
Who would’ve thought this is how she would end up meeting you..
Maybe this miserable marriage was destiny’s way of bringing you two together.
Even if it was her husband who found you first. Before she can dwell on that thought longer she’s pulled out of her thoughts by the sound of the door opening and closing.
Speak of the devil..
His fancy dress shoes click against the marble floors until he’s right in front of her.
She lifts her head slightly to meet his glowering figure, deep dark eyes burning with such intensity she could almost see the fire behind them.
She offers a strained smile “Welcome home.” He’s silent for a few seconds, eyes darting over her face almost in a calculative manner “Stay away from her.” His deep voice comes out in a command. He doesn’t offer any more details and he doesn’t need to. They are both well aware of the situation they’re in “I’m afraid I can’t do that.” His gaze hardens “That’s your choice then. And I’ve just made mine.” A spike of panic pierces through her chest but she doesn’t show it. Desperately pushing down that fear that starts sprouting inside her. Her husband is powerful and he will take out the necessary people if they’re standing in his way.
And she’s in his way.
She’s not really surprised he’d go to that length for you. She schools her face into that of indifference as though what she’s about to propose isn’t a gamble that could either save her in more ways then one or end up being her demise “How about..we come to a mutually beneficial agreement?”
If that’s what got them married in the first place why shouldn’t it work now?
Synopsis: You discover an underrated author and became his first follower. He eventually grows more popular, yet out of all readers, his attention is focused solely on you. At first, it feels flattering. Until his attention grows more personal… and more intense.
Parasocial obsession doesn’t always come from the fan.
My Favorite Reader
You weren’t expecting much when you found his account.
Just a small writing blog with maybe a handful of views. A few short stories posted here and there. Most of them soft little romance pieces, the kind that felt warm and comforting to read after a long day.
Barely anyone seemed to notice them with the little likes and views each post had. Even more when the account sat at exactly zero followers. Which felt like a crime.
So you followed him. And started leaving comments.
At first they were simple.
“I loved this scene.”
“Your dialogue is really sweet.”
“Looking forward to the next one.”
You didn’t expect a reply.
But he answered.
Every single time.
Always politely. Always thoughtfully. Thanking you for reading. Asking what parts you liked the most.
Maybe it’s because of how much you’ve been spamming his account with comments that he noticed. But it still felt nice how the author kept interacting with you, genuinely interested in your opinion.
So you kept commenting.
On every story.
Every chapter.
Every little drabble he posted.
And somehow… he always found your comment in the small crowd of replies.
Eventually, he started posting photos of himself alongside his updates.
That was when the follower count exploded.
Apparently, people liked seeing the face behind the stories.
He was handsome, simple as that. Soft-looking, gentle in the way he smiled at the camera. The kind of face people shared around easily.
Within weeks, the account that once had almost no attention was overflowing with it.
Comments poured in under every post.
Some praised his writing.
Many more praised his looks.
He kept posting stories like always, occasionally attaching a selfie to the update. It was probably a smart move. The attention only kept growing.
In one of those selfies, the background looked oddly familiar. For a second you almost thought it resembled a street near your workplace.
But that was impossible… so you ignored the thought. Shoving it to the back of your mind.
And if you had to admit… the face reveal did change things a little.
It was easier to picture the author behind the words now.
And maybe it made the stories feel just a bit more personal. More intimate.
But even with hundreds of new followers…
He still replied to you.
Without fail.
Your comment.
Every time.
It became a little routine.
You read his story. You left your thoughts. He replied.
It was so simple and comfortable, this consistent interaction between you both.
Until one week you got busy.
Work had been exhausting. Long shifts, late nights. You barely had time to check your phone at all.
You didn’t read the new story he posted.
You didn’t comment either.
A few days passed like that.
When you finally opened the app again, you had a message waiting for you.
In your inbox, It was a DM from him.
“Hey.” ”You haven't commented in a while.” “Are you alright?”
You blinked at the screen.
It was… oddly personal. It gave you the chills to know this now popular author had noticed your absence, despite the large crowd of other readers and commenters.
But you pushed the feeling away, maybe he was just being nice. Objectively this small message really is nice, he’s asking about the readers’ wellbeing.
So you replied.
“Sorry! Work has been really busy lately.”
You stared at the message for a moment before sending it.
The second you did, the typing indicator appeared.
He must have been online already, you told yourself.
His response came almost immediately.
“I’m glad you're okay.” “I was worried.”
After that, things started feeling different.
His replies to your comments grew longer.
More attentive.
Sometimes he referenced little things you had mentioned weeks ago.
Your job… Your schedule… The time you usually read his posts…
Once he even joked about the coffee you always grabbed before work. Something you were pretty sure you’d never actually mentioned in a comment.
Other fans started noticing too. It was hard not to notice, his interaction with the other readers were never this detailed. In fact, he hasn’t been replying to the other comments at all.
People occasionally replied under your comments.
“How do you know him?”
“Why does he only reply to you?”
You didn’t know how to answer that. None of it made sense to you either. Is this some kind of loyalty the author was showing for being his first follower?
The questioning replies were starting to increase along with his fame. Eventually the attention started making you uncomfortable.
So you stopped commenting.
Just for a little while, you told yourself. Maybe the attention would die down.
You muted notifications and avoided opening the app entirely.
It was easier that way.
Quieter.
A week passed just like that.
Then another.
And it was already a month before you knew it.
One evening, out of habit, you opened the site again.
His newest story sat at the top of your feed. You clicked on it without thinking. The whole action was basically ingrained in your mind after daily check-ins like a routine.
At first it seemed like any other story he wrote. Soft tone, gentle pacing, his unique writing style. Nothing really seemed to change in the last month you didn’t check in.
But as you kept reading…
Your stomach slowly dropped. Shivers despite the weather enveloped you.
The main character was a woman.
She worked your exact job.
Her schedule matched yours perfectly.
Her habits. Her little routines. The way she stopped for coffee before work.
Even the way her appearance was described screamed familiar. Oddly specific…
Every detail was right.
Too right.
It wasn’t just inspired by you.
It was you.
You scrolled to the top of the page again, your fingers suddenly cold.
Then you noticed the dedication line above the story.
For my favorite reader.
Your phone buzzed with a notification.
A new message.
From him.
You hesitated before opening it.
“I was worried when you stopped reading.”
How did he know you were back? That you just read his newest story? You didn’t even comment on the post, no, you never even left a like.
Simon who is forced to go to a sex store after being lonely for so long, just longing to feel anything other than his hand. Only for him to look at the girl working alone behind the counter and decide he’d rather have you as a toy instead.
He makes it obvious too, but not by flirting with you, no. Simon instead stands by the dvd section and stares at you while he takes his pick, conveniently picking ones that look exactly like you. Looks at the pink sweater you’re wearing and picks out that exact color of pink in handcuffs.
You notice too, not knowing what to do about the absolute behemoth of a man standing in your store, a black mask covering half his face. The only thing you can see is his deep brown eyes and short dirty blonde hair, helpless to the fact that you wouldn’t be able to describe his face if anything happened to you.
Simon knows this, idling next to the bondage section for a beat too long before grabbing a ball gag and a spreader bar. Walking over to the checkout counter, his hulking figure looms over you as he gives you his total in cash, untraceable.
When the parking lot camera goes out that night, you walk with your keys between your knuckles, convinced that will help you as a sinking feeling lands in your gut. It’s only when you get a couple feet from your car do you feel a figure behind you. A hand coming around to cover your mouth as you try to scream, another arm wrapping around your middle as the man hoists you up, shoving you into the backseat of the truck parked across from your car.
When you start sobbing and begging, Simon shushes you softly, grabbing your wrists with one of his hands as he grabs the handcuffs he bought earlier. It doesn’t matter how much you kick, Simon endures it with a crinkle in his eyes, evidence of a smile on his face. It’s only when he gets the ball gag on you that he shuts the door and climbs into the drivers seat, finally taking off his mask.
Something something becoming an accidental prostitute for Simon lol.
Hear me out though, you’re at a bar. You’re making out, you’ve had a little too much to drink. Not enough to be completely gone like you’re sure Simon is but enough to be making out with a stranger.
Then you’re back in his truck, he’s practically begging for you to let him fuck you and you say no. You ‘don’t do that type of shit, one night stands and all that’ you say. Simon’s next thing is to beg for a blowjob, you again say no. ‘Part of the boyfriend package’ blah blah blah.
Then Simon delivers his final offer. He is so desperate he offers to pay for a handjob, he cringes after the words come out of his mouth thinking you’d be offended. But to his surprise you say yes. You need the money, and want him to feel good so why the heck not.
And it’s the best damn handjob he’s had in his life.
He drives you home and soon enough after a few days he’s at your door offering more money for another handjob. You feel a little dirty but when his calloused hand slides up your thigh and his hot breath is fluttering on your neck, the feeling fizzles away into something else.
Seeing him come undone with just your touch drives you wild, it becomes increasingly difficult not to do more for him. So when Simon comes over again, this time you kneel in front of him watching as his dark eyes widen when your knees hit the ground.
And just like your handjobs, it’s the best damn blowjob he’s ever had in his life. All sloppy and filthy, not like he imagined but so much better.
You don’t ask for anything but after Simon has kissed you goodbye -(after he’s done begging to let him make you cum)- you turn to find a stack of cash on the coffee table, almost double the amount he’d given for the handjob.
It’s not long after that, that you give in and let him spend hours between your thighs. He even pays you for that, mumbles into your cunt that it’s just as good as your lips around his cock as he ruts his hips into the mattress. You don’t see it until later, long after he’s left, but there is a triple stack of cash on your nightstand.
A day later you receive a text from him saying he’ll be gone for a couple of weeks on work but he can’t wait to see you when he’s back. You feel a strange fluttering sensation in your tummy that makes you feel sick. You thought Simon was the type to hide his feelings and be more stoic and blunt so seeing that message from the hulking giant has your stomach in knots.
It stays that way, you can’t rid the feeling so much so that when he finally shows up at your door you tell him whatever it is between you had to end. It was certainly not the welcome Simon was expecting after dealing with a gruelling mission with nothing but men for weeks on end. He feels something snap in his mind and suddenly he’s throwing you on the bed, gripping your jaw, brown eyes glaring into yours as he speaks, “I’m not goin nowhere sweet’art.”
You ‘fight’ with him blah blah blah but let’s get real you let him finger fuck your pussy until you go cross eyed. You let him fuck you into the mattress until you can barely remember your own name. You let him kiss your neck until the sun starts to rise. And you let him pull your body into his as you both drift off to sleep together.
In the morning you hear the envelope, heavy with weight to it, placed down on your nightstand. Then Simon kisses your forehead and whispers he’ll be back later to take care of you.
Then, the money stops appearing but he’s still fucking you. Soon the rent is paid in cash by an anonymous ‘good samaritan’. And before you know it, you’re waking up with a glittering diamond on your wedding finger and a swollen belly that moves when Simon says I love you.
Uhmm– alpha!ghost who never had a rut before, because most cycles tend to skip under extreme stress and all ghost knows is stress?
He doesn't even realize he reeks of pre-rut, or that he's been hovering around you for days until you pull him aside and ask "okay, ghost, have you submitted your forms, yet? I'll be your buddy."
"...what forms?" He asks, because that's just your luck. You end up dragging him to prices office that very moment. All your captain does is look between you and ghost, inhaling only to wrinkle his nose and groan 'christ. Get him off base.'
Which is how ghost ends up in your apartment after an agonizingly long car ride. Partially because it's closer and because you doubt ghost has any sort of alpha stuff in his place.
Ghost is already out of it when you push him into your bed "get comfy, I'm gonna go grab supplies."
He's humping your pillow when you get back, face stuffed into your underwear that he obviously pulled from your hamper. Holy shit He's big. Cock dripping precum onto your sheets, knot already swelling slightly. Ghost looks at you with wide eyes, but doesn't stop "sorry, sorry– i didn't– I don't–"
"Hey, none of that. It's fine, I'm surprised you managed to keep your hands to yourself so far" you soothe, stripping your own clothes off and crawling into bed. In an instant ghost is tucking his face against your neck, cock grinding into your thigh mindlessly.
He's nothing more than grunting and whining by the second knot, crowding over you. You're thankful for the bite guard you threw on, his teeth sinking into the leather as he knots you the third time.
"Fuuck– okay, okay ghost– take what you need" you encourage even as he grabs your hips and starts moving you like a fleshlight. Cum seeping out to make a white ring around the base of his cock, pooling into the sheets.
If you weren't already an omega you sure would be by now. You've taken more knots in the past fourteen hours than you have with any other alpha combined.
You get a break when he finally passes out, knot still deeply inside, jaw clamped over your guard. Most alphas go for maybe five knots.
...you should probably call price about getting some contraceptive pills delivered.
Imagine sleepy cockwarming with John Price like UGH HOT.
You’re well and truly asleep in your bedroom when you hear the door creak open. You’d be more worried but you’re so comfy, you can’t find it in yourself to care all that much. Besides, more than likely, it’s just your partner, John.
You don’t even care when the intruder climbs on top of you and starts pulling down your bottoms.
You only start to care a little when you hear the sound of a zipper, but you immediately melt back into the bed at the familiar sound of John’s gravelly voice, mumbling into your ear.
“Shhh. Jus’ me, love.” He presses a kiss below your ear and you feel him slip inside your hole. Once he's fully inside, he drops his entire bodyweight on top of you, pressing deeper into you and nudging that one spot that especially makes you squirm.
"John.." You push your hips back into him and bury your face in the pillow.
He huffs, not moving except to press you further into the mattress, "G'back to sleep."
You wish you could squirm at least a little bit to get some more stimulation going, but you're completely stuck.
What makes it even worse is when he falls asleep and you just know that he won't be awake for another few hours.
― yandere!cod men x reader ― ε price, ghost, soap, gaz, roach, makarov, alejandro, rudy, phillip graves, keegan, könig, horangi, nikto з suggestive?
꒰ ͜ ‿ ͜ ♡ ͜ ‿ ͜ ꒱
ଘ You're no plaything for Price. He doesn't just like you, he adores you. Cups your pretty face in his hands; delicately. His rugged and rough hands become gentle as soon as he comes into contact with your skin, treating it as if it were finely-grained porcelain. He treats you the exact opposite of how he treats anyone else. Whilst he leaves everyone else covered from head to toe in blood for coming near you, you're covered from head to toe in the most expensive items you wish for. But, he doesn't want you to forget that his money doesn't represent his love for you, it does not begin to cover not even half of what it should. He'll be sure to remind you not to be spoiled rotten. He's fond of you and while he's interested in you, you should listen and obey to what he advices you. He is more experienced after all.
ଘ Compare what Simon's scars and bruises are to your unscathed body. Let his hands roam over your body, taking in all he works for. Let them wander and familiarize with what he's toying with. His breath on your skin as it quickens, losing his train of thoughts as he fondles you. He's convinced you're meant only for him. No one else should touch you this way, no one could do it like he does. And please return it! Cradle his head in your lap, so the sizzling subsides and he feels alive. Let him know he's the best, the one. Let him lean in and capture those soft, plump lips in a passionate kiss. Don't pull away, don't deny him his heaven. And don't you dare let anyone else trail your body with their eyes like he does. Why, he'll feel as if they're already doing what their mind desires. He's screwed up in his mind but he'll move heaven and earth for those thighs to wrap around his waist at night spilling the warmth between them. Make him feel warm and welcome, give him the world he burns everyone else for. He sacrifices others at the feet of your altar.
ଘ Johnny's smug smile can fade rather quickly with one sensual move from you, watch him get lost as his breath is winded and his body is overtaken with an all-consuming fire of passion. Oh, he can't even fathom the idea of anyone before or after him experiencing such things. He'll be paralyzed the moment you sit on his lap and putting your hand to his chest, let it trail over his heart which at the moment beats wildly. It's a sensation he experiences when plunging a knife deep within someone else's chest, he reckons the feeling is almost the same. He thinks his victims rather lucky they die this way. How many other people can experience that fleeting, overwhelming feeling?
ଘ Kyle's hand kisses are done with such reverent trembling and respect that he'll have your skin tingling with warm sensations as if the late evening sun was seeping into your skin. Let his and your body blend together like the watercolors on an artist's canvas does. Bask in his affection like you'll sunbathe on the beach. Take in all the good he brings you, accept every touch of his that starts with a secure embrace and ends with the colliding of your bodies. The cold with which he lashes out for others has no place with the gentleness he entreats you with. Keep your eyes on his, locked in his steady gaze immerses himself in fantasies. He feels dizzy as if his world was spinning, losing himself in the sensations. And after the elation, let him shower you in praises, caresses and gifts. Let him buy you two rings for each finger, how many could you want to show off having a caring partner when you slide his card at the register? Make your hands look pretty whilst his are leaving a trail of crimson blood after him.
ଘ Roach couldn't ever hurt anyone else, he didn't know what he was capable of until the importance of you came all too clear. You're something that shouldn't belong to anyone else in the world. It's a quick descent down the spiral of violent devotion. His soft gaze usually filled with admiration and sentiment for you hardens, his pupils dilating as fear takes over. He's only acting on behalf of all his anguish, you haven't the heart to condemn him. He's shown you what your heart is worth, couldn't you give him some sort of heaven? He will do very well at whatever it is you ask of him, just wait while he shows you. There isn't anyone else like him he says over and over as if a prayer or spell he could make come true.
ଘ Makarov does not care whether he deserves you or not. Unlike the others who will commit unspeakable acts out of guilt and use their "pure" intentions to purify their actions, Makarov is selfish and relentless in what he wants. He does not flinch at your attempts of control, it's lost the moment he takes you in. He's determined to taste everything you have to offer, whether it's willingly or not. But he does like things to be served on a platter for him, he also has no problem taking it himself. Let the hand on the back of your neck guide you in the direction you are to walk, be docile and you'll surely receive tenderness. He can never deny that he loves the way your lashes flutter as you look through them up at him as he pats your head for being so good. Overtime you might notice small details showing his exterior cracking and revealing the soft, white underbelly of affection. He feels as if his chest caves in from your actions, the subtle red at the tip of his ears. Keep pulling at his neck collar, he'll like that fake sense of control you have.
ଘ You wouldn't ever catch a glimpse of Alejandro's manipulative strategies until he finds someone threatening. Is it wrong you're not seeing enough of other people? His biggest fear is you falling for someone else, the danger of you getting too close to someone is palpable for him. The intimacy you two share is from the harvest he's worked so hard for. He's been slaving away for so long to just let someone else lay a hand on you. He kneads you into what he desires, anything to feel the beating heart in your chest which pumps only for him. He'll keep polishing you until he gets down to the bare essence of you, which he can only dream to capture. The rhythm he wants to feel rushing through his veins, circling throughout his body.
ଘ Rudy's tenderness blinds you as he takes you to what you can only describe to be paradise. With the shining of luxury, all new and just for you he says. He'll press a million sweet kisses on your face before dropping that a most bothersome person will no longer be graced by your presence ever again. To him it's like a quiet act of love, to you, it's unimaginable. Don't worry your head will all the details, isn't it better to have no worries? He's all smooth indulgence telling you to keep looking at the adorned future he has ahead for you, telling you not to pay attention to the blood that stains the walls of the hallways you walk. He would lay out a new, fancy red carpet over the corpses for you to step over and continue in this fabricated dream.
ଘ Phillip knows exactly how to get the best out of you. Can you blame a man for knowing how to get what he wants from you? Let him tease and tug for he knows what every maneuver of his does. The hands that massage your skin don't get dirty, he'll always have others ready and willing to carry out whatever order he gives. It's what he's accustomed to and how he intends to keep it. But the droplets of blood that splatter do not miss his skin. The stain is still there, still under the skin of the thumb he pushes inside of you, feeling around for that bliss. Let his protectiveness clothe your body, he's already blurring the lines between obsessiveness and possessiveness.
ଘ Keegan's eyes will have you coming to a stumbling halt. Asking for something only you know how to give so good. Those erratic eyes that are unpredictable as they are deep, representing the deep dive you have to be holding your breath for. Are you ready to indulge? Because the impact will have you gasping for air, and when you try to take one you'll only swallow a mouthful of carnal desire. He ignites such a heat it's scalding to the touch, you don't know what's happening it's like you lose control. It happens so fast that when it's all over you'll let his lips, from which hot breaths slip through, kiss all over your sweat glistened body. His eyes might be softer and hold it for a while until he's back to the merciless, cold gaze which freezes everyone's else blood, feeling it lump within their veins.
ଘ Let König go on his fast rampages. They're over quick anyways. And afterwards, when he comes back, cradle his head between your thighs his tongue tangling as he stutters out promises to buy you what you wish if only you let him lap at your sweetness until his thoughts are left to reckless abandonment. Let him get what he can't get anywhere else. Call him handsome as your bury your fingers into his hair, your fingertips trailing his jaw and down his neck to where his adam's apple bobs as he swallows hard. Place kisses on his cheek until he turns his head in one swift motion and captures your lips in a desperate kiss. He wants it all, wants all of you all at once it makes him messy, shaky and weak. But he just wants someone to hold him, rubbing his ears and whispering words of affirmation in his ear.
ଘ Horangi could care less what other's want from him. You're in his viewpoint and he's determined to apply as much pressure as possible to make you bend. The reason he justifies himself with is the lullaby he's lulled to sleep with. Everyone else wants something from him, why shouldn't you? Everyone else is just in the way, he says over and over again, trying to make you focus on his lips instead of the bodies on the floor. With what he's done, he expects a standing ovation from you, nothing but complete adoration and servitude. He's a man who chases after impulses, who knows how long until this candle runs out. For now, ignore the brusque hand and acknowledge the underlying intents. He'll keep this lecherous momentum going until you're feeling faint from the mere touch of his hand.
ଘ Resignation is a trait Nikto works hard to work out of you. Surely, you ought to trust him after all he's done for you. In his mind, he's dedicated such gentle caring to you, you should be grateful. Don't be afraid to take directly out of his hand, he prefers you lose that skepticism. And when you do start to gentle, oh he can never get enough of it. His fingers grazing and gliding over your body at any and every chance he can get. Let him delve deeper into you, it's only natural for him to want to know you better. Every quiver of yours, he feels through the epidermis of his skin. He just knows you that well. His jerking movements shouldn't startle you by now. Maybe if you were more open, you would be telling him what you want. Give him some sort of sign before that spark ignites an unyielding fire. Because to him, that trembling is a sign of a smoldering fierceness waiting to break through.
You're sitting in a bar for probably the first time in your life. You don't drink, but after the day you had...
Forehead pressed flat to the bar surface, you listen to the people around you, scents thick in the air. It would be overwhelming any other day, but today you needed it. You just– you just wanted to forget.
Yet no matter how many glasses you knocked back, it didn't lessen the hurt. At this point, you considered drinking until you got alcohol poisoning. Wouldn't that be something? Your first time drinking is also your last. Hah.
Your head feels murky, and so do your senses, but your heart still hurts, squeezed tight in your chest by an invisible force. You swear you could die from the pain. As dramatic as it sounds, it's true. Omegas are made to feel more than any other gender, after all. Your kind were the heart, betas the mind, and alphas the body. That's what you'd always been told, at least.
How you wished it wasn't true, the pain blinding, leaving you fighting back whines and tears, inner omega tearing itself apart, wondering what you'd done to be rejected by all your scent matches.
Don't, you think, squeezing your eyes shut. You don't want to think about it. Not anymore.
Just as you think that, the door opens, attention snagged by the man entering. You're oddly aware of him as he approached the bar, sitting beside you.
Then, his scent hits you.
Eyes snapping open, you gape at the floor, tears building once more. No, no– it can't be–
You look up.
The alpha stares back, gaze trained on you as he breathes in deep– you copy him, hit once more with the full force of his wintery scent: a sharp freshness, hot chocolate, the smokey scent of a fireplace, a comfy quilt, a hint of vodka.
You swallow, harsh. Everyone had a simple scent. Except towards their scent match, their soulmate.
This man was your soulmate.
"... are you going to reject me too?" You whisper, voice hoarse after hours of crying and drinking.
His dark brows rise. "Why would I do that, омега?" He asks softly, voice light, sharp, but undeniably warm to you; it makes you want him even more, but hurt holds you back.
"Because," you huff a wet laugh, tears fighting to fall, "You're the fifth scent match I've met, and the rest rejected me in favour of their mate." You spit the words out, full of betrayal you have no right to feel.
But don't you? Fate had chosen them to be yours, but because you hadn't met them in time, they'd chosen another. Another omega. Prettier. Softer. Everything you weren't.
A quiet whine escaped you as you got lost in those painful thoughts that had tormented you for weeks ever since you'd first saw, or rather smelled them. For weeks you'd been stuck in a painful limbo, feeling either hurt, rejection, or an ever so slight hope.
Now all you felt was hurt. It was impossible to feel any hope when the men fate decreed were yours rejected you fully, after all.
You're snapped out of that black pit of hurt by a hand squeezing your nape. Breath hitching, you tense, then relax, staring into blue-green eyes.
"Is that so, Омега? Tch." The man, so much older than you, scoffs. "Their loss. They wish to set aside their fate given mate for a common bitch? Let them." The hand on your neck kneads gently, making your eyes flutter shut with bliss. A slight purr begins in your throat. "More for me, then."
Hope begins to fill you where there was only emptiness and pain before, and you stare up at the alpha– your alpha, with hope.
"You really... want me?" You ask in disbelief, shattered by the rejection of four other men.
"Da, little Омега, I want you. No one else." He says, leaning close to kiss your temple. "What's your name?"
You give it, trying to move closer to him, wanting nothing more than to bask in his warmth and scent.
He tests it out, humming. Then, a sly smirk curls on his lips. Something about it screams danger, but your omega just sees protection.
"I think Makarov would be a better surname for you, da?"
Makarov is sitting in his office the day everything begins to change.
One of his men enters, tablet in hand.
"Sir, I thought you'd be interested in this."
Taking the offered device, Makarov begins scrolling through images– security camera footage of a cafe, a market, and more. In them, he spots MacTavish most commonly, but Garrick a few times as well. But in all of them, is you.
He doesn't recognize you. You aren't one of their families, or their little mate, but as he clicks on a video with audio, he soon realises just what you are.
"Ah'm sorry," MacTavish says, voice grainy from the low quality footage, "Our omega isn't... she wants us to stop..." He hesitates, looking uncomfortable. You take over for him.
"She doesn't want you talking to your fated mate."
Fated mate. The words repeat in Makarov's mind as he reviews the footage once more, now with new eyes.
You sound resigned, small, tired; a pitiable thing, though understandable. Makarov doubts he'd be very happy if he met his scent match only to find they were with another. He'd probably kill them– after killing their mate in front of them though.
Still, pity is far from the alpha's mind as he reviews the information gathered on you by his men. No, all he can think about is how he can use you to his benefit. Because even if they rejected you, the 141 would still feel responsible for you. You were, after all, an innocent civilian.
Standing, he walks out of his office, ordering one of his men to get him a plane ticket to England immediately. While he could hand this task over to someone else, Makarov feels an odd pull to do this himself.
···
When Vladimir first walks into that bar his men had tracked you to, he hadn't expected to feel... this.
The moment he sat next to you, he'd gone still, nose filled with that smell. Your scent was rich, thick, of literature and fine wine and soft, fresh sheets and a warm, good meal.
You smelled like home.
His alpha purred, calm for the first time in years, and Makarov knew then what you were to him.
Your face warms when he says you'd be better suited with his name, and it's true. You'd make a good mate to him, keep his home warm and lived in, feed him and tend to his needs, bare his pups...
... and unknowingly be Price and his dogs' ruin...
He follows you home, keeps you warm all night long, teeth sunk into your neck where your scent gland was ripe and ready. By morning, Vladimir had secured you to his side. After all, no omega who'd felt the sting of rejection so harshly would ever betray their doting alpha. And he'd dote on you often. Yes... yes, he would.
Makarov had never been interested in taking an omega before, the thought of mates and pups so far from his mind they were basically nonexistent. But now all he could think about was you in his home in Russia, barefoot on his carpeted floors, fire crackling as you caressed your swollen belly, ripe with his litter.
It's a battle with himself to take the photo of you lying claimed against his chest that first night. He almost can't bare to send it. Yet he does. His alpha is only soothed by the fact that, by the time the Task Force receive it, you'll already be out of the country.
On the plane ride, he feels a slight thrill as his men inform him about how the 141 had reacted.
Badly. The Scot rushed to the apartment and went ballistic when he found it empty.
He almost purrs at the thought of the other alpha discovering his fated mate gone, taken without a trace left behind by their enemy. It's almost sweeter than the sight of you resting against him, claiming mark stark against your skin.
He kisses your brow, glad he came here himself. Not only did he have a weapon to use against the 141, but a darling Омега all for himself too.
You're sitting in a bar for probably the first time in your life. You don't drink, but after the day you had...
Forehead pressed flat to the bar surface, you listen to the people around you, scents thick in the air. It would be overwhelming any other day, but today you needed it. You just– you just wanted to forget.
Yet no matter how many glasses you knocked back, it didn't lessen the hurt. At this point, you considered drinking until you got alcohol poisoning. Wouldn't that be something? Your first time drinking is also your last. Hah.
Your head feels murky, and so do your senses, but your heart still hurts, squeezed tight in your chest by an invisible force. You swear you could die from the pain. As dramatic as it sounds, it's true. Omegas are made to feel more than any other gender, after all. Your kind were the heart, betas the mind, and alphas the body. That's what you'd always been told, at least.
How you wished it wasn't true, the pain blinding, leaving you fighting back whines and tears, inner omega tearing itself apart, wondering what you'd done to be rejected by all your scent matches.
Don't, you think, squeezing your eyes shut. You don't want to think about it. Not anymore.
Just as you think that, the door opens, attention snagged by the man entering. You're oddly aware of him as he approached the bar, sitting beside you.
Then, his scent hits you.
Eyes snapping open, you gape at the floor, tears building once more. No, no– it can't be–
You look up.
The alpha stares back, gaze trained on you as he breathes in deep– you copy him, hit once more with the full force of his wintery scent: a sharp freshness, hot chocolate, the smokey scent of a fireplace, a comfy quilt, a hint of vodka.
You swallow, harsh. Everyone had a simple scent. Except towards their scent match, their soulmate.
This man was your soulmate.
"... are you going to reject me too?" You whisper, voice hoarse after hours of crying and drinking.
His dark brows rise. "Why would I do that, омега?" He asks softly, voice light, sharp, but undeniably warm to you; it makes you want him even more, but hurt holds you back.
"Because," you huff a wet laugh, tears fighting to fall, "You're the fifth scent match I've met, and the rest rejected me in favour of their mate." You spit the words out, full of betrayal you have no right to feel.
But don't you? Fate had chosen them to be yours, but because you hadn't met them in time, they'd chosen another. Another omega. Prettier. Softer. Everything you weren't.
A quiet whine escaped you as you got lost in those painful thoughts that had tormented you for weeks ever since you'd first saw, or rather smelled them. For weeks you'd been stuck in a painful limbo, feeling either hurt, rejection, or an ever so slight hope.
Now all you felt was hurt. It was impossible to feel any hope when the men fate decreed were yours rejected you fully, after all.
You're snapped out of that black pit of hurt by a hand squeezing your nape. Breath hitching, you tense, then relax, staring into blue-green eyes.
"Is that so, Омега? Tch." The man, so much older than you, scoffs. "Their loss. They wish to set aside their fate given mate for a common bitch? Let them." The hand on your neck kneads gently, making your eyes flutter shut with bliss. A slight purr begins in your throat. "More for me, then."
Hope begins to fill you where there was only emptiness and pain before, and you stare up at the alpha– your alpha, with hope.
"You really... want me?" You ask in disbelief, shattered by the rejection of four other men.
"Da, little Омега, I want you. No one else." He says, leaning close to kiss your temple. "What's your name?"
You give it, trying to move closer to him, wanting nothing more than to bask in his warmth and scent.
He tests it out, humming. Then, a sly smirk curls on his lips. Something about it screams danger, but your omega just sees protection.
"I think Makarov would be a better surname for you, da?"
Makarov is sitting in his office the day everything begins to change.
One of his men enters, tablet in hand.
"Sir, I thought you'd be interested in this."
Taking the offered device, Makarov begins scrolling through images– security camera footage of a cafe, a market, and more. In them, he spots MacTavish most commonly, but Garrick a few times as well. But in all of them, is you.
He doesn't recognize you. You aren't one of their families, or their little mate, but as he clicks on a video with audio, he soon realises just what you are.
"Ah'm sorry," MacTavish says, voice grainy from the low quality footage, "Our omega isn't... she wants us to stop..." He hesitates, looking uncomfortable. You take over for him.
"She doesn't want you talking to your fated mate."
Fated mate. The words repeat in Makarov's mind as he reviews the footage once more, now with new eyes.
You sound resigned, small, tired; a pitiable thing, though understandable. Makarov doubts he'd be very happy if he met his scent match only to find they were with another. He'd probably kill them– after killing their mate in front of them though.
Still, pity is far from the alpha's mind as he reviews the information gathered on you by his men. No, all he can think about is how he can use you to his benefit. Because even if they rejected you, the 141 would still feel responsible for you. You were, after all, an innocent civilian.
Standing, he walks out of his office, ordering one of his men to get him a plane ticket to England immediately. While he could hand this task over to someone else, Makarov feels an odd pull to do this himself.
···
When Vladimir first walks into that bar his men had tracked you to, he hadn't expected to feel... this.
The moment he sat next to you, he'd gone still, nose filled with that smell. Your scent was rich, thick, of literature and fine wine and soft, fresh sheets and a warm, good meal.
You smelled like home.
His alpha purred, calm for the first time in years, and Makarov knew then what you were to him.
Your face warms when he says you'd be better suited with his name, and it's true. You'd make a good mate to him, keep his home warm and lived in, feed him and tend to his needs, bare his pups...
... and unknowingly be Price and his dogs' ruin...
He follows you home, keeps you warm all night long, teeth sunk into your neck where your scent gland was ripe and ready. By morning, Vladimir had secured you to his side. After all, no omega who'd felt the sting of rejection so harshly would ever betray their doting alpha. And he'd dote on you often. Yes... yes, he would.
Makarov had never been interested in taking an omega before, the thought of mates and pups so far from his mind they were basically nonexistent. But now all he could think about was you in his home in Russia, barefoot on his carpeted floors, fire crackling as you caressed your swollen belly, ripe with his litter.
It's a battle with himself to take the photo of you lying claimed against his chest that first night. He almost can't bare to send it. Yet he does. His alpha is only soothed by the fact that, by the time the Task Force receive it, you'll already be out of the country.
On the plane ride, he feels a slight thrill as his men inform him about how the 141 had reacted.
Badly. The Scot rushed to the apartment and went ballistic when he found it empty.
He almost purrs at the thought of the other alpha discovering his fated mate gone, taken without a trace left behind by their enemy. It's almost sweeter than the sight of you resting against him, claiming mark stark against your skin.
He kisses your brow, glad he came here himself. Not only did he have a weapon to use against the 141, but a darling Омега all for himself too.
Reader being the typical mistreated member of the 141 due to Reasons™ (unspecified because I can't come up with anything convincing), maybe being replaced by somebody else who spreads rumours about you.
You start to get sent on less missions, start to be "benched" a lot more.
Your health starts to decline. Early dementia.
You're discharged, sent home feeling the lowest of the low. Maybe you come from a legacy family, a whole family involved in the military so your discharge feels like an even bigger slap in the face, like you failed even more than just yourself.
The days start to blur. Your memories falter.
You meet a nice man one day, one who insists on taking care of you, helping you, paying for any medicine or treatment you need.
Something about him feels familiar, but your brain isn't what it used to be.
He moves you in with him, takes you to Russia with him. The change in scenery is oddly freeing. There's no disappointment or shame when you can't recognize things since you're in a new environment.
Then, one day, your husband gives you a gift. You don't really know who they are, but Vlad says you used to be friends with them.
(Or— Makarov who went after the forgotten member, the discarded soldier, and made you his own.
Makarov who won and captured his enemies, thinking about how best to begin breaking them.
Makarov introducing them to you, knowing you won't recognize them at all at this stage and that it'll destroy them, seeing someone who was supposed to be a part of their "family" not only in enemy clutches, but so ill, not even knowing who they are and what they did to you.
Makarov who uses you as a weapon without you having a single inkling.)
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