Multi-Fandom Imagines

You didn’t know the words that had been said, but you didn’t need to. Damian was your son, blood or not, and the quiet way he protected his family said everything you needed to hear.

Bruce had heard the bones of the story that night — Damian’s clipped statement, “They insulted my mother,” and the defensive set of his jaw. But Dick filled in the rest later, once you’d gone upstairs to tuck Thomas in. He told Bruce word-for-word what had been said, and it took everything in Bruce’s control to keep his expression neutral.

By the time the house was quiet, Bruce was in his office with his tie loosened, sleeves rolled, and his laptop open. He pulled up the Gotham Academy student files, cross-referenced names with public records, and then with the Wayne Enterprises private database.

In less than four hours, he knew everything.

The next morning, he was in full Bruce Wayne mode — billionaire CEO, not Batman — and he set the plan in motion.

Phase One: The Fathers

The first father was in a corner office on the 23rd floor of a steel-and-glass tower. He looked up from his desk, startled, when Bruce walked in unannounced.

“Mr. Wayne! This is— I didn’t know you were—”

“Sit.” Bruce’s voice was quiet, but there was no room for refusal.

The man obeyed.

“I own this company now,” Bruce said plainly, setting a leather folder on the desk. “As of this morning, Wayne Enterprises holds the controlling interest. That means I control your future here.”

The man swallowed hard. “I—what is this about?”

“This is about your son. And you.” Bruce’s gaze was like cold steel. “Your son shoved my six-year-old and mocked him. He and his friends called my wife a ‘cow’ and a ‘tramp.’ You encouraged that. You will correct it.”

“I—Mr. Wayne—”

“You will deal with your son,” Bruce continued smoothly, “and you will issue a public apology to my wife and both of my sons. If you fail, you will be terminated immediately. And I will make sure every other company in Gotham sees the report on why.”

By the time Bruce left, the man was pale and sweating.

It was the same at the next two offices. Calm, precise, surgical — no raised voice, just the promise of ruin if they didn’t fall in line.

Phase Two: The Wives

Thursday morning, Bruce walked into the city’s most exclusive salon. The sound of blow dryers and gossip cut off when the receptionist recognized him.

The three women were seated together, hair in foils, mid-laugh. Their faces froze when he stopped in front of them.

“Ladies,” Bruce said, voice smooth as glass. “I own this salon now. As of this morning.”

One of them laughed nervously. “Is this… a joke?”

Bruce leaned down just enough for them to see the dangerous glint in his eyes. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

Silence.

“You will publicly apologize to my wife and to my sons,” he said evenly. “And you will deal with your children. If you do not, you will be banned from this salon and every other in Gotham. Permanently. Try to book anywhere, and I will know.”

Their lips parted, but no one dared speak.

“If you want your hair done again,” Bruce added, straightening to his full height, “your husband can cut it. I’m sure he’ll do a fine job.”

The color drained from their faces.

The Public Apology

Two days later, at the Spring Fair’s closing, you stood with Damian and Thomas near the baked goods table, beaming as you told a group of parents about Damian’s recent science project. Thomas gripped his stuffed dog proudly, chattering about how “Damian made it work all by himself!”

Across the lawn, the offending families approached. The fathers gave stiff, awkward apologies; the mothers mumbled theirs with a forced sweetness. You thanked them politely, unaware of the iron fist Bruce had wrapped around their lives.

From a few feet away, Bruce watched, his arm folded, eyes cool.

Damian caught the look in his father’s eyes and smirked faintly. Jason, leaning against a nearby booth, muttered just loud enough for Damian to hear, “Guess money’s good for more than just cars.”

Damian didn’t reply, but the faint satisfaction on his face spoke volumes.

The house was quiet. Damian was in his room, Thomas curled up asleep with his stuffed dog. You’d just finished putting the last of the fair-day clutter away when you felt Bruce’s presence in the doorway.

He was leaning against the frame, tie loose, shirt unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves rolled. His eyes found you immediately — not a passing glance, but that long, deliberate stare that made it feel like he could strip you bare without touching you.

“Come here,” he said, low and quiet.

You stepped toward him, and he caught your hand, pulling you against his chest. His kiss was slow at first — deep, lingering, his palm warm against your cheek. He didn’t rush it; he kissed you like there was nothing else in the world to do, tasting you, savoring you.

When he finally broke the kiss, he didn’t move back. His hand trailed down to your jaw, his thumb stroking lazily. “Do you have any idea,” he murmured, “how beautiful you are?”

You started to shake your head, to deflect, but his voice cut through, firmer now. “Don’t. Don’t downplay it. You’re perfect.”

He backed you toward the bedroom slowly, his mouth never leaving yours for more than a breath. When your knees hit the bed, he eased you down, his hands moving to the buttons of your blouse.

It wasn’t hurried — he unfastened each one with unshaking patience, parting the fabric to reveal skin like he’d been waiting for this all day. His gaze followed his touch, sweeping over the curves of your breasts, your stomach, the softness of your waist. His fingers traced over them like they were precious, his lips following to kiss every spot his hands explored.

“You’re mine,” he said softly, between kisses at your shoulder, your collarbone, the swell of your breast. “Every inch.”

When he had you stripped down to just your panties, he sat back for a moment, eyes roaming over you with open hunger. Then he leaned in again, kneeling over you and lowering his mouth to your stomach, pressing slow, lingering kisses there.

“I love this,” he murmured, kissing lower, his hands holding your hips like he was anchoring you. “I love you.”

By the time his fingers hooked in your panties, you were warm all over, your chest rising and falling faster. He slid them down and tossed them aside, his eyes meeting yours with that smoldering mix of reverence and intent.

When he finally pressed into you, it was smooth, deep — and that’s when the shift happened. The tenderness sharpened into something else, his grip firm on your hips.

“They called you names,” he growled, his voice rough against your lips. “Said things I should have broken their jaws for.” His thrusts grew harder, his cock filling you completely with each one. “They’re wrong. So fucking wrong.”

He held your gaze as he drove into you, his breathing harsh, every movement a wordless reminder of exactly who you belonged to.

“You’re mine,” he said again, almost a snarl now. “My wife. My love. The mother of my children. No one — no one — gets to speak about you like that.”

The pace built, his earlier worship now a possessive rhythm that had you clinging to him, the pleasure curling tight inside you until it broke. You came with his name on your lips, and he followed with a guttural groan, holding you close, keeping himself buried deep.

Even after, he didn’t let you go. His forehead rested against yours, his hand sliding along your side.

“Beautiful,” he whispered again. “Perfect. And the only opinion that matters is mine.”

The smell of coffee and something sweet pulled you from sleep. When you sat up, the house was still hushed — but the faint sound of Thomas laughing carried from the kitchen. You pulled on one of Bruce’s shirts from the floor and padded out barefoot, hair still mussed from the night before.

The sight waiting for you made your chest ache in the best way.

Damian sat at the counter, clearly pretending to be disinterested but eating a stack of pancakes topped with berries. Thomas was next to him, swinging his legs and grinning, crumbs all over his face. And behind the stove, still in pajama pants and a black t-shirt, Bruce was making another batch of pancakes from scratch — not the boxed mix.

“Morning,” he said when he saw you, that small, private smile tugging at his mouth.

Thomas waved enthusiastically. “We’re having pancakes! Damian likes them but he’s pretending he doesn’t!”

Damian scowled without looking up. “I’m not pretending. They’re tolerable.”

Bruce slid a plate toward you, the pancakes perfectly golden, steam curling up from the butter melting on top. He poured you coffee without asking, just the way you liked it, then leaned down to kiss you slow enough to make Thomas giggle.

When you went to sit beside the boys, Bruce’s hand caught your waist and guided you to his side instead. He stood behind you, one hand resting on your hip, the other idly tracing over the curve of your thigh while you ate. It wasn’t overtly possessive in front of the kids — but it was a steady, warm reminder of the way he’d touched you last night.

Halfway through breakfast, Damian said in that flat, matter-of-fact tone of his, “Father made these pancakes himself. He doesn’t usually do that unless it’s for someone important.”

You blinked at him, caught between surprise and warmth. “Oh?”

Damian didn’t look up from his plate. “He wanted to make sure you knew you were worth the effort.”

Bruce’s fingers pressed lightly into your hip at that, and when you glanced back, there was that same look from last night — the one that told you you’d never have to question your worth in his eyes.

Jason wandered in just then, hair a mess, eyes still heavy with sleep. He looked between Bruce, you, and the kids, then smirked. “Guess we’re having a family breakfast. That’s… new. Did I miss something?”

Damian smirked faintly, not looking up. “You missed Father proving a point.”

Jason arched a brow. “Uh-huh. Figures.” He stole a pancake off Damian’s plate, earning himself a fork jab.

Bruce only tightened his arm around your waist, leaning down to murmur in your ear, just for you, “And I’m not done proving it.”

The rest of the morning passed in warmth and ease — laughter, coffee refills, Thomas insisting Bruce flip more pancakes. But under it all, there was a quiet, unshakable certainty: Bruce had made his stance known, not just to those who’d insulted you, but to you, to the kids, to himself.

You weren’t just his wife. You were his everything.

It happened a week later, in one of Gotham’s high-end shopping districts. You had the day free and decided to take Thomas for a treat at a little gelato café — Damian had even agreed to come along, quietly shadowing you both like a watchful guardian. Bruce had been called into a short meeting but promised to join you after.

You were leaning over Thomas’s tiny cup of strawberry gelato, helping him keep it from dripping everywhere, when a familiar voice cut through the air.

“Well, if it isn’t Gotham’s favorite charity case,” one of the Spring Fair mothers drawled.

Damian’s eyes snapped up instantly, narrowing like a hawk sighting prey. You straightened slowly, turning to face her. She was dressed to impress — gold jewelry, tailored dress — and her smirk said she thought she’d already won whatever game she thought this was.

Another of the mothers from that day was with her, though this one wouldn’t quite meet your eye. She shifted uncomfortably, mumbled a hello, and excused herself to cross the street.

But the first? She doubled down. “Enjoying spending Wayne money, are we? Or is your husband keeping you on a tighter leash now?” Her voice dropped into a mock whisper. “Don’t worry, sweetie. He’ll tire of you eventually.”

Damian stepped forward before you could, his voice sharp as a blade. “Watch your mouth.”

She scoffed. “Oh, please. You think anyone takes you seriously, little prince?” Her gaze slid back to you, and she spat out a word that made Damian’s entire body go taut — vile, ugly, dripping with disdain.

Before you could react, a familiar voice cut through the tension.

“What did you just say?”

Bruce’s presence was immediate, his shadow falling over the woman as he stepped up beside you. His hand found the small of your back, steady and grounding, but his eyes were locked on her — cold, unblinking.

The woman faltered, but only for a moment. “I’m just saying what everyone thinks—”

“No,” Bruce interrupted, his tone deadly calm. “You’re saying what you think. And you seem to have forgotten the agreement we made.”

Her smirk flickered. “Agreement?”

“You were told to apologize and keep my wife’s name out of your mouth. You failed.” Bruce’s voice didn’t rise, but it didn’t need to. “You’ll find out exactly what that means the next time you try to book your salon appointment.”

She found out two hours later.

The moment she walked into her usual salon, the receptionist went stiff. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Kincaid, but your account’s been flagged. We can’t take you as a client anymore.”

“What?” she demanded. “This is absurd—”

“It’s non-negotiable,” the receptionist said, clearly uncomfortable. “You’ve been blacklisted from every affiliated salon in Gotham.”

Mrs. Kincaid’s face went red. “Blacklisted? By who?”

The receptionist hesitated, then answered quietly, “Mr. Wayne’s order. It’s… permanent.”

⸻

Back at home, you sat with Bruce on the couch, Thomas curled against your side while Damian read in the armchair.

“You didn’t have to—” you began.

“Yes,” Bruce said simply, his arm tightening around you. “I did. And I’ll keep doing it. As many times as it takes.”

Damian glanced up from his book, his mouth twitching in what might have been the beginnings of a smile. Thomas, oblivious, declared, “Daddy’s the boss of everything.”

Bruce’s lips quirked. “Just of the people who need reminding.”And in that moment, you believed him.

⸻

Two days after the salon ban, Jason was leaning against his bike outside one of the trendier coffee shops when he overheard it.

Mrs. Kincaid — the same woman — was standing with a friend, voice pitched just loud enough for passerby to hear. She was going on about how “some bakery brat tricked Bruce Wayne into marriage” and how she wasn’t “done telling people the truth.”

Jason’s jaw flexed. He didn’t step in, didn’t even look directly at her — not at first. He finished his coffee, tossed the cup in the bin, and strolled casually toward the parking lot where her shiny imported SUV was sitting pretty.

No one paid him any mind as he crouched by the back tire, flicking open his knife. One smooth motion and the hiss of air escaping filled the quiet. He moved to the next one. And the next. And the next. By the time he straightened, the SUV was sitting on four very dead tires.

He didn’t bother hiding the satisfied smirk as he swung a leg over his bike. He caught Mrs. Kincaid’s gaze across the lot, tapped two fingers to his temple in a mock salute, and roared off.

⸻

That night, Jason strolled into the manor’s kitchen where you, Bruce, and Damian were finishing dinner.

Bruce eyed him over his glass of wine. “You look… pleased with yourself.”

Jason’s grin was slow. “Let’s just say our favorite salon exile won’t be going anywhere for a while.”

Damian glanced up from his plate, catching the implication instantly. “Did you—”

Jason winked. “I didn’t say I did anything. But if four luxury tires happened to go flat at once, I’m sure it was just… coincidence.”

You shook your head, trying not to smile. “Jason…”

He shrugged, grabbing a biscuit from the table. “What? You married into the family, Ma. We protect our own. Some of us just have more… hands-on methods.”

Bruce didn’t comment, but you saw the corner of his mouth twitch — just enough to know he wasn’t going to lose any sleep over it.

Out of all of them, Dick had known you the longest. He’d been there the day you first walked into Wayne Manor with a box of pastries from your family’s bakery, wearing that modest coat and smiling at Alfred like you’d known him forever. He’d liked you immediately — not because you were marrying Bruce, but because you fit. You didn’t treat any of them like charity cases, you didn’t try to impress them, you just… cared.

So when Dick overheard two Gotham socialites whispering at a charity gala about “the bakery girl who landed the Wayne fortune,” something in him went ice-cold.

They didn’t even notice him at first. He was just part of the crowd, easy smile in place, champagne glass in hand. But the second one of them called you “a professional gold digger with good PR,” Dick stepped right into their conversation like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Hi,” he said, flashing that easy, charming grin that could disarm anyone. “You’re talking about Mrs. Wayne, right?”

Both women froze, caught between surprise and guilt. “Oh, we were just—”

“She’s my mother,” Dick cut in smoothly. “So, here’s how this works. You stop running your mouths, and I don’t repeat your names to Bruce.” His smile didn’t waver, but his eyes had gone sharp. “Because if I do, you’ll be lucky to find an invitation to a soup kitchen, let alone another gala.”

He set his empty glass down on the nearest tray, gave them a mock salute, and walked away without another word.

Later that night, when you came by to drop a plate of cookies in the study for him and Bruce, Dick just smiled up at you from the couch.

“Thanks, Mom,” he said lightly — but there was a weight behind it that made Bruce glance at him over his papers, curious.

You didn’t know what had happened at the gala. But Dick knew, and that was enough.

Tim hadn’t said much during the aftermath of the Spring Fair incident nor the Gala. He’d been there when Bruce came back from “handling” things, and he’d smirked a little when Jason bragged about his “coincidental” tire work. But Tim’s version of protecting family didn’t involve boardrooms or crowbars.

It involved data.

So when he heard Mrs. Kincaid was still mouthing off at luncheons — claiming you were “nothing but a social climber” — Tim decided she’d had her last word.

It took him all of fifteen minutes. A few lines of code, a VPN bounce through three countries, and he had her social media logins. The next five minutes were just… artistry.

Profile pictures? Gone. Posts? Deleted. Friend lists? Wiped. Years of carefully curated photos of gala dresses, brunches, and “candid” vacation shots — erased. Her entire online identity, the one she used to preen and posture, vanished overnight.

As a finishing touch, Tim made sure her accounts were locked from recovery — the password changed to an unguessable, random 48-character string he didn’t even bother saving.

By morning, Mrs. Kincaid was essentially a ghost online.

⸻

At breakfast, Tim strolled into the kitchen, poured himself coffee, and sat down without looking up from his tablet.

Jason glanced at him. “You look smug. What’d you do?”

“Nothing illegal,” Tim said mildly. Then, after a beat, “Just… digital housekeeping.”

Bruce didn’t ask. Damian smirked faintly. You blinked between them, suspicious.

Jason leaned back in his chair. “Tell me you didn’t—”

Tim took a slow sip of coffee. “She won’t be posting anything about anyone for a while.”

Dick barked out a laugh, though you had to hide your smile.

"You didn't have to, but thank you Tim."

The manor was warm with the smell of dinner — Alfred had outdone himself, as usual. You were in the dining room, setting out the last dish when the sound of voices and footsteps echoed from the hall.

Damian appeared first, carrying Thomas on his hip like it was second nature now. “Your son,” he said dryly, “insists he needs to show you his art before dinner.”

Thomas grinned, holding up a crayon drawing — a messy but heartfelt depiction of the entire family, complete with you in the center, smiling. “See? You’re the hero,” he said proudly.

Jason came in behind them, dropping into a chair with all the grace of a wolf flopping down to nap. “Kid’s not wrong.”

Tim was next, sliding his phone into his pocket as he smirked faintly at you. “Don’t worry. No one’s saying anything about you online anymore.”

From the doorway, Dick added with that familiar easy grin, “Or at the galas. I made sure of that.”

Bruce stepped in last, shedding his jacket and kissing your temple in front of everyone without hesitation. “And the boardrooms are quiet too,” he murmured, his voice warm enough to melt the steel in his words.

Alfred appeared with the roast, clearing his throat with a subtle smile. “It’s rather impressive, madam. You seem to have the entire household working security for your reputation.”

Jason snorted. “Damn right.”

Tim lifted his glass. “To our favorite Wayne.”

Damian rolled his eyes, but the faintest smirk betrayed him. “She is.”

You laughed, shaking your head, but when Bruce’s hand found yours under the table and Thomas leaned against your arm, you felt it — the truth in all of it. You weren’t just married into the Wayne family.

You were at its center.

You shifted, instinct taking over as you pushed him back just enough to guide him toward the edge of the pool, your hands firm now, confident.

He let you.

That was the dangerous part.

James Bond never let anyone take control.

But he was letting you.

For now.

“You’re bold,” he murmured against your lips.

“You like it,” you shot back softly.

“I do.”

You didn’t give him time to say more. Your hands slid down, guiding him as you moved, lifting yourself just enough to sink down onto him in one smooth motion.

Your breath broke instantly, your head tipping back slightly as you adjusted, your pussy tightening around his cock as the water shifted around you both.

James exhaled sharply, his grip tightening on your hips. “…Christ,” he muttered under his breath.

You smiled faintly, breath uneven. “Thought you liked bold.”

“I do,” he said immediately.

His hands steadied you, grounding you as you began to move slow at first, testing, feeling the way he reacted beneath you.

And he did react.

His head dipped slightly, his control slipping just enough for you to notice.

“You’re watching me too closely,” you teased.

“Occupational hazard,” he replied, voice lower now.

Your hips rolled again, slower, deeper, drawing a sharp breath from him that he didn’t quite manage to hide.

“Businessman?” you asked lightly.

“Something like that.”

You laughed softly, your hands sliding to his shoulders as you picked up your pace just slightly, the water rippling around you with each movement.

“Liar,” you murmured.

His grip tightened. “Takes one to know one.”

That made you pause, just for a second.Long enough to feel the weight of it.Then you smiled again, softer this time.

“Maybe.”

Your movements didn’t stop.

If anything, they deepened, your rhythm more certain now, your body responding to every shift, every reaction he gave you.

His hands slid up your back, pulling you closer, his forehead brushing yours as his breathing grew less controlled. "You’re trouble,” he murmured.

“You followed me,” you reminded him.

“And I don’t regret it.”

Your lips brushed his again, softer now, even as your body kept moving, the tension building steadily between you.

The villa was quieter now.

The ocean still whispered just beyond the glass walls, the soft glow of the pool lights casting reflections across the room but inside, everything felt warmer. Closer. Charged in a different way.

You barely had time to steady yourself after the pool before James was moving again.

“Come here,” he murmured, voice lower now, roughened from earlier.

Before you could answer, his hands were on you—lifting you effortlessly, like it was nothing. A soft sound left you as your arms instinctively wrapped around his shoulders, your legs curling around his waist as he carried you inside.

“You don’t waste time, do you?” you breathed, a faint smile tugging at your lips.

“I’ve already wasted enough tonight,” he replied.

His tone wasn’t teasing.It was decided.

The bed met your back a second later, soft sheets a stark contrast to the cool water from before but you didn’t stay there long. Not with the way he hovered over you, not with the way his hands moved, already guiding you, already pulling you back into him.

“James—” you started, but it broke into a breath as he shifted, positioning you over him, his hands firm on your hips.

“Go on,” he murmured.

There was something in his voice, something that made your pulse jump.

You didn’t hesitate.Your hands braced lightly against his chest as you sank down onto him again, slower this time, your breath catching as your pussy tightened around his cock, the sensation pulling a sharp exhale from him.

“…Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath, his head tipping back slightly against the pillows.

You smiled faintly, breath uneven as you adjusted, your hands sliding along his chest, feeling the tension beneath his skin.

“You alright there, Mr. Smythe?” you teased softly.

His eyes flicked open immediately at that sharp, dark, aware.

“Careful,” he murmured. “You’re starting to sound like you know more than you should.”

You tilted your head slightly, lips curving. “Maybe I do.”

That earned you a look.But his hands tightened on your hips again before he could question it further.

“Move,” he said quietly.

You did.Slow at first, rolling your hips carefully, testing the rhythm, the way he reacted beneath you. His grip tightened instantly, guiding you, controlling the pace even while letting you stay on top.

“There,” he murmured, voice lower now. “Like that.”

Your breath hitched, your fingers curling slightly against him as you followed his lead, your movements growing more certain, more fluid.

“You like control,” you noted softly.

“I like this,” he corrected.

His hands pressed more firmly against your hips, guiding you deeper, steadier, the rhythm building between you. The shift pulled a sharper breath from you, your head dipping slightly as your body responded faster.

“John—”

“Don’t stop,” he said immediately.

Your lips parted in a soft breath, your pace picking up just slightly, the tension building again, quicker this time. His hands slid up your sides, then back down, never losing contact, always grounding, always guiding.

Your long hair fell forward with each movement, brushing against his chest, your face, the soft strands catching against your lips as your breathing grew uneven.

James noticed, of course he did.

His hand slid up suddenly, fingers threading into your hair before tugging it gently, pulling your head back just enough to expose your throat, your breath catching sharply at the sudden shift.

“There you are,” he murmured.

Your hands gripped his shoulders, your body reacting instantly, the new angle making everything feel deeper, sharper.

“John—” you breathed, your voice breaking slightly.

“I’ve got you,” he said, softer now.

His other hand returned to your hip, steadying you as he guided your movements again, his control slipping just enough for you to feel it in the way his grip tightened, the way his breathing grew heavier beneath you.

“You’re trouble,” he muttered.

“You didn’t seem to mind,” you managed, though your voice wavered.

“I don’t,” he said immediately.

Your pace faltered for half a second at that but his hand tightened in your hair again, not harsh, just enough to keep you with him.

“Stay with me,” he murmured.

You nodded faintly, your movements returning, deeper now, more certain, the tension building fast between you both.

Closer.

Every movement pulled another reaction from him, quieter than yours but no less intense. His jaw tightened, his grip firm, his control slipping in small, telling ways.

“You’re—” he started, then cut himself off with a sharp exhale.

You leaned forward slightly, your forehead brushing his as your pace stuttered. “What?”

“…Dangerous,” he finished.

You smiled faintly, breathless. “Takes one to know one.”

A quiet huff left him, almost a laugh but it didn’t last long.

Not with the way the tension coiled tighter, sharper, your bodies moving together in a rhythm that was no longer careful, no longer restrained.

Your breath broke first.

His followed not long after.

His hand tightened at your hip, pulling you down fully, holding you there as the rhythm faltered, then slowed, his forehead pressing to yours as both of you steadied as his grip tightened, his breath catching sharply as he followed right after you, his body going rigid beneath you for a brief moment before he exhaled, low and rough, his head dropping forward.

Warmth spread between you as he released inside you, his hold on you firm, grounding, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go yet.

For a second, neither of you moved. Then your strength gave out, your body slumping forward against him, your cheek pressed to his shoulder, your breathing uneven.

“Fuck,” you murmured weakly.

A quiet huff of a laugh left him, softer than anything he’d given you all night.

“…That,” he said, voice low but steadier now, his hand sliding slowly up your back, “was worth the trip.”

You smiled faintly against his skin, too tired to argue.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Just breath.

Just heat.

Just the quiet understanding that this, this wasn’t simple anymore.

Not after that.

Not after the way you both moved.

“…You’re not just on vacation,” he said finally, voice quieter now.

You stilled slightly.

Then smiled, faint and knowing. "Neither are you.”

His eyes flicked up to yours again and just a little more dangerous than before.

The bathroom was filled with steam, soft, warm, curling up from the bath as you sank deeper into it, muscles loose, head tipped back against the edge.

You should’ve been relaxing. Instead, you were staring at the phone in your hand.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

On the other end, Bosley sounded entirely too calm for the chaos he’d just dropped on you. “I’m not kidding. The target is in Vietnam, luxury resort, billionaire cover—”

“Yeah, I know that part,” you cut in, rubbing your face with one hand. “What I don’t know is why you’re telling me now that MI6 is involved.”

A pause.

“…Because,” Bosley said slowly, “we just confirmed their agent on-site.”

Your stomach dropped. “…Who?”

Another pause.

“James Bond.”

You went completely still. The water sloshed slightly as you sat up, eyes wide.

“…You’re joking.”

“I wish I was.”

Your mouth opened.

Closed.

Then opened again.

“…The British guy?” you asked weakly. “At the bar? The.... the Hawaiian shirt—”

“Yes,” Bosley said flatly. “That would be him.”

You stared straight ahead. “…I just had sex with James Bond.”

“Congratulations,” Bosley deadpanned. “Now Focus.”

Meanwhile.

James was lying back against the pillows, one arm behind his head, the other holding his phone loosely as he stared up at the ceiling.

For once…

He looked less composed than usual. “…Say that again,” he said slowly.

On the other end, Moneypenny sighed. “The Townsend Agency is on-site, James.”

His jaw tightened. “…And?”

“And,” she continued, far too calmly, “one of their top Angels checked in under a civilian alias this morning."

He sat up slightly. “…Name.”

There was a pause and then she told him.

James froze. “…You’re certain?” he asked.

“Positive.”

His gaze flicked toward the bathroom door, the faint sound of water still audible through it.

“…You’re telling me,” he said slowly, “that the woman currently in my bath—”

“Is not just a tourist,” Moneypenny finished. “Yes.”

James leaned back again, exhaling through his nose. “…Of course she is.”

“You didn’t notice?” she asked, amused.

He huffed quietly. “I noticed she was lying.”

“…And still slept with her.”

“That,” he said smoothly, “is hardly a disqualifier.”

Moneypenny laughed softly. “Try not to get yourself killed, James.”

“No promises...."

The line went dead.

You stepped out of the bath, towel wrapped around you, still processing.

James Bond.

James Bond.

“Unbelievable…” you muttered, dragging a hand through your damp hair.

You reached for the door at the exact same moment he did.

It opened.

You both froze.

For a solid two seconds, neither of you said a word.

Then

“You’re MI6.”

“You’re an Angel.”

You both blinked.

“…Oh my God,” you said, half horrified, half laughing. “You’re James Bond.”

“And you,” he replied, far too calm for someone in the same situation, “are significantly more dangerous than advertised.”

You stared at him.

He stared at you.

You both started laughing.

Actually laughing.

“Are you kidding me?” you said, pointing at him. “All that flirting—”

“You started it,” he cut in.

“I did not!”

“You absolutely did.”

“You were the one leaning at the bar like you owned the place—”

“I often do.” James puffed out his chest.

You let out a breathless laugh, dragging a hand down your face. “I slept with my competition.”

“Is that what we are?” he asked, one brow lifting.

You paused. “…Technically?”

He hummed, considering that. “…Unfortunate.”

You snorted. “That’s one way to put it.” Your gaze then flicked to him, to really looked at him now.

Not just the man.

The agent.

And his gaze did the same.

Assessing.

Understanding.

“…So,” you said slowly, crossing your arms. “What now?”

James tilted his head slightly. “Well,” he said, voice smooth again but softer now, more aware, “normally I’d say we compare notes.”

You raised a brow. “And?”

His gaze dropped just for a second then lifted again, something dangerously familiar flickering there.

“…But given recent events,” he continued, “I imagine that might complicate things.”

Your lips twitched. “Might?”

He stepped a little closer, hand grasping your chin gently, "I don’t suppose you’re willing to go again,” he said lightly.

“…Round three then?” you teased.

James paused then huffed a quiet laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You are going to be a problem,” he muttered.

You grinned. “Yeah,” you said. “But you liked me before you knew.”

His gaze met yours again and that didn’t change as his arm then wove around your hips gripping the towel. “…I still do,” he admitted.