Saint Poe

His eyes burned holes into your back as you laughed beside the bastard across the club. You were dressed nice, really nice in that little outfit, your form was far too enticing. Far too beautiful. You always were just so beautiful to Jean.

And the prick next to you? Not worthy of your time. Not worthy of your joy in your smile. Not worthy of the cadence of your laughter.

Jean-Paul knew it was just a mission. You were both gathering intel on a drug ring, and this club had already been tagged as the main hub for distribution. Getting friendly with the locals was exactly what the job called for.

He knew that.

He fucking knew that.

But watching you from his table still made something in his stomach twist, enticing Azrael to be more vocal in their head. So, not ugly was he watching you like a hawk, he was trying his damndest to tune out the angel on the brink of switching.

He swirled the drink in his cup, some soda, he didn't care. A heavy sigh left him as he forced himself to look away from you for his poor hearts sake

It’s part of the job. It doesn’t matter.

The bastard leaned in closer. Jean’s gaze snapped right back to you. Repeating this god forsaken cycle that you were none the wiser to within Jean Paul.

He caught the shift in your posture, the way your fingers curled tighter around your glass. Small tells. Ones he couldn’t ignore, even if he wanted to. Not with Azrael locked onto your every move, unwilling to leave you to handle this alone despite knowing you could. He knew you could, you were both working the same case for God's sake.

Jean took a sip of his drink, hoping anything would distract him

Nothing did.

What did distract him however was the smug fuck beside you. Jean-Paul’s grip tightened around the cheap cup, the material creaking under pressure. He inhaled through his nose, slow and sharp, like dragging air through clenched teeth. A low sound vibrated in his chest. Half sigh. Half growl. Barely audible beneath the thrum of bass penatrating the air.

The way the man's hand slid along your spine, slow and entitled straight down to the flesh of your ass, like it had any right to touch you.

It’s not our place. This is part of the job.

...

No words. No warning.

One second, the man was grinning over your shoulder, hand on your ass.

The next, Jean-Paul was there.

A silent force. His frame swallowed the space behind you, his warm chest a promise of protection. His hand snapped around the man’s wrist mid-motion, fingers tightening with an authority that didn’t need volume. Tearing it away from your sacred form into a straining bend. He was lucky Jean didn't snap it. Or Azrael.... Jean? Didn't matter who , the prick was still whole, a mercy in itself.

His other hand hovered at your side. Not holding. Not quite touching. Just there. A wall. A warning.

His eyes locked on the man’s.

"The fuck, man?" the guy stammered, his grin faltering into something thin and weak beneath Jean’s stare.

"Hey man, didn’t... didn’t know they were yours..."

Jean didn’t respond. His mind was screaming.

Azrael was screaming louder.

Demanding judgment.

Demanding punishment.

Demanding.

The man tried to pull away. Jean-Paul’s grip shifted slightly. Tightened. A silent warning.

"... Jean..." Your grin had vanished, replaced by a flicker of tension as you turned to look at him.

Eyes met. Yours and his. It was enough. He released the man. Not in mercy. In dismissal.

The guy backed off fast, rubbing his wrist as he rushed off, vanishing into the crowd. You didn’t bother watching him go. Your eyes trained on the sentinel behind you.

His hand rested fully on your side now. He gripped you with intent, with promise. His thumb dragged along your waist in slow, deliberate passes.

"Subtle," you said, sighing softly as your brows furrowed a bit, the word slipping out quietly, exasperated. "Probably won’t get much else out of anyone tonight, though." You mumble as he sat beside you, hand falling to your thigh in a possessive gesture, his nerves still shot, still wired from the level of self control it took to keep Azrael from having responded further to the man.

"I wasn't going to just let some dick grab you." He countered, agitation written all over his features. He wasn't going to feel guilty over this either. The drug case be damned.

You couldn't help the cheeky smirk that had begun to drag across your lips at his behavior.

"No, no, of course not." Your voice becoming more amused as you spoke.

His grip tightened.

And that made you grin wider.

Then they died, the end

I lost the plot significantly and forgot as soon as i started writing that this was supposed to be a first date, but god forbid a woman want some drama in this house.