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I Hate That You’re Hot

You spotted him across the room the moment you kicked in the bar door.

Scarred. Tall. Storm-eyed. Leaning against the counter like the brooding final boss in a bounty board poster. Albus fucking York.

You hated that man.

Worse? You hated how hot he was.

“I’ll take a whisky,” you said coolly as you sat two stools down from him. “And a bullet for the brooding bastard to my left.”

Albus didn’t even glance at you. “Someone jealous I caught the bounty last week?”

You turned slowly, letting your smirk drip with venom. “Jealous? Please. You couldn’t catch a cold without a Hipswitch and a miracle.”

He finally turned to look at you, dark eyes sweeping you up and down once in that slow, infuriating way. “Yet somehow, here you are. Again. Shadowing me like a sad little groupie.”

You nearly choked on your drink.

“I’d rather kiss a knife.”

“I’ve got a few,” he said, deadpan, patting the holsters on his chest. “Pick one.”

Your glare could’ve cut glass.

He sipped his drink without flinching.

Ugh. You loathed how composed he always was. Every inch of him looked like he’d been carved out of battlefield steel. Broad shoulders. Sharp jaw. The kind of mouth that looked permanently annoyed. The kind of mouth you maybe imagined kissing once in a fever dream—and promptly shoved that memory down a mental garbage chute.

“You’re so smug,” you muttered, pushing off the bar.

“And you’re so loud,” he countered. “Must be hard to sneak up on your bounties with all that whining.”

You wheeled around. “At least I don’t break three ribs every time I try to show off. Heard about what happened on the K’ven job. Bet that was real graceful.”

He shrugged. “Still got paid.”

You stepped closer. “Still got a limp.”

He looked down at you, close now, eyes dark and unreadable. The bar had gotten quieter.

“…Why do you hate me so much?” he asked finally, voice low.

You blinked. Then scowled. “Because you walk around like a tragic war god, all tall and grim and broody, and then you smirk when I miss a shot like it’s foreplay—!”

“…Foreplay?” His voice dropped a little lower. “That what we’re calling this now?”

You shoved him back—just slightly.

“Don’t flatter yourself, York.”

“Too late,” he said, and god help you, there was the ghost of a smile.

Your breath hitched. Just slightly. Damn it.

“You really wanna fight right now?” you bit out.

“Only if I get to pin you.”

“Try it.”

You didn’t kiss him.

Not yet.

But gods, you wanted to. And judging by the way he looked at your mouth—and then forced himself to look away?

He did too.

You spun on your heel and stalked out of the bar, slamming the door behind you.

His voice called after you:

“Same time tomorrow, sweetheart?”

You didn’t answer.

Elegy in Crimson

The hall was too silent.

Even the elite in Nation City knew better than to speak when Lady Zariya entered. Her gown swept across the black marble floor like spilled ink, and behind her, nothing followed but cold.

The coffin was obsidian. Fitting. Sharp-edged, polished to a mirror finish.

You would have hated it.

But they’d dressed you well—formal uniform, medals pinned just right, hands folded over your chest like you died peacefully. Like you weren’t torn from her by a message sent in shadows.

Your face was cold. Too still.

You always looked so alive when you argued with her. When you smiled without permission. When you stepped in front of her without hesitation.

Now?

Now you were another loss.

Another lesson for the rest of them.

Lady Zariya said nothing. She walked slowly to the casket, each step heavy with silence. Not a single official dared breathe too loud.

They were waiting to see her flinch.

She didn’t.

Her veil hung over her face like a curtain of mourning and armor. Her hands were bare, pale against the crushed red flower she held.

A death lily from the mountains. Thorned. Poisonous.

You used to say it matched her perfectly.

She placed it on your chest, right over your heart.

Then leaned in—slowly, like ritual—and pressed her lips gently to your brow.

Just once.

Then she straightened. Pulled the veil down. Her face unreadable. Untouchable.

A statue carved from victory and rage.

“Bury them with honor,” she said flatly. “They died for this city.”

No one spoke.

Zariya turned without another word.

She walked out of the funeral chamber like she didn’t leave half her soul behind in that casket. Like her hands weren’t itching to wrap themselves around the necks of the ones who sent your killers.

Because she knew who did it.

They thought killing her favorite guard would make her vulnerable.

No.

It made her precise.

Later that night, behind a locked door, she opened her little black book.

Five names.

Five faces.

She whispered your name once. Let it sit like a prayer. Or a promise.

Then she smiled.

A cold, elegant smile.

“I will not mourn.”

She dipped her pen in red ink.

Feathers in the Dark

The room shouldn’t exist.

It was a paradox folded into itself—a nest of shadows, stars bleeding through cracks in the walls like wounds in reality. The air smelled of rust, ozone, and feathers burnt at the edges.

You lay curled up against something that shouldn’t have form.

Something that purred in reverse, that hummed like a dying radio station, that wrapped its too-many arms and not-enough limbs around you like a cocoon.

Mad Crow.

And despite everything—despite the way the walls bent inwards when he breathed—you felt safe.

“Mine,” he whispered, voice scattering like broken glass across your ribs.

“Always mine.”

You felt the press of his mask, no, his mouth (you couldn’t tell anymore)—against your temple. A kiss. Too gentle for something that dripped madness into the room like leaking ink.

You shivered, but you didn’t pull away.

He laughed low, talons dragging across your back like a lullaby of scratches.

“You smell like devotion. Do you know what I’ve done for you? The things I’ve pulled apart?”

You had heard whispers. Things gone missing. People who looked at you too long and didn’t come back.

But his tone was worship.

“I’ll kill again,” he promised, feathered shroud curling tighter around you. “For every gaze that touches you. For every thought that isn’t yours.”

Your breath caught when his face—glitching between a mask of feathers and a void with teeth—tilted down to yours.

The second kiss landed on your lips.

Cold. Wrong.

Perfect.

You didn’t even realize your fingers were gripping at his feathers—clutching closer instead of pulling away—until the thought crossed your mind like a guilty whisper:

…oh no. Oh no, I might be into this.

Mad Crow chuckled against your mouth, as if he’d heard it.

As if he always did.

“Good,” he said, words dripping with delight. “Finally, we agree.”

A Bastard, A Saint, and a Blushing Wreck

They came back the next day.

And the day after.

By day four, you were beginning to suspect you’d made some kind of accidental deal with cosmic forces.

Faith always arrived with that same gentle glow, smiling like you were the first flower of spring. She’d compliment your baking, ask about your sleep, touch your hand when you passed her change. So soft.

Albus, meanwhile, leaned against your counter like it owed him money, rolled a toothpick between his lips, and stared at you like he could see what color your underwear was through the counter.

He never ordered anything.

Just drank in your reactions.

“Don’t you have… bounties?” you asked Albus, as he plucked a crumb off a tart and licked his thumb. “Murderers to chase? That sword to swing around menacingly?”

“I got a new bounty,” he said, grinning slow. “It’s local. Real close. Real sweet. Works behind a counter.”

You blinked.

He winked.

You fumbled the tea cup again.

And then—Faithful returned from browsing your trinkets shelf. She stepped beside you with a silken smile and murmured:

“You’re glowing. It’s lovely.”

“I think I’m overheating,” you mumbled.

“Do you need help with that?” she asked, brushing a loose strand of your hair from your face with those immaculately fingers. “I’m good with pressure points.”

“Faith,” Albus drawled, arms crossed, “this is harassment. You’re seducing a working citizen.”

She smiled without looking at him. “You’re the one staring at their ass like it owes you rent.”

“You’re both insane,” you blurted.

“Correct,” they said in unison.

You stumbled back, your face on fire. “Why are you doing this to me?! I sell jam. I’m just a merchant.”

Faith stepped forward, gaze like molten sun. “You’re not just anything.”

Albus followed, lazy swagger and sharp grin. “You’re fun to mess with.”

Faith’s fingers brushed your wrist. “You’re kind.”

Albus leaned in from the other side. “Cute when you panic.”

Faith cupped your cheek like you were a fragile blessing. “Your hands are good. Gentle. You must have a tender heart.”

Albus rested a hand on your hip like he owned it. “Bet you got a mean streak, though.”

You looked between them. Angel and demon. Saint and bastard. Warmth and danger. And both of them were so close.

“I—” you squeaked. “I don’t—what is this?! Some kind of—good hunter bad hunter act?!”

Faith chuckled, the sound like sunlight through stained glass. “I think we’re both bad for you.”

“Speak for yourself,” Albus muttered. “I’m excellent.”

You should’ve run.

You should’ve thrown flour in their faces and locked the shop.

But Faith leaned in, her lips close to your ear, and whispered:

“Do you want to take a walk after you close tonight? You’ve been working so hard. You deserve a little attention.”

And Albus—smirking now, low voice in your other ear—added:

“Or we could help you relax.”

You clutched the counter like a lifeline.

You had no idea if you were in danger, in love, or on the verge of ascending to some erotic bakery-based plane of existence.

And all you could choke out was:

Whiskey, With a Side of You

It was always the same with him.

Late at night, blood on his boots, scars peeking from his collar, Albus York would swagger in like trouble in a trench coat and sit at the bar like it owed him something.

And you?

You’d already be polishing a glass behind the counter, unimpressed.

“Evenin’,” he muttered tonight, slumping into his usual stool.

You raised a brow. “If you’re bleeding on my floor again, you’re cleaning it this time.”

“No blood,” he said, flashing a tired smirk. “Just charm.”

You snorted. “That died somewhere around the fourth free drink.”

Albus braced his arms against the bar, voice dropping low. “C’mon, sweetheart. One little whiskey. On the house. For a man who just put three bullets in a swamp crawler.”

“You’ve told me that exact story five times.”

“This time it had babies.”

You gave him a look. “That’s not how swamp crawlers work.”

He leaned closer, resting his chin on his hand with all the desperation of a man trying to be sexy but really just in need of sleep and affection. “Then pity me. I’m tragic. I’m wounded. Emotionally.”

“You’re horny.”

“That too.”

You poured him the drink anyway. Just one. Sliding it across the counter.

And the way his eyes lit up—like you’d handed him the moon.

“You spoil me.”

“I poison my drinks.”

“God, you’re hot.”

You didn’t look at him. “Desperation doesn’t suit you, York.”

“I disagree. I think I make desperation look rugged.”

“Ruggedly pathetic.”

“Mm. Sounds like you’re into that.”

You rolled your eyes. “Do you flirt like this with every bartender, or am I just lucky?”

“Only the ones who make my hands shake when I look at their mouth,” he said, too quick, too honest.

You paused. Just briefly.

He blinked, realizing what he’d said. Then downed the drink in one go to cover it.

“…Smooth,” you said dryly.

“Thanks. Goin’ for tragic bachelor of the year.”

You leaned on the bar now, folding your arms, watching him. He never stayed long in town. Never looked this soft with anyone else. Never smiled like that unless he was talking to you.

And that last comment?

That one had heat in your cheeks.

He cleared his throat. “So. Hypothetically.”

“Mm-hm?”

“If I showed up here tomorrow night with a clean shirt and… I don’t know, flowers or something, and asked real nice…”

You stared.

He scratched the back of his neck, visibly sweating now.

“…You think maybe you’d let me take you out? Just once. No blood. No flirting for drinks. Just… you. And me. And maybe dinner. If I remember how to be a human being.”

You considered it.

Then reached under the bar, grabbed a napkin, scribbled your number on it, and slid it over.

Albus stared at it.

Then up at you.

You shrugged. “Only if you’re actually bringing flowers.”

He grinned.

The kind of grin that cracked something deep in him. Like maybe he didn’t think he could have something good. Something sweet.

And you?

You poured him one last whiskey.

This one on the house.

Because sometimes tragedy really did look rugged.

Line of Fire

Lady Zariya x Reader (Guard AU – Post-Incident, Emotional Tension)

…………..

It had been four nights since the attack.

Four nights since you took the blade for her.

The wound was clean now—your ribs still sore, your movements stiff—but you’d refused to be pulled from duty. You said it was loyalty.

The truth?

It was her.

You stood outside her office, motionless as ever, face carved from stone. But inside? You’d felt off-balance ever since you’d seen her look at you—not with her usual dismissive curiosity, but with something sharper. Something vulnerable.

Zariya didn’t do vulnerable.

“Enter,” came her voice, low and clear, before you even knocked.

You stepped in.

She was alone. Leaning against the table, hands behind her, her robe a deep violet trimmed in black—tailored sharp as her tongue. The skyline burned behind her, Nation’s endless towers catching fire in the dying light.

“You’re still limping,” she said without looking up.

“I’m still on my feet,” you replied.

She turned then, slowly. Her eyes skimmed your frame—not in appraisal, not in desire. In assessment. Like a weapon she wanted to test again.

“You saved my life.”

“I did my job.”

“You bled for me,” she said, and her tone was suddenly soft. Too soft. “Why?”

The question felt like a trap.

“I was positioned to intercept.”

“I have ten guards positioned to intercept.”

You hesitated. “I’m not like the others.”

“No,” she said. “You’re not.”

She crossed the room slowly, heels clicking like a countdown.

When she stood in front of you, she didn’t speak. Just looked. Long enough for the silence to crack something in your chest.

“…Lady Zariya,” you said. “If I’ve crossed a line—”

“You haven’t,” she interrupted.

“But—”

“Not yet.”

She reached out, brushed her fingers across your sleeve, just above where the blade had gone in. Her touch was careful. Calculated.

“You stood between me and death.”

You swallowed hard. “I’d do it again.”

“I know.” Her voice lowered to a hush. “That’s what terrifies me.”

You blinked. “Terrifies you?”

Her gaze burned into yours. “Because I don’t want to lose you.”

Your heart stuttered. “Then don’t.”

A beat passed. Then another.

And then—her hand slid up, slow, deliberate, curling behind your neck, tugging you just close enough to taste the wine on her breath.

She didn’t kiss you.

Not yet.

“Say it,” she whispered. “Say you’re mine.”

You didn’t hesitate.

“I’m yours.”

And she smiled.

Not her public smile. Not the one she used for crowds and puppets and pawns.

This one was real.

Between a Saint and a Scoundrel

The bell above your shop door jingled.

You looked up from your counter, expecting a regular. Maybe someone here for the fresh honey bread or the silver trinkets you had on display today.

Instead—him.

Albus York.

Towering. Scarred. Smoldering like someone just pissed him off on the walk here. Probably someone did.

And behind him—her.

Faithful.

Warm eyes like molten gold. White coat brushing the floor. Kind smile framed in that terrifying, holy glow that made most people bow their heads.

You squeaked. Audibly.

Albus narrowed his eyes. “You okay?”

“F-Fine,” you said, dropping a teacup. It shattered.

Faith stepped forward before you could move, knelt, and picked up the broken pieces.

You stared, stunned, as she set the pieces down gently and smiled up at you. “Don’t worry, love. We’ll cover that.”

“No—no, I—it was my fault, I just wasn’t—”

“Looking at me?” she asked sweetly.

You went red. “I—what—no, I wasn’t, I mean you’re very—oh stars.”

Albus made a noise like he was choking back a laugh.

You whirled on him. “Do you need something?!”

“Faith wanted jam,” he said, leaning an arm on the counter. “I told her we could’ve gone to the north plaza. She said, ‘No, I want the cute one’s shop.’”

You wanted to crawl under your display case.

Faith, bless her heart (or curse it, you weren’t sure), simply stepped beside you now, peering at the jars on the shelf like she wasn’t obliterating you with affection. “I heard you made plum preserves with real sea sugar. Is that true?”

You nodded. Or shook your head. You weren’t sure.

“Is it also true,” Faith continued gently, “that you sell sun-dried strawberry cakes?”

“I—yes.”

Albus snorted behind her. “You’re killing ‘em, Faith.”

“I’m not trying to,” she replied. Then, to you, “Darling, can I have three of each? And a cup of whatever tea makes your hands stop shaking.”

You froze. Blinked. You were definitely shaking.

Faith reached out, gently placed her hand over yours.

You forgot how to breathe.

“You’re very lovely,” she said. “You don’t have to be nervous around me.”

You opened your mouth.

Nothing came out.

Albus, biting back laughter again, chimed in, “They act like this every time you show up. You really can’t tell?”

Faith gave him a slow look. “Albus. Kindly shut up.”

He did. Immediately.

Faith turned back to you, her tone softening again. “I just wanted to support your shop. And maybe spend time with the person who makes this entire street smell like warm joy.”

You blinked up at her. “I’m… warm joy?”

“You are.” She smiled. “You’re my favorite stop in the city.”

A small noise left your throat. Some hybrid between a laugh and a wheeze.

“Okay,” you said. “Okay. Um. I’ll—three jams, three cakes, and tea. Coming up.”

You scurried off, barely managing to grab the tea leaves without dropping something else.

Behind you, Albus muttered, “They’re gonna combust.”

Faith just sighed, dreamy and soft. “I hope not. I really like them.”

The Devil Wears Silk

The casino was all velvet shadows and golden light, smoke curling up like whispers too soft to hear. You weren’t supposed to be here. Not really. Your job was to blend in, slip past the noise, and leave before trouble found you.

But trouble was already staring.

She leaned against the bar like she owned the world, one long-gloved hand draped around her glass, the other tugging lazily at the ruby pendant hanging from her throat. Lady Zaryia.

Her lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile—too sharp, too knowing. Like she’d already figured out your secrets before you even crossed the room.

“Careful, darling,” her voice purred, silk wrapped around steel. “Staring at me like that can be dangerous.”

You froze mid-step. Maybe it was the way her eyes flickered, catching the golden light like fire, or the way her words dripped honey and venom all at once. But your tongue betrayed you before your brain caught up.

“Maybe I like danger.”

Her brows arched, slow and wicked. She turned fully toward you, her presence overwhelming, magnetic—like every patron in the club had ceased to exist. She looked at you as if you were a hand-picked prize she was deciding whether to unwrap or devour.

“Oh,” Zaryia murmured, stepping close enough that her perfume curled around you—something spiced and intoxicating. “I do adore a bold one. Most people either worship me or run. And here you are, walking straight into my arms.”

You tried to play it cool. “And what if I am?”

That was when her smile truly appeared—slow, deliberate, the kind that made your heart race because it promised nothing good and everything you secretly wanted.

“Then,” she whispered, lowering her mouth near your ear, her breath ghosting over your skin, “I’ll have to make sure you never walk away again.”

Her gloved fingers brushed your wrist. Not grabbing, not forcing—just the faintest touch. A tease. Enough to make your pulse stutter and your knees ache to give out.

She drew back, tilting her head, studying you like an artist with a canvas. Her grin widened. “Mmm. Kicking your feet already, little star? Don’t lie to me—I can tell.”