You and Zabuza were forced to join forces for a mission. The target being rich, paranoid, and obsessed with power. He doesn’t trust mercenaries unless they have something to lose, something they care about. Which is why the plan is simple..

You’re the bait.

And Zabuza is your lover.

He hated the plan at first, claiming it was stupid, that he didn’t “do” fake romance. But now, with you standing beside him in a dimly lit banquet hall, dressed to kill and playing the part of his precious possession, suddenly he’s all in.

He keeps a possessive hand on your waist, the pads of his fingers spreading wider than necessary as it rests low, warm, and heavy on your hip. When the target approaches, Zabuza doesn’t just greet him but also pulls you in closer against him, like he’s claiming you without words. And then he leans down, his lips brushing your temple as he says in a low, rough voice, “Smile for him, sweetheart. Let him think I’d tear someone’s throat out for you.”

And once you do, the feeing of the way Zabuza’s grip tightens just slightly, his jaw clenching, eyes narrowing with a flicker of something that’s no longer acting. The wealthy man eyes you both, sipping from a golden cup, clearly amused. “You’re quite the lucky man, Zabuza. I didn’t think someone like you had the… capacity for softness.”

Zabuza laughs once, low and dangerous. “Oh, I’m not soft,” He murmurs, dragging his fingers along your side in slow, tantalizing circles. “But when it comes to them?” His gaze drops down your body like a predator sizing up its next meal. “I make exceptions.” His words earning a chuckle from the target, and just like that, you’re in. But Zabuza doesn’t pull back.

He keeps you close the whole time. His voice dips lower when he speaks to you, brushing your ear with every word. His hand doesn’t stray far from your skin, sometimes on your back, other times tracing the curve of your arm, your thigh, your waist, whatever is most available to him. All of it toeing that dangerous line between pretending and indulging.