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cumironi · 6 days ago

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A FLEXIBLE BIMBO’S GUIDE TO FINANCIAL RUIN, NAMASTEEE

feat. gojo, geto, nanami, toji, sukuna, shiu, higuruma

sum. thousand for pilates and your expensive juice while your boyfriend is working his ass off. is it acceptable? obviously not that’s why they’ll help you streeeeech.

warning(s). non-sorcerer, modern AU, reader is a spoiled college brat, age gap relationship (31yo man / 23yo reader), possessive behavior, manhandling, leg-on-shoulder sex position, power play, rough sex, standing sex, impact play (spanking), overstimulation, internal ejaculation / cum leaking, dirty talk, mild degradation, praise kink, pussy drunk characterization, full nelson position, handpinning, wall fucking, orgasm denial, delayed climax, size kink, wet and messy sex, nipple play (biting, sucking), overstretched pu$$y, cumplay, emotionally repressed men snapping sexually, physical restraint (arm pinning, leg holding), reader being folded like a pilates reformer machine, window fucking, public exposure risk (urban apartment), swearing / explicit language, casual misogyny with affection, mental breakdown via dick, all characters are consenting adults.

GOJO SATORU

you don’t even hear the front door slam. too busy lounging on the couch in his hoodie—oversized and smelling like his stupid expensive cologne, with your phone balanced against your knee, legs thrown up like a princess in exile. a cucumber mint smoothie sweating beside you. freshly blended. still cold. probably fourteen dollars.

you hear his footsteps instead. that deliberate, heavy stride of a man who’s either bringing you dinner or about to fuck up your entire life for sport.

you don’t look up.

but you feel it.

that vibration of a presence when gojo satoru walks into the room pissed and amused in equal measure. like he’s caught you stealing gold bars again. like he’s gonna make you beg for the next one. he tosses something. paper. it hits you in the chest and flutters down.

you blink.

“…did you just throw a receipt at me?”

his sunglasses are off. he never wears them at home unless he’s about to deliver bad news in a dramatic monologue. “that’s a pilates receipt,” he says. “for fifty-six thousand yen.” a beat. “for one month.”

you lift your eyes lazily. “that’s the introductory rate.”

his hands come to his hips. god. those fucking hips. “and what exactly are they teaching you in this luxury cult that justifies you spending my hard-earned salary on getting tied to a piece of wood and shoved around like a meat puzzle?”

you lick smoothie off your straw.

“they work my core. build length. alignment. it’s a holistic approach to mobility and flexibility.” he stares at you in silence for a full ten seconds. his nostrils flare. “…you think you’re flexible?” he says at last. you blink slowly. you can feel the grin starting before it curls into your mouth.

“i’ve seen what you do to me,” you say sweetly. “so yes. i think i’m very flexible. you’re lucky i don’t invoice you.”

a second passes. a long one.

then—he’s moving.

fast.

you let out a delighted yelp as he grabs you off the couch, your smoothie flying somewhere behind you like a casualty of war. your legs kick, flail, but his grip is iron. the hoodie rides up to your waist as he tosses you over his shoulder.

“satoru—satoru—”

“shut up,” he says, smacking your ass, “and show me how much i’m paying for.”

the first time he folds you in half, it’s on the kitchen counter.

his hand’s between your shoulders, pressing you flat to the cold marble. your knees are up beside your ears. your panties are gone. his sweats are halfway down his thighs. and his cock—god, his cock—is already inside you, thick and veiny and curved just enough to punch something inside you you’ve never had anyone reach before.

he’s not even moving. just holding you there. impaled.

your calves tremble. your toes curl.

“not bad,” he murmurs, dragging his fingers along your inner thigh. “but these pilates people… do they fold you like this, baby? get your knees touching your fucking shoulders like this?” you try to breathe but there’s no air. just the stretch. the deepness. the weight of him inside you, pulsing.

you nod, eyes fluttering.

“liar,” he breathes, and slams into you.

your scream echoes off tile. his thrusts are punishing. slow. like he’s testing your range of motion. pulling out almost entirely and then pushing back in with a controlled, maddening precision that leaves you shaking.

“look at you. soaking all over my counter. and you have the audacity to use my card for yoga class when you’ve got me right here? i should break your fucking spine.” you whine. moan. shudder. he’s so deep—you feel like you’re going to come just from the position. from how your body is folded under him, stretched wide, vulnerable.

he grabs your ankle. lifts it higher. you nearly scream again.

“god, look at this. baby. you’re literally bent in half. you wanna waste my money? make it worth it.”

round two is on the floor.

your legs are straddling his shoulders. your arms are pinned under his knees. and your entire torso is rolled up like he’s about to pile-drive you through the floorboards. “this one’s called happy baby,” he murmurs, licking your clit slow and messy. “except i don’t think there’s anything holy about what i’m doing to you right now.”

you can’t speak.

your thighs are shaking. your pussy’s swollen, wet, overstimulated from the last orgasm and being edged through two more. he keeps licking. slow and relentless. circling that tender spot just enough to make your stomach curl and twist, like you’re being stretched from the inside out.

“fuck,” he whispers. “your little hole’s fluttering. you gonna come again? just from my tongue?” you try to wiggle, but he tightens his grip. makes a noise against your clit that vibrates through your spine.

you break. completely. shuddering against his mouth, gushing against his chin as you come again, full-body, screaming his name. he groans, hips grinding into the floor, hungry for it. like he gets off just from wrecking you.

by the time he’s finally inside you again, this time from behind, kneeling over you with your arms pulled back into a stretch that arches your chest off the bed—he’s panting.

you’re soaked.

his cock slides in easy. and he just holds you there. hips flush. dick fully buried. sweat dripping down his chest onto your back. “jesus christ,” he groans. “this pussy—this fucking pussy—baby, i think you broke me.”

you make a sound. a weak, ruined whimper.

he chuckles.

softly.

leans down. kisses your shoulder. cheek. presses his chest to your back and rocks into you with slow, loving strokes, fucking you now like he means it. “you win,” he whispers against your ear. “fuck the pilates. i’ll stretch you every morning.”

a pause.

“but i’m charging you for the smoothies now.”

GETO SUGURU

it starts in the kitchen.

you’re wearing that outfit. leggings that cling to your ass like a second skin, high waistband hugging the curve of your hips. cropped tank top, no bra, just the hint of nipple pressing against the fabric like a test of his restraint. hair twisted up messily, neck exposed.

you’re blending something. bright green and expensive-smelling.

he walks in from work and drops his keys with a low clink, and for a moment, it’s quiet.

then, “you’ve been at that place again.”

your spine straightens.

“what place?” you don’t even turn around. voice all air and innocence, like you’ve already decided you’re going to lie through your teeth. “don’t fucking play with me,” he says, tone level, low, a blade unsheathed. “i saw the charge. that pilates studio. twenty-four thousand yen. again.”

you sip. “they added advanced core conditioning.”

“did they add a private fucking chef too? you spent more on smoothies this month than on textbooks.” you don’t flinch. just smirk into the glass. “i’m investing in my longevity.”

and that’s it.

the silence that follows is deep and weighted and final.

because he doesn’t argue when he’s past the point of talking. he acts. the next thing you feel are his hands on your waist, dragging you away from the counter with no warning, smoothie glass thunking to the floor, half-spilled. he spins you, lifts you—lifts you—and slams your back into the cool surface behind. you yelp, arms catching the edge behind you as he shoves his thigh between your legs and presses. hard.

“you want flexibility?” he growls, mouth hot on your jaw. “mobility? deep core engagement?”

his hands grip your thighs and spread them wide, pushing them up and open until you’re practically doing a split across the marble. the stretch burns—but it’s not enough to distract from the thick press of his thigh grinding up against your pussy through the leggings, damp already. “i’ll give you a fucking full-body workout.”

“no one touches me,” you gasp.

you moan, but it’s cut off when he grabs your jaw—tight—and forces your face toward him. “you think this ass is yours to flaunt on some reformer bed? think they stretch you like i do?” he’s furious. but there’s something underneath it. darker. hotter.

you’re being owned. corrected. and you love it.

he snorts. low and sharp. “except when you beg for it.”

he strips you bare in the living room.

throws your top to the floor. tears the leggings down your legs like they offended him. you squirm, bare now, flushed from neck to thigh. he doesn’t even bother undressing fully—just shoves his slacks and boxers down enough to free his cock, hard and thick and already leaking.

“get on the floor,” he says, voice gravel.

you obey.

he grabs your ankle and drags you to him, and it’s not gentle. your skin scrapes on the carpet. your breath hitches. but you’re soaked. he folds your knees to your chest, pushes both legs back until you’re open and exposed and trembling. “you think this position is in your class?” he growls, staring down at your cunt, glistening under the light. “you think they stretch you like this?”

you’re so open you can’t breathe. your thighs tremble from the pressure. your cunt pulses with need.

and then—

he pushes in.

slow at first. just enough to stretch your entrance wide. then he rams forward with no mercy, burying himself to the hilt in a single thrust that punches a sound out of your throat you’ve never made before.

your eyes roll back. your hands claw at the carpet. you’re full, painfully, impossibly full. he’s so deep it aches. “feel that?” he hisses through his teeth, dragging his cock out slow, letting your walls grip every ridge of him. “this is the only stretch that matters.”

he fucks you like a hammer. like he’s working out every ounce of frustration with the way your body folds around him. he bends your legs back until your knees press into your chest and your ass lifts off the ground. your pussy squelches, loud, raw, soaking. the slap of skin on skin echoes in the room.

he leans down, mouth to your ear.

“they stretch your pussy this deep?” he hisses.

“n—no,” you choke.

he grabs your throat—firm, not choking. just holding.

“say it again.”

“no one—no one does but you.”

he kisses you then—rough and filthy, tongue sliding into your mouth like it owns you. he doesn’t stop fucking you even as your moans catch in your throat. he wants it there. to feel it. to taste it. to make it real.

he flips you over onto your stomach without pulling out.

you gasp as your face hits the carpet, and then he’s grinding into you from behind, deeper now, weight heavy over your back, one hand fisted in your hair.

you sob into the floor.

“stay right there,” he growls. “arch your fucking back—good. that’s it. hold it.” he pistons into you from behind, his hand smacking your ass hard, again, again, until it burns. “legs shaking already?” he pants. “you’re such a spoiled little brat. wanna run your mouth, waste my money, act like your pussy isn’t mine.”

he pulls your head back by your hair and bites your neck—hard.

“say it.”

“it’s yours—fuck, suguru—i swear—”

he fucks you even harder.

and when you finally come—shaking, convulsing, sobbing into the carpet with your pussy gripping him like it’ll never let go—he groans, low and guttural, and spills inside you in thick, hot waves. he doesn’t pull out. he stays there. buried. deep. panting.

hours later—your face still mashed against the floor, limbs trembling, thighs bruised—he finally slides out. you feel the slow drip of his cum down your thigh. then his fingers. he pushes it back in with two of them. slow. possessive.

“no more pilates,” he murmurs, brushing sweat-slick hair off your temple. “you want to stretch, baby, you come to me.”

you blink up at him, broken and beaming.

“…can i still get the smoothies?”

he laughs once, low and sharp.

then grabs your ankle again.

“bend over the couch. you’re not done.”

NANAMI KENTO

you should’ve known something was wrong when he texted you at 4:41 p.m.

“i’ll be home by five. don’t go anywhere.”

no emoji. no dot dot dot. just those words. clean and dry like a corporate bullet.

you thought he was bluffing. he doesn’t leave the office early for anything. he eats his lunch standing up and answers emails with a frown so deep it might be surgical. but he walks through the door at 4:58 p.m. briefcase down. tie still on. and he doesn't kiss you. he sets a folded piece of paper on the counter. a receipt. you don’t even need to look at it.

you know what it is.

“you spent sixty-five thousand yen,” he says without looking at you, sliding off his watch. “in one week.” you chew your lip, standing in the kitchen like a caught rabbit in leggings that cling to your ass, sports bra sticking to your chest. “they had a stretch reformer bootcamp this week,” you offer weakly.

his brow twitches.

“that’s what you call it?” he asks, walking toward you, loosening his tie. “bootcamp? to lie on your back while some barely-trained teenager straps you into resistance bands and calls it exercise?”

“they do more than that—”

“i can see what they do. your little videos. those slow leg lifts. the air-humping. the stretching. you think that justifies the bill you sent me?” he’s standing close now. close enough that his cologne—clean cedar, leather, citrus undercut with heat—wraps around you like a noose. you smirk, defiant even as your heartbeat stutters. “i’m flexible now,” you say, voice light. “isn’t that worth something?”

he exhales slowly. closes his eyes.

and when he opens them again—

“strip.”

he doesn't let you undress yourself. he does it for you.

then his hands are on your hips, firm and possessive. he turns you. pushes your back against the cold wall of the hallway. one palm finds your throat. not choking—just there. heavy. dominant.

rips the waistband of your leggings down with one brutal tug, dragging them past your knees, your thighs, baring you inch by inch like he’s unwrapping something expensive he owns.

he peels your bra up, off, tossing it behind you with a flick of his wrist.

“so,” he murmurs, voice low as his other hand slips between your legs. “how flexible?” your breath catches. you’re soaked already. your thighs part on instinct, the pulse of need between them aching and slick. he pushes two fingers in. slow. precise. your body clenches.

his voice is a near-growl.

“pathetic,” he mutters. “you’re dripping just from me undressing you. and you spend my money so some stranger can put your legs in the air?” you moan. try to speak. he curls his fingers inside you just enough to make you gasp, then pulls them out and shoves them into your mouth.

“taste it.”

you suck, eyes fluttering.

he grins, slow and mean.

“we’re doing this my way tonight.”

you don’t even understand what’s happening until you’re on the bed, face down, arms yanked back—hard—and your body is suddenly off the mattress. lifted. bent.

“nanami—?”

his hands are under your knees. your arms are over his, bent back. your entire body is suspended in the air, your back arched, your thighs spread wide. his chest is to your back. and you’re held in place by the cage of his arms and the brutal grip of his thighs against yours.

he growls into your neck, “you want flexibility? i’ll show you full extension.”

then he pushes into you.

you scream.

he’s thick. hard. ruthless. your pussy stretches around him so tight you think you might tear. he buries himself to the hilt in a single thrust, cock carving into you like he’s claiming space. you can’t even move. your legs are pinned wide. your arms pulled back. your back arched so deeply that your chest is jutting forward, helpless and trembling.

and he starts to fuck you.

deep. measured. powerful.

his hips slam into your ass with every thrust, every brutal grind of cock against your swollen, aching cunt. your body bounces in his grip, caught, dangling, used. “this what they teach you?” he hisses into your ear. “this angle? this depth? you feel that, baby?”

you sob. nod. can’t speak.

“say it.”

you struggle, mouth open, words choked out with every thrust.

“they—don’t—fuck—me—like—you—do—”

he groans, fucking harder.

“they better not.”

he adjusts his grip, pulling your knees higher. deeper angle. you choke on a scream as he hits something so deep your vision goes white. his mouth is on your shoulder now, teeth dragging over skin, lips slick with sweat and spit and need. he doesn’t stop. not when your pussy spasms around him, clenching like a fist. not when your orgasm crashes into you like a scream trapped inside bone.

he fucks you through it. never slowing. never relenting.

“you want a stretch? i’ll keep you bent like this until your muscles seize.” he groans. pants. and then—he comes. deep inside you. cock pulsing. his hands locked on your body like a cage. he holds you there, suspended, filled.

like a lesson.

after, he lowers you onto the bed like something delicate. ruined. you’re trembling. twitching. your thighs won’t close. his cum leaks out of you in slow, thick drips. his hand brushes your hair back. “next time you want to stretch,” he murmurs, voice rough and dark, “you ask me.”

you nod.

he leans down. kisses your temple. “and if i see one more charge from that place—” his hand slips back between your thighs. “—i’ll fuck you in the lobby.”

TOJI FUSHIGURO

the door slams behind him with enough force to shake the floorboards.

you’re mid-pose. stretched out over a yoga ball in front of the TV, leggings practically painted onto your ass, some workout influencer with a honeyed voice instructing you to breathe through the sacral engagement.

you turn your head, a smirk curling at your mouth.

“hey, babe—home early?”

toji doesn’t answer. he tosses his keys onto the counter, shrugs out of his jacket, and holds something up between two fingers. a receipt. long. curled at the edge. “three sessions in one day?” he asks, voice flat. “you training to be a contortionist now?”

you blink, innocent.

“they had a flexibility workshop.”

“flexibility,” he repeats, stepping forward. “you need them to teach you that?”

you open your mouth to retort—but it dies in your throat when he closes the distance. one hand goes straight to your throat. the other to the back of your head. he grips you—hard—drags you up off the yoga ball, and before you can breathe, he’s got you slammed flat over the kitchen counter. "you think i pay for you to stretch out that tight little pussy in some fancy-ass studio with floor-length mirrors and soy candles? huh?"

your hips writhe, but his hand slaps down hard on your ass.

“answer me.”

“n-no, toji—fuck—i—”

he grabs the waistband of your leggings and rips them. not tugs. not slides. tears. the elastic pops. your panties with them. you’re bare now, bent over the cold counter, pussy slick and already dripping because of course you're soaked from this.

he slides his fingers between your legs. hums.

“so wet just from me walking in. you like getting caught.” you gasp, biting your lip, and he shoves two fingers in. hard. fast. curls them until you cry out. "yeah. that’s what i thought. you fucking brat."

he takes you right there.

no prep. no warning.

one hand between your shoulders, the other pinning your wrists to the counter. he rips his belt open, pulls his cock out—already hard—and thrusts inside in one brutal, merciless motion.

you scream. your body bucks. your eyes roll back.

he’s thick. too big. stretching you wide with no time to adjust. it burns—but god, it’s good.

“this what you wanted?” he growls against your ear. “wanted to see if those yoga freaks could get you as deep as me?” he slams into you again. again. your pussy’s clenching, spasming, trying to take him. failing. it’s too much. and you’re shaking already. his grip moves to your hair. yanks your head back. you’re drooling, eyes unfocused.

he laughs.

“you’re so fucking dumb when i fuck you like this. i should film it. send it to your instructor. ‘here’s your little star pupil—can’t even spell her name with a cock in her.’”

then he really gets mean.

he flips you over like you weigh nothing. tosses you onto the floor in the living room—next to the yoga mat, your smoothie still sweating on the side table—and grabs you. pulls you into his lap. traps your arms. lifts you up, and suddenly—your knees are over his thighs, your legs spread, and your arms are pinned up under his.

full nelson.

you’ve got no leverage. no control. your whole body is open, suspended, split wide.

and then—

he sinks into you again.

hard.

you scream. back arching. vision blurring.

his cock hits everything from this angle. it's like he's splitting you in half. you can't even fight it—your arms are trapped, your legs forced wide, and he’s using your own weight to fuck you down onto his cock over and over again, bouncing you like a toy. “there’s your stretch,” he snarls. “you feel that? you’re so fucking open, i can see my cock through your stomach.”

you sob. try to nod. can't speak.

he’s relentless.

fucking up into you, holding you like a ragdoll, your pussy wrapped tight around him, spasming with every thrust. he’s groaning now—raw, rough, sweat slicking his chest. “you earned this,” he pants. “all that money you spent—now you’re gonna pay it off.” he slams up again. your moan is wrecked.

“with your fucking cunt.”

when you come, it’s violent.

your body seizes, twitching hard in his grip. your pussy milks him. chokes on him. you’re sobbing—babbling nonsense—legs trembling around his waist.

toji groans.

and comes.

deep inside you. thick and hot. filling you up so much you feel it dripping before he even stops. he doesn’t let you go. he just holds you there. cock still buried. chest heaving. “there,” he mutters. “that’s a real full-body workout.”

a beat.

“and baby?” he leans in, voice low and dark against your ear. “next time you spend my fucking money without asking—i’ll fold you backwards.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA

you’d been running your mouth all day.

legs sore from class, tank top sweat-slicked, face flushed with that post-workout glow like you’d actually worked for something.

“my hamstrings are tight,” you’d whined, flopping onto the couch, pushing your ankle onto his thigh like you wanted him to touch you. “we did these deep lunge extensions—my instructor said i’m really flexible now.”

sukuna didn’t say anything then.

just looked at you—eyeing the curve of your ass in those fucking leggings, the way you stretched like you knew he was watching. the bratty smile you gave him when you took the last of his cigarette and didn’t say thank you.

he waited.

waited until now—late evening, when the lights are low and the room smells like smoke and sex and skin—and you’re backed against the wall, your tank top riding high, your panties hanging by a thread, and your leg thrown over his shoulder like it’s nothing.

like you’re just that flexible.

he’s inside you already.

deep.

fucking inches deep.

his cock stretches you wide, thick and brutal, the kind of stretch that burns in your thighs and pulses in your cunt, and he hasn’t even moved yet.

his hands are gripping your hips hard—fingers bruising, rough, possessive—and your heel’s hooked over his shoulder, your other leg barely holding your weight as your back arches into the plaster.

and he just smiles. slow. dangerous.

“look at that,” he murmurs, voice rough silk, hand sliding up the inside of your raised thigh, gripping the meat of it, squeezing. “this how they stretch you in those little classes of yours?”

you try to speak. your mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

he chuckles.

“nah,” he says. “they don’t stretch you like this, do they?”

he thrusts. once. deep.

your breath shatters.

he’s so fucking deep you swear you can feel him in your ribs. your pussy clenches. your hips jerk. your fingers claw at his shoulders, but he doesn’t stop—just keeps you right there, leg hoisted high, body bent and trembling.

“fuck, baby,” he grins, cock sliding out slow before slamming back in. “you’re opening up so easy. maybe those classes are working.”

you moan. broken. breathless.

his hand wraps around your throat.

“you like this, huh? standing here, pussy stretched open, one fucking leg in the air like a good little slut on display?”

“fuck—sukuna—please—”

he rolls his hips, angling his thrusts to grind against your g-spot, relentless and deep.

you sob. your thighs tremble.

he groans, filthy and low, lips brushing the curve of your jaw.

“you feel that stretch in your hips, sweetheart? in your cunt?”

he thrusts again—hard—makes your whole body bounce against the wall.

“this is real flexibility,” he growls. “this is what i pay for.”

his mouth is everywhere—your neck, your shoulder, your tits—teeth grazing, lips sucking, tongue trailing fire down your throat. and the whole time, his cock keeps slamming into you, dragging moans from your chest you didn’t know you could make.

you’re babbling now. drunk on him. on how deep he is. on the burn in your thighs and the slick squelch of your soaked cunt every time he pulls out and drives back in. “so fucking tight,” he pants. “and still taking it all. you feel how wide i’ve got you open?” his thumb drops to your clit. rubs circles—mean, precise, perfect.

you cry out. jerk.

“uh-uh,” he hisses, pinning your hips. “don’t move. hold the leg. keep it up. you want to be flexible, brat? show me.” your muscles scream. your body shakes. but you obey. because he’s so deep. so rough. so fucking good.

he kisses your throat.

“attagirl.”

and when he comes?

when you come—it’s violent. sudden. full-body.

your vision flares. you scream, cunt clenching around him so tight he groans, hips stuttering, face buried in your neck as he fucks you through it, doesn’t slow, doesn’t let up.

it’s deep.

a growl ripped from his chest, cock twitching inside you as he fills you up with so much cum it leaks out around him even before he pulls out. you’re shaking. leg still hoisted. mouth open. whole body limp. he finally lowers your leg.

lets you collapse against him, his arms wrapping around you, hand cradling the back of your head like you’re breakable. then, low against your ear: “that’s the only stretch that matters.”

SHIU KONG

he doesn’t say a word when he gets home. not when he finds your receipt on the bathroom counter—fifty-two thousand yen for a reformer stretch package. not when he sees you on the couch, barefoot, bare-legged, sipping an iced matcha like it wasn’t paid for with his blood money.

just drops his phone. loosens his tie. and walks over to you with that expression—tight mouth, heavy brow. all controlled violence. you glance up. blink.

“what?”

he sits beside you.

silent.

and grabs your jaw.

not roughly. not yet. just enough to tilt your face to his. “get on the floor,” he says, calm. cool. deadly. “face down. knees wide.”

you pause.

“…what?”

his hand slides to your throat. squeezes, just a little. eyes dark.

“you heard me.”

he doesn’t strip you all the way. just yanks your panties down and pushes your little workout shorts to the side, your tank top rucked up above your hips. he wants you dressed for this. dressed like the spoiled little slut you are.

“this is called frog pose, right?” he murmurs, gripping your ankles and dragging them wide. “hips open, knees bent. cute little ass in the air.” your face burns. the stretch in your thighs is deep, your cunt already throbbing from being so exposed, so vulnerable. your chest is flat to the rug, back arched, legs splayed.

and then you feel it.

his cock.

thick. hard. dragging along your slit, teasing. mean.

“you want mobility?” he mutters. “i’ll give you mobility.”

he pushes in—slow. thick. stretching you until your mouth opens around a gasp and your fingers clutch at the carpet. your pussy sucks him in, inch by inch, until he’s deep, hips flush against the meat of your ass.

and then he stays there.

hands on your lower back. holding you open.

"fuck," he breathes. "look at how deep i am in this position. you feel that?" you try to move—try to rock back onto him—but his palm lands hard across your ass, the smack echoing in the room. “don’t move,” he growls. “just stay open. let me fuck you like this.”

and then he starts.

his hips snap forward. hard. again. again.

each thrust punches a cry out of your chest, muffled against the carpet, your body rocking from the force of it. he grabs your wrists, yanks them behind your back, pins them with one hand, and uses the other to shove your hips down, locking you in place. “this what you pay them for?” he growls. “to stretch your hips? your back?”

he slams into you, balls slapping, breath hot over your spine.

“they fuck you like this, sweetheart?”

you shake your head, sobbing.

he leans down, lips brushing your ear.

“say it.”

“no—fuck—no one does but you—”

he groans. thrusts harder. his cock hits so deep it feels like your guts rearrange every time. your knees tremble. thighs ache. the stretch is insane—but you can’t stop coming, pussy clenching, walls fluttering, drooling around his cock with every filthy grind of his hips. "jesus," he pants, “this cunt was made to stay open like this.”

and when he comes?

he stays inside. grinds deep. dumps every drop into your spasming cunt and keeps it in you with a hard slap to your ass and a hand dragging down your spine.

after?

you’re still face-down, body limp, legs aching from the stretch. shiu pulls your panties back up. kisses your thigh. smooths your hair. and murmurs, low and serious: “next time you want to stretch—” his hand cups your sore, slick cunt. “—you ask.”

HIGURUMA HIROMI

it starts with the door clicking shut.

you’re home before him, sprawled on his couch in one of his button-down shirts—open, loose, your tank top tight underneath, your bare legs tucked up beneath you. the TV is on. you’re sipping kombucha like you pay for it.

he enters in silence.

shoes off. briefcase down. suit jacket hung neatly over the hook. tie loosened. he doesn’t speak. not until he stands in the doorway between living room and hall, holding a piece of paper like a verdict. long receipt. high total. you glance over. sip.

“…that from the studio?”

he lifts one brow. folds it. sets it on the table.

"forty-seven thousand,” he says calmly. “for one week.”

you blink. “it's—private sessions.”

“i can see that.” he steps closer. “what exactly do they do to you in these sessions?” you tilt your head, smirk already crawling to your mouth. “stretch me out.” he breathes in. slow. nostrils flare. you can feel the temperature shift.

“get up.”

he doesn’t speak again until you’re backed into the bedroom, his hand wrapped gently—too gently—around your wrist, and his voice low.

“take your clothes off.”

you blink.

he leans in. kisses your cheek. “slowly.”

you do. piece by piece. he watches. the shirt slides down your arms. your tank top peels over your head. your sports bra falls away—no noise, no rush. panties next. his eyes stay on you the entire time. and when you’re finally bare, standing quiet, naked and still in front of him—

he moves.

you don’t realize what he’s doing until your back hits the window. one hand cups your thigh, pulls it up. higher. higher—until your knee’s nearly pressed to your chest, the other foot flat on the floor, your heel hooked over his shoulder. he adjusts his grip—one hand under your thigh, the other on your waist, thumb brushing just under your breast.

and then—

he pushes in.

slow. deliberate. devastating.

your eyes roll. your mouth opens in a gasp you don’t finish, because he’s deep—so fucking deep in this angle, cock hitting every spot you didn’t know you had. your pussy flutters, clenching around him already. “you’re silent now,” he murmurs. you try to breathe. try to speak. “what happened to that mouth?” he rocks his hips forward. not fast. not brutal. just deep. intentional.

in control.

“they stretch you like this?” he says softly, tone clinical. “push your leg up here, keep your pussy open while they slide inside?” you whimper. shake your head.

his voice stays level. “answer.”

“n-no—fuck, hiromi—just you—only you—”

his mouth presses to your neck. he still doesn’t speed up. just keeps your body exactly where he wants it—your leg over his shoulder, your hips tilted perfectly, his cock dragging deep and slow inside your cunt, every motion pressing you harder against the glass.

you’re dripping.

he feels it.

your slick is painting his cock, soaking the front of his slacks, your inner thigh shining in the low light.

“flexible,” he murmurs, dragging his hand up to your ribs, thumb brushing under your breast again. “but not enough.” he pulls out—slow—until just the tip remains. and slams back in. your scream shatters the quiet. his fingers grip your throat—not tight, just there, grounding. a point of contact. “you’ll hold this position,” he says. “until i finish.”

he fucks you like that for what feels like hours. never too fast. never losing rhythm. just deep, hard strokes. your leg high. trembling. your foot still braced on the floor, trying to hold balance while he uses you against the window like a study in anatomy.

your orgasm comes without warning—tight, sharp, full-body. your cunt clenches, spasming, walls squeezing so tight he groans. but he doesn’t stop. just fucks you through it, even deeper. “you’ll give me another,” he murmurs. “legs this flexible, you can take two.”

you sob.

“three.”

his hand dips between your legs. finds your clit.

“four.”

he finishes inside you.

still holding your leg high, cock buried deep, cum leaking down your thigh. your head lolls against the window. the city lights blur. he lowers your leg slowly. kisses your forehead. adjusts your hair with one hand. straightens your back. then murmurs— “next time you want a stretch, you’ll do it here. for free.”

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beloveds-embrace · 17 days ago

Text

(p2 of mail order soldier könig)

Despite everything, you really weren’t ready for how big he was.

Sure, his profile had mentioned it- “tall” in bold, all-caps, like a warning label or a selling point, depending on your preferences alongside his equally intimidating name. And his vibe? Absolutely screamed haunted clock tower. You had expected “tall” in the way NBA players were tall, or the way celebrities looked tall on red carpets but were actually like 5’10” in real life. But this? This was different. This was architectural: König didn’t just walk into a space; he filled it like a cathedral with opinions. You stood next to him and felt like a misplaced LEGO figure who’d been granted custody of an ancient war relic. Every time he moved, you felt the displacement of air like God was adjusting a chess piece.

You had thought all of that because the trip back to your temporary apartment had been… an ordeal. König didn’t drive. You hadn’t even gotten far enough to ask why. It could’ve been a moral objection, a PTSD trigger, or just the fact that his knees probably touched his chin in a Toyota Corolla. You didn’t drive either (personal trauma plus urban nihilism), so rideshare it was. When the driver pulled up and caught a glimpse of König, who stood beside you like an executioner summoned from a darker, angrier timeline, the man audibly gasped and his foot started to inch toward the gas pedal.

You leaned in through the passenger window with your brightest, most deranged smile. “Five stars and I’ll make sure he doesn’t flay you.”

The driver nodded- poossibly blacked out. And drove like the devil was behind him, which, to be fair, he kind of was.

Arriving at your building was when the spatial tragedy truly began. König had to duck to get into the lobby. Not in a cute, awkward way, but like a kaiju visiting a dollhouse. The fluorescent lights buzzed uneasily overhead, dimming just slightly as if reacting to his gravitational pull, and you became hyper-aware of everything you owned and how none of it was rated for the stress test of Austrian death cryptid.

The elevator? Out of the question. Your third-floor apartment? Suddenly way too far from the ground. König climbed the stairs like a war machine from a documentary about siege tactics, each footstep a dull thud that you were certain would cost you your damage deposit, but at least he seemed to have no complaints… though you were sure he was unhappy with how you had to stop to catch your breath lseveral times while he remained military-commercial ready.

When you opened your apartment door and gestured grandly, the words that came out were: “This is… home. Temporary. Probably. Until you accidentally break the building and we need to live in a cave.”

König said nothing. Just paused in the doorway, ducking under the frame with practiced effort, and lingered there for a moment. His eyes- somewhere behind that hood, surely?- swept the place with a slow, methodical awareness that made you wonder how many exits he could already map and how many sniping points your living room offered.

You gestured to the couch with the fatal optimism of someone about to learn a lesson. “You can sit. If it holds.”

It did not. Or rather, it gave one last dramatic gasp of life. There was a creak, a pop, and then a long, soft crunch that felt less like furniture collapsing and more like it was filing for a legal separation. König, to his credit, looked apologetic. Or maybe he didn’t; it was hard to tell with the hood, but his shoulders hunched slightly, and that seemed like the body language equivalent of a Canadian “sorry.”

“…Okay. Floor’s fine too. Floor is classic.”

He lowered himself with all the elegance of a collapsing war monument, folding into a sprawl of limbs that somehow took up more space despite being on the ground. He sat cross-legged like a monk, if monks were built like tanks and radiated a kill count.

And then- the doorbell rang an unwelcome, familiar tune that made you freeze.

Not the good kind of freeze, and not the surprise-party kind. The fight-or-flight-oh-god-it’s-him kind. That sound- that arrogant, familiar, triple-tap of someone who thought your doorbell was a buzzer for attention? That was him.

Your ex-fiancé.

You turned slowly to König, who had stilled completely. His body didn’t move, but his attention locked onto the door like a predator scenting blood. He was suddenly alert, dangerous, like a loaded gun that had remembered it had a purpose.

“Okay,” you whispered, as if trying not to disturb a spirit. “This is a test. A dry run. Like a fire drill, except instead of fire, it’s a narcissistic man with commitment issues.”

König tilted his head slightly, and though you couldn’t see his face, you were 90% sure that meant, Shall I gut him or just remove the legs?

You held up one finger. “Let’s just… see what he wants first.”

You cracked the door open, just enough to peek through and block most of König’s terrifying silhouette. And there he was. Your ex-fiancé, smug as ever with his hair gelled within an inch of its life, shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal a gold chain that you were pretty sure had been repossessed twice.

“Hey, babe,” he said with that smirk that had once seemed charming and now just looked like he was trying to seduce his own reflection. He completely brushed over the fact that he had followed you all the way here, to this supposedly hidden apartment you got until you had König with you. “You haven’t been answering my texts.”

“I changed phones,” you replied instantly. “And numbers. And species.”

He gave a little laugh like you were just being coy. Leaned on the doorframe with the forced casualness of someone trying to win you back with zero self-awareness and all his tricks learned from BookTok. “Look, I know we’ve had our differences, but I’ve been thinking-”

And that was when König rose. Not stood, but rose.

The doorframe went from well-lit to eclipsed in seconds. A gloved hand slid into view and gripped the edge of the door, the fingers longer than your ex’s attention span. Your ex’s expression did a full software reboot.

“…Who the hell is that?”

You offered a cheerful shrug. “Oh, that’s König. My security system. He came with knives and trauma.”

König took one slow, deliberate step forward. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The pressure of him, the sheer atmospheric density of his presence, did all the work. It was like standing in front of an oncoming avalanche and realizing the snow hates you.

Your ex-fiancé made a sound- a half-choked, half-whined hiccup that suggested his ego had just herniated. Still, he tried to rally. Puffing his chest. “I’m not scared of him, okay? You think you can threaten me with some… some cosplaying lunatic?”

König stepped forward again. Just one inch. Just enough.

The air grew heavy.

Your ex backpedaled so fast you almost heard cartoon sound effects. “Y-you know what? This is toxic. You’re toxic. I was trying to be the bigger person!”

König tilted his head again. Just enough to reveal a single glint of eye behind the hood, and it made your ex scream.

Actually screamed. Like a man encountering the consequences of his actions for the very first time. And then he was gone. Fled down the hallway like the answer to a prayer you hadn’t had time to finish.

“We’ll talk later!”

No, we won’t.

You shut the door with the satisfying click of sealing a tomb, you grin slowly stretching.

König turned back to you, then, silent and still waiting. .

You reached up and patted his arm- gently, because you were fairly certain that bicep could be registered as a medieval weapon. “A+, no notes. Extremely threatening. Ten out of ten cryptid vibes. You are great!”

He made a low soun that was not quite a grunt and not quite a sigh, and you took it as a thank-you.

Later, after the adrenaline had faded, you handed him a mug of tea- which looked comically small in his massive hands, like a Barbie accessory. He held it delicately, reverently, as if you’d handed him a precious museum piece instead of an herbal infusion from a grocery store.

You curled up on the wrecked edge of your couch, eyeing him across the room.

“Y’know,” you murmured, half to yourself, “this might actually work out.”

He didn’t reply, but he did lean a little closer.

“What d’you want for lunch?” You finally remembered to ask, standing up with your hands on your hips like you were Superman awaiting orders from Batman and not actually one of the miserable civilians that need to be saved regularly.

“We gotta keep you big and thick, König! So just say what you’d like.”

…he was staring a little too intently at you, actually. You kind of felt like you were kinning your ex-fiancé in this moment.

#noona.posts #cod x reader #cod x you #noona.writes #cod #cod imagines #konig x you #konig x reader #könig x you #könig x reader #kortac x you #kortac x reader #konig drabble #könig drabble #könig cod #☕️ anon

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pucksandpower · 1 month ago

Text

In Every Quiet Moment

Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: as a gifted pianist struggling to make ends meet in Monaco, you never expect your quiet world to collide with Formula 1’s fiercest driver … until a rain-soaked night, a stray kitten, and a cup of hot chocolate change everything

The rain comes hard and sudden, like a tantrum. It slaps against the café windows in sheets, hammering the cobblestones and turning the square outside into a glossy watercolor. The sky is bruised, the streetlights yellowing the mist, and the world feels like it’s been dunked underwater.

You glance up from where you’re wiping down the espresso machine, sighing. Another late night. Another storm.

You're alone. The chairs are flipped upside-down on the tables, lights low, Edith Piaf humming quietly from the little speaker you keep on the counter. The smell of cinnamon and leftover croissants lingers faintly.

You stretch your wrists. Eight hours of class, three hours on shift, and you still haven’t practiced your Liszt etude. The anxiety tightens like thread in your chest.

And then — movement. Outside. You blink, stepping closer to the window.

There’s a man. Tall. Absolutely soaked. He’s crouched beside the steps just past the awning, knees bent, arms out. You squint through the glass.

A kitten. Small, skinny, trembling.

He’s trying to coax it out from beneath a stone bench, his jacket shielding it from the storm.

You hesitate. Logic says to mind your business. Let the guy deal with his savior complex in peace. But your hands are already reaching for the door.

It groans as you pull it open. Cold air slaps your face. “Hey,” you call, barely audible above the downpour. “Hey, do you need-”

He turns.

Your breath catches — not because he’s handsome, though he is — but because there’s something strange in his expression. Like you’ve caught him in something private. His jaw tightens. He doesn’t say anything. Just lifts the tiny ball of fur against his chest with careful hands.

You frown. “Is it hurt?”

“I don’t know.” His voice is low. Rough like gravel. A weird contrast to how gently he’s holding the kitten. “It’s freezing.”

You open the door wider. “Come in.”

He hesitates. Glances down the street, like maybe there’s somewhere else he’s supposed to be. Then back to you. You think he’s going to refuse.

But he steps forward.

The bell jingles above the door. You lock it behind him.

“Sit,” you say, motioning to the bench along the wall. “I’ll get towels.”

He doesn’t argue. Just lowers himself silently, kitten still tucked inside his jacket. Water drips in small pools around his boots.

You disappear into the back room, grabbing the cleanest dish towels you can find and one of the café’s emergency hoodies you sometimes wear when the heat’s out. You hand them to him.

“Thanks.” His eyes flick up to yours briefly. They’re blue — so much lighter up close. He rubs the kitten dry first, talking to it under his breath like it’s a scared child.

You don’t ask questions. Just move behind the counter and start the steamer.

“You want hot chocolate?” You ask.

A pause. Then a quiet, “Yeah. Sure.”

You make it the way you like it — extra thick, pinch of cinnamon, real whipped cream — and slide the mug across the counter. He looks at it like he doesn’t know what to do with something that kind.

“What’s its name?” You ask, settling across from him.

He lifts a shoulder. “Didn’t ask.”

You smirk. “Well, she looks like a Phoebe.”

“That’s a horrible name.”

“I like it.”

“She’ll get bullied at school.”

“She’s a cat.”

He actually smiles at that. It’s barely there, but it softens something in his face. You realize, suddenly, how tired he looks. Not just from the rain. The kind of tired that lives deep in the bones.

You lean forward, chin on your hand. “What were you even doing out there?”

“Walking.”

“In this?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

You nod slowly. “Insomnia or caffeine?”

His brows lift slightly. “Why not both?”

You laugh, short and surprised. “You’re really not gonna tell me your name?”

Another pause. He blows into the mug, watching the steam curl around his fingers. “Do I have to?”

“No,” you say. “But I’ll name you too, if you’re not careful.”

His eyes lift, direct and unreadable. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

That makes you curious. But something about his tone — quiet, almost pleading — makes you let it go.

You sit there a while longer. The storm beats on. He finishes the hot chocolate and wipes the kitten’s nose. You give him a take-home box for croissants and leftover brioche. He accepts it with a small nod, still saying nothing about who he is or where he’s going.

He leaves without giving you his name.

You only realize who he is when you’re sweeping up later. You find the receipt under his mug, flipped upside down, with the credit card slip still attached.

€2,000 tip.

You stare. Check the name.

Max Emilian Verstappen.

You almost drop the broom.

***

The next evening, it rains again. Not as hard, more of a romantic drizzle this time. You’re closing up, humming through your teeth, when the bell above the door chimes softly.

You turn, halfway into your apron. And there he is. Dry this time. No kitten.

He doesn’t say anything. Just stands in the doorway like he’s waiting for you to yell at him for being weird.

“You came back,” you say, blinking.

He shrugs. “You were nice.”

You smile, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You left two thousand euros. I could’ve retired.”

“You work too hard to retire,” he says quietly.

That stops you. You don’t know how he knows that — but somehow, he does.

You clear your throat. “Hot chocolate again?”

He nods.

This time he sits at the counter instead of the bench. Closer. You make the drink slowly, trying not to stare. He’s different tonight. Relaxed. Still quiet, but not like he’s hiding. Like he’s … watching. Noticing.

You set the mug in front of him. “So. Phoebe survived the night?”

“She’s living in my guestroom now. Chewed through my charging cord and pissed on my sock.”

“Sounds like love.”

He smirks, sipping. “She’s angry. Loud. A menace.”

“Like you?”

“Worse.”

There’s a comfortable silence that stretches between you. You wipe down the bar again, more for something to do. He traces a finger along the wood grain.

“I meant to say thank you,” he says after a moment. “For last night.”

You glance up. “You did. With money.”

“That wasn’t-” He sighs. “I didn’t mean to do it like that.”

You raise a brow. “Then how did you mean to?”

He pauses. “I panicked.”

“Panicked?”

He shifts in his seat, suddenly sheepish. “I … don’t usually talk to people like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like-” He cuts himself off. “Like a normal person.”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you. “Are you not a normal person?”

He tilts his head, studying you. “Depends who you ask.”

The bell rings softly as a breeze sneaks in through the window crack. You tug your sleeves over your hands, watching him quietly.

“Why are you here?” You ask. “I mean, really.”

He sets the mug down. “Because I wanted to be.”

You blink. “That’s not an answer.”

He leans in slightly, forearms resting on the counter. “You didn’t ask a real question.”

You look at him. Really look. There’s something magnetic in the quiet way he holds your gaze. No arrogance. Just … interest. Like he’s trying to memorize the way you wrinkle your nose or tug your sleeves.

You tilt your head. “Okay, then. Real question.”

“I’m listening.”

“Why come back if you don’t want anything from me?”

He looks down. “Who says I don’t?”

Your breath stutters. You laugh, but it’s nervous this time.

“I don’t-” you start, then shake your head. “I’m not really looking for anything.”

He shrugs. “Me neither. Maybe that’s the point.”

You’re quiet.

You don’t know why this is happening. Why a man like him is sitting here, watching you like you matter. Like he wants something real in a world where everything around him is so curated and artificial.

You take a breath. “What if I like things slow?”

“Then I won’t rush.”

“What if I have too much going on? I study ten hours a day, I work nights, I barely remember to eat.”

“I’ll remind you.”

You blink. “You’re a stranger.”

“I’m Max.”

The sound of his name makes something shift. It sounds … different when he says it. Not like a brand or a headline. Just a person.

You swallow. “You want more chocolate?”

He smiles — small, genuine. “Yeah. Please.”

So you make another mug. And this time, when you slide it toward him, your fingers brush his.

Neither of you move.

Outside, the rain keeps falling.

***

Max begins showing up every few days. Never on a schedule, never with warning. Just … appears. Quiet. Steady. Always a little after dusk, when the tourists thin out and the locals disappear behind shuttered windows. You’ll be wiping a table, or refilling the sugar jars, or humming some half-remembered étude under your breath, and then — there he is. That same quiet presence at the counter.

He never makes a move. Never flirts. Never pries.

Just sits. Watches. Listens.

You talk. He answers. Sometimes only in nods or dry little asides, but you get used to the cadence of it. The careful way he measures his words. You find it oddly comforting, the way he’s so still in a world that never stops spinning.

He tries everything on the menu eventually. Buys an absurd number of pastries he doesn’t eat. Leaves tips like he’s trying to buy the building.

“Max,” you say one night, eyes narrowed as you hold up the receipt. “You’ve got to stop. This is getting offensive.”

He shrugs. “It’s a good café.”

“It’s a tiny café.”

“Still good.”

You lean across the counter, mock stern. “Do you do this at Starbucks too?”

“I’ve never been to a Starbucks.”

You blink. “You’re joking.”

He shakes his head. “Do I look like someone who’s been to a Starbucks?”

You stare at him. The sweatshirt he’s wearing is probably worth more than your rent. “… Touché.”

He just smirks into his coffee.

That becomes the rhythm. Every few days, a quiet ritual. A strange, tender peace you hadn’t realized you needed.

And maybe it would’ve gone on like that forever — slow, safe, unspoken — if not for the man with the red scarf.

***

It’s a Thursday night. Cold enough that your breath fogs when the door opens. The café is quiet. A few locals sipping espressos near the back, and a lone stranger nursing something bitter at a corner table.

You’re behind the counter, arms elbow-deep in hot water and soap, humming under your breath when you feel it. That prickling sensation between your shoulder blades.

You glance up.

The man in the red scarf is watching you.

You ignore it. Keep washing. Then he clears his throat. Loud. Once.

You look again.

He crooks a finger. “Petit cul.”

Your eye twitches. You dry your hands, approach slowly. “Don’t call me that.”

He smiles, too wide. “Pardon, mademoiselle. I forget how things work here.” His French is lazy, Parisian. The kind that pretends not to see dirt. “You’re the one from the other night, no?”

You frown. “Other night?”

“You were playing piano in the square. Badly.”

You blink. “Wow. Thanks.”

He grins like he’s charming. “No, no, I meant it with affection. You're pretty. That’s what counts.”

You take a deep breath. “Can I get you anything else?”

He leans forward. “Maybe your number?”

You pull back. “Not for sale.”

He laughs, but there’s something sour underneath it. “All these pretty girls think they’re so above it now. What happened to politeness?”

You don’t answer. Just walk away.

And that’s when you hear the chair scrape.

At first, you think it’s the man standing. But the weight of a different presence hits you.

You turn.

Max is at the counter. You hadn’t seen him come in.

His voice is low. Unmistakable. “Is there a problem?”

You look between them. Max is calm — too calm. His hands rest lightly on the counter, but his stance is taut. Controlled. Lethal in the way a loaded gun is.

The man in the red scarf scoffs. “This your boyfriend?”

Max doesn’t blink. “No.”

Your stomach twists.

“But you’re going to leave now,” Max continues, “and you’re going to do it without saying another word to her.”

The man’s smile fades. “Who do you think you are?”

Max steps forward once. Not threatening, exactly. Just closer. “I think I’m someone you don’t want to test tonight.”

It’s not a threat. Not really. It’s said with the same calm tone you’d use to discuss weather. But something in it shifts the air. The man goes pale.

He mutters something under his breath and grabs his coat. Leaves without looking back.

You exhale slowly, trying to uncoil the tension in your spine.

Max says nothing. Just waits until your eyes meet his.

“Are you okay?” He asks softly.

You nod. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

He looks unconvinced.

“I’ve had worse,” you add. “Waitresses aren’t exactly the least harassed demographic.”

Max’s jaw clenches. He says nothing.

You run a hand through your hair. “Thank you. For that.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t do anything.”

“You scared the hell out of him.”

“That wasn’t hard.”

You pause. “Want a hot chocolate?”

He hesitates. “Walk with me instead.”

You blink.

His voice is softer now. Almost hesitant. “If you’re off?”

You glance at the clock. Fifteen minutes to close. The café is empty now. Quiet.

You untie your apron. “Let me grab my coat.”

***

The streets are still damp as you walk. The air carries the smell of sea salt and wet stone. Max keeps close, hands in his pockets, his steps slowing to match yours.

You pass under a streetlamp, and for a second, it feels like you’re inside a movie.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say quietly.

“I know.”

“But I’m glad you did.”

He glances sideways. “Some people think silence is an invitation.”

You snort. “Story of my life.”

He watches you. “You shouldn’t have to fight them off alone.”

You smile, but there’s something sad behind it. “I’m used to it.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

You fall into silence again. His coat brushes yours.

Then — voices.

A small group of teens cross the square ahead. They freeze mid-step when they see him.

One gasps. “No way. Max Verstappen?”

He stops. Exhales. “Yeah.”

“Can we get a photo?”

He nods, patient, stepping aside. You stand back, awkward, watching him smile for the camera. His posture shifts. Not stiff, but practiced. Familiar.

They thank him, then run off, giggling.

He turns back to you.

You raise a brow. “Is that your normal walk home?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “I forget, sometimes, who you are.”

His voice is quiet. “Good.”

You glance up at him. “Doesn’t it get annoying? Being known everywhere you go?”

“Yes.”

“Then why do it?”

He’s quiet for a while. “It used to mean something different. Now … I don’t know. I like the racing. Not the circus around it.”

You hum. “You’re still in the circus.”

“Yeah. Guess I am.”

You stop at the edge of your building. A narrow stone façade with ivy curling up one side. Your windows are dark. The air smells like lavender from the old woman’s garden next door.

Max lingers.

You bite your lip. “Want to come up?”

He lifts a brow. “Do you want me to?”

You shake your head. “No. Not tonight. Just — thank you for walking me.”

He nods. “Of course.”

But he doesn’t leave right away.

You hover near the door. “Max?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re not … doing all this just to be nice, are you?”

He blinks. “What do you mean?”

“I mean …you don’t have to fix everything. Or show up every time it rains. Or save me from creeps. I don’t want you to feel like-”

“I don’t.”

You study him.

He meets your gaze. “I don’t do things I don’t want to do.”

Silence.

Then he adds, quieter, “You’re not a project. You’re not something broken.”

Your throat tightens.

“I come here,” he says, “because I want to see you. That’s it.”

You nod. Swallow. “Okay.”

He turns like he’s about to go, then pauses again. “You were playing Debussy in the square. That night.”

You blink. “You where there?”

He nods once. “It was raining then, too.”

A small smile touches your lips. “You like Debussy?”

He shrugs. “I liked how you played it.”

You step inside, the door clicking softly behind you.

And for the first time in a long time, you fall asleep with music in your head and something steadier than loneliness in your chest.

***

It’s late when Max asks.

You’re locking up the café, hands stiff with cold and knuckles raw from the wind, when he leans against the doorway — hood up, collar high — and says, “Come with me.”

You blink, keys half-turned in the lock. “Where?”

“My place.” His eyes hold yours. “Just to get away. For a few hours.”

You hesitate. Not because you’re nervous — well, you are — but not like that. It’s the weight of the offer. The intimacy of it. Not romantic, not sexual — something quieter. Like stepping into the private heart of a man who doesn’t let anyone inside.

You don’t say yes right away. You just meet his gaze, and after a long pause, nod once. “Okay.”

***

His apartment is tucked above the marina. You’d walked past the building a dozen times and never once imagined it held something this still, this understated. High ceilings, wide windows, warm wood and cool stone. Light, but not too much. Modern, but lived-in.

The scent hits you first. Cedar, citrus, and something darker. Probably him.

And cats.

There’s a blur of movement as you step inside. Then a paw. Then two. Then all at once, they’re there.

Max just smirks faintly. “Good luck.”

A sleek, skeptical Bengal perches on the armrest of the couch and stares at you like you’re a problem it’s been sent to solve.

“That’s Sassy,” Max says, slipping his coat off and hanging it neatly. “She owns the apartment. I just live here.”

A white blur shoots past your ankles. “Jimmy?”

“Donut,” Max corrects, heading toward the kitchen. “Jimmy’s the one with the attitude problem. You’ll know when he arrives.”

You bend down slowly, letting Donut sniff your fingers. Phoebe — the little kitten you first met in the rain — tumbles out from under a blanket and immediately starts scaling your leg.

Max’s voice floats in from the kitchen. “They’ll destroy your clothes. Sorry.”

“They’re worth it,” you murmur, untangling the kitten from your tights.

He gestures toward the open-plan kitchen, nodding at the counter. “Hungry?”

You raise a brow. “You cook?”

He rolls up his sleeves with a small smile. “Well. I try. Don’t get your hopes up.”

You step beside him. The fridge door opens to reveal fresh herbs, vegetables, and a frankly unnecessary amount of expensive cheese.

You smirk. “Trying to impress me?”

“Maybe.”

You laugh, and he gives a soft chuckle in return. It’s the most open you’ve seen him. Not the composed driver, not the cool-eyed guardian of Monaco cafés — just Max. Just a guy in a dark t-shirt who stocks more parmesan than sense and keeps four cats alive somehow.

***

You cook together slowly, messily. He slices vegetables with surprising precision while you burn garlic twice. At one point, you knock over a spice jar and send a dust storm of paprika across the marble. Max doesn’t flinch.

“Paprika’s overrated anyway,” he murmurs, sweeping it away with a practiced hand.

The radio plays softly in the background. Old jazz, something French. You hum under your breath while stirring the sauce, and Max leans back against the counter, watching you.

Not in a lustful way. Not even admiring. Something deeper. Like he’s memorizing the moment. Committing it to a part of him that doesn’t let go.

You glance over, caught by the intensity of it. “What?”

He just shakes his head. “You look peaceful.”

“I am peaceful.”

He grins. “Good. That was the point.”

***

Dinner is simple. Pasta, fresh salad, warm bread he didn’t bake but proudly heated up. You eat on the couch, curled under a blanket, with Donut curled beside your thigh and Phoebe nuzzling your ankle.

Max eats slowly. Savors things.

You, however, eat like someone who’s lived on café leftovers all week.

“Jesus,” you mutter, swallowing a bite. “This is good.”

His eyebrow lifts. “So you are impressed.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

Too late. His smirk grows.

Afterwards, you both stay where you are. The room glows with soft, golden light. The windows show the harbor below, lights glittering across water like scattered coins. You tug the blanket higher, eyes growing heavy.

Max barely speaks. Just watches you fight off sleep, his hand curled around a mug of something warm, his body still like he’s afraid of ruining the quiet.

“Is it always this calm here?” You ask.

He nods. “When I want it to be.”

You yawn, half-smiling. “I like it.”

Phoebe climbs onto your lap and purrs herself into a tiny, warm puddle. Your eyes flutter.

You don’t mean to fall asleep. You just … do.

***

When you wake, the lights are lower.

The room is quiet, save for the rhythmic purring of cats.

There’s a blanket draped over you now, thicker than before. Heavy with warmth. You shift slightly and feel the unmistakable weight of Jimmy — angrily curled beside your feet. You smile.

Then you hear it.

Max. In the next room. His voice is low, sharp. Controlled — but furious.

“No. I said no.”

You blink, pushing the blanket down slightly. The door to the hallway is ajar.

“I don’t care what they think — she’s not a story. She’s none of their business. Pull it. Now.”

Pause. A longer silence. Then his voice again, colder this time.

“If I see one word printed about her, I’ll bury the piece myself. Understand?”

You sit up slowly, heart pounding. His voice is quieter now. But still hard. Still carved from something that doesn’t yield.

“I don’t give a damn if they think it’s innocent. She’s not part of this. And I won’t let her be.”

Silence.

You don’t wait for him to hang up.

You push the blanket aside and step quietly into the hallway.

He’s in the small office off the kitchen. Back half-turned, one hand braced against the desk, the other holding his phone. He doesn’t hear you at first. Not until you speak.

“Max.”

He tenses. Freezes. Then slowly turns.

His eyes are darker than usual. He looks like someone who’s just stepped out of a ring — wound tight, ready for a fight.

“You heard that,” he says flatly.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He straightens. “I didn’t mean for-”

“Were they writing about me?”

He doesn’t answer. Just sets the phone down.

“Max,” you press. “What were they saying?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

A beat. Then, quietly: “They had pictures. From the café. From the night we walked home. Nothing bad, just … invasive.”

You blink. “Why?”

He shrugs, but the motion is rigid. “Because they can. Because you’re next to me.”

You step closer. “And you called them?”

“I made a call, yeah.”

“To shut it down?”

His jaw tightens. “Yes.”

“Max.” You stop in front of him. “You can’t just-”

“Yes,” he cuts in, voice low but firm. “I can.”

There’s a pause. The air between you shifts. The house is too quiet now.

You exhale. “You don’t need to protect me from everything.”

“I know that.”

“Then why-”

“Because I want to.”

You look up at him. He’s close now. So close it almost hurts.

“I’ll never let them touch you,” he says quietly. “Not while I’m breathing.”

You don’t answer right away. Can’t.

He watches you carefully. “If that’s too much-”

“No.” You shake your head. “It’s not too much.”

A silence falls between you. Not awkward. Not unsure. Just … full.

Finally, you say, “You care about me.”

He nods once. “Yeah.”

“And you’re not going to say it.”

“I just did,” he says softly. “In the only way I know how.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you step forward, press your forehead to his chest, and let the warmth of him settle around you.

His arms come up, slow, careful — like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. Like he’s not quite sure you’re real.

But you don’t vanish.

You stay right there. Wrapped in his arms, the soft thrum of his heart in your ear, with the cats still curled on the couch and the rest of the world held outside.

***

It happens the next morning.

You're still warm with the echo of his arms when you sneak out the back entrance of Max’s building, hoodie pulled tight, hair tucked under a beanie. You think you’ve done everything right — quiet footsteps, sunglasses, even that cautious glance around the alley before you step into the light.

But it’s not enough.

The flash comes out of nowhere.

One. Two. Three rapid shots. Then a voice — male, giddy, breathless.

“Miss, are you seeing Max Verstappen? Were you with him last night?”

You don’t answer. Just duck your head and walk faster, ignoring the burn in your throat, the sudden thud of your pulse. You don’t run — you know better — but your steps go tight, clipped. A door slams shut behind you, a car engine revs.

By the time you reach the music academy, your hands are shaking.

You don’t tell anyone. Not at first.

But the whispers start by lunch.

You catch your name in a student’s hushed voice. You hear Max’s in another. Then the article hits — small but vicious, your blurry figure circled in red, a headline that wants blood.

Verstappen’s New Flame? Mystery Girl Leaves Monaco Apartment at Dawn.

By evening, it’s everywhere.

***

Max calls. You don’t answer.

He texts: I’m handling it.

You stare at the message for a long time. Then turn your phone off and leave it on the counter like it’s something that might burn you.

By the next day, the article disappears.

Completely. As if it never existed.

A notice appears in its place.

Retracted at source.

Later, you overhear a barista talking about it with wide eyes. “Apparently his lawyers sent something like — what’s the word? A cease and desist? Except angrier. Like, terrifyingly angry.”

Someone else adds, “I heard he called someone at the top. Shut it down like that.” She snaps her fingers. “No wonder they’re scared of him.”

You press your hands into the counter, steadying yourself. Your phone pings when you step into the storeroom.

A screenshot.

An anonymous deposit confirmation. Six months of your rent. Paid in full.

Another message: Let me do this. Please.

You stare at it for a long time. Then close your eyes, lean your head against the cold concrete wall, and try not to cry.

***

The panic hits later.

Not all at once. Not in an obvious way. It comes quietly, like a tide. Like a soft pull at your ankles before it drags you under.

The guilt first — sharp and sour.

He’s spending his influence, his money, his power — to protect you.

You. A girl who plays piano in a dusty practice room and works shifts to afford cheap ramen. You never asked for this.

And the fear — oh, the fear — of what it means. Of what he might want. Of what you might want back.

So you do the only thing that feels safe.

You pull away.

***

You stop replying.

Not rudely. Just slowly.

A message takes a day to respond. Then two. Then none.

You say no to his quiet invitations — coffee, a walk, just ten minutes — offering gentle excuses that grow thinner by the day.

Your shifts at the café get longer. Your time at the piano stretches until your hands ache. You avoid the harbor. Avoid the old streets he likes.

Avoid everything that makes your heart hurt.

***

He doesn’t chase.

He doesn’t knock on your door. Doesn’t text again and again or show up late at night demanding answers.

Instead, he sends you a care package when you get sick.

It shows up at the café on a Wednesday — delivered by someone who doesn’t ask for a signature. Inside is some lemon tea, cough syrup, throat lozenges, two cans of the soup you once said reminded you of home, and a small stuffed cat.

A note, tucked between the teabags.

I’ll wait.

Nothing else.

Not even his name.

***

You cry in the break room. Not a lot. Just enough to taste salt when you breathe.

You feel stupid.

Then you feel worse — for thinking you were stupid.

You hug the stuffed cat against your chest and whisper, “I’m sorry,” even though he can’t hear you.

***

Three days pass.

Then four.

By the fifth, you can’t breathe when you walk past his street.

On the sixth, you stand outside his apartment building for fifteen minutes and never press the buzzer.

On the seventh, it rains.

Hard. Monaco rain. Thunder at the edges. Wind that flattens your jacket to your spine and makes your cheeks sting.

You don’t bring an umbrella.

You don’t bring excuses either.

You just walk, quiet, soaked to the bone, and let the elevator carry you to the only door that’s ever made you feel like you’re not pretending.

You knock once.

It opens almost instantly.

He doesn’t look surprised.

Just steps back and lets you in, eyes sweeping over you like he’s checking for bruises.

“Hi,” you whisper, wet and breathless.

He says nothing. Doesn’t ask where you’ve been. Doesn’t demand explanations or apologies or promises you’re not ready to give.

He just opens his arms.

And you fall into them like you never left.

His hoodie smells like him. Warm and clean and steady. You press your face into it and wrap your arms around his waist, trying not to shake.

He closes the door behind you with one hand, the other already sliding up your back.

You don’t speak. Don’t have to.

His chin rests on your hair.

You whisper, “I didn’t know how to-”

“I know,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to explain.”

Your breath hitches.

“I just didn’t want to mess it up,” you admit. “It’s so big. What you did. What you do. And I’m-”

“You,” he says gently. “You’re you. That’s enough.”

Your eyes sting again. You bury your face deeper into his chest.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” His voice is low. Kind. “You don’t have to be strong around me.”

You pull back, just a little.

Look up at him.

His eyes are impossibly gentle. No walls. No edge. Just patience. Just Max.

“I’m scared,” you say quietly.

He nods. “So am I.”

You laugh — just a breath, wet with tears. “Yeah?”

“I don’t usually let people in,” he admits. “I didn’t expect you.”

You blink. “Then why …”

His fingers brush your cheek, slow and reverent. “Because I’d regret losing you more than I fear what happens next.”

You stare at him. At his mouth. At the way he’s looking at you — like he’s memorizing this moment, too.

You lean in.

So does he.

The kiss is soft.

No urgency. No heat. Just warmth. Just yes.

His hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone. Yours curls into his hoodie, anchoring you.

When you finally pull back, you’re both smiling.

You exhale. “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He rests his forehead against yours.

“I’m here,” he murmurs.

You close your eyes. “So am I.”

Outside, the rain keeps falling.

Inside, everything finally feels quiet again.

***

Max doesn’t say “I love you.”

Not with words.

He says it when he hands you a mug of tea without asking how you take it. He says it when he walks on the side of the pavement closest to the street. When he drapes a blanket over your knees during a movie, and casually shields your face from a photographer’s lens with the curve of his body.

He says it like that. Constant. Quiet. Absolute.

But tonight, he speaks more than usual.

It starts after dinner, while you sit curled against the arm of his couch, legs tucked under you, his hoodie hanging loose off your frame like it belongs there.

He’s staring into the middle distance, a glass of something amber untouched in his hand.

“I used to think loneliness was normal,” he says, voice low, like he’s not sure if he means to say it out loud. “Like it just … came with the job. The way you get used to jet lag or waking up in hotel rooms not remembering what country you’re in.”

You glance over, but don’t interrupt. You’ve learned with Max — he only opens the door a crack at a time. If you’re too eager, it closes.

He takes a breath, gaze still unfocused.

“There’s so much noise around me. All the time. Team, press, fans, cameras.” He finally looks at you. “And it’s not that I don’t appreciate it. But it’s like … you have to wear this mask so long you forget it’s not your real face.”

You reach out without thinking, fingers resting over his wrist. His skin is warm. Solid.

He watches your hand for a moment, then flips his wrist so his palm is up, letting your fingers slot into his.

“I’m not used to people wanting me without the mask,” he says, quieter now.

Your heart tightens.

“I don’t want the mask,” you whisper.

His eyes meet yours, sharp and grateful.

“I know,” he murmurs. “That’s why you scare me.”

You laugh, soft. “I scare you?”

Max nods, serious. “You don’t treat me like I’m something untouchable. You just … look at me.”

You squeeze his hand. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. For someone to see me.”

That breaks something open in him. You feel it. The shift. The way his shoulders soften, eyes grow tender.

“Tell me,” he says.

So you do.

You tell him about the nights you spent alone in the conservatory practice rooms, pretending the piano was a friend, not a thing you owed perfection to. You tell him about how scared you are to want something for yourself. How it feels to be surrounded by people chasing dreams so loudly you sometimes forget how to hear your own.

He listens like he has nowhere else to be.

Not just hearing — holding.

Your words. Your silence. Your fear. All of it.

When you finish, he doesn’t speak right away. Just leans forward, brushing his lips to your temple.

“You’re not invisible here,” he whispers. “Not with me.”

***

The next few weeks are full of small shifts.

Your toothbrush finds a place in his bathroom. His hoodie disappears from his closet and ends up on your body more than his.

His cats take turns sleeping on you like you’re furniture now. Even Sassy.

Max kisses you in the kitchen. In the car. Once, under a streetlamp with rain brushing your cheeks, his hand cupped gently around your jaw like you’re something rare.

He doesn't let the world touch you. Not even once.

He’s fiercely protective — but not in a loud way. In the way he speaks to hotel staff when you travel with him for a race, making sure you’re not put near the media floor. In the way his hand never leaves your lower back when cameras are near, like he’s placing a shield between you and the noise.

You try not to need it.

You try not to expect it.

But when it’s him, it’s hard not to let yourself be protected. Just a little. Just this once. Just again.

***

The comment comes three races into summer.

You’re not even in the paddock — just sitting at a corner table in a nearby coffee shop, flipping through sheet music and sipping a drink Max had delivered for you before he left for press.

You look up when the door opens.

It's another driver — one of the younger ones. Cocky. Loud. The kind of guy who courts cameras like he was born for them.

He stops at your table, smirking. “Didn’t think Verstappen would go for your type.”

You blink. “Sorry?”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Just saying. He usually dates models. You’re … different.”

Your stomach twists, cold and ugly.

You don’t reply.

He doesn’t give you time to.

“Anyway,” he adds, eyes trailing a little too slowly down your body, “guess even the best get bored of the same thing. Nice upgrade, though.”

The chair screeches back before you realize you’re standing.

But Max is already there.

You don’t know how he found out. You don’t even see him enter.

But one second, it’s just you and the smirking boy — and the next, Max is between you, not touching, not yelling.

Just present.

Heavy.

Silent.

The other driver’s smirk falters. “Hey, I was just-”

Max tilts his head. “Say it again.”

“What?”

“That line. Say it to her face. Slowly this time.”

Silence.

Max’s voice stays calm, almost soft. “You want to flirt, do it with someone who hasn’t told you no with their body language. You want to insult her, you say it so I know exactly what I’m responding to.”

The boy opens his mouth.

Max raises a single brow. “Try me.”

The tension shifts. Not loud. Not violent.

But dangerous.

The kind of promise you don’t test.

Max leans in, just a breath. “Next time you speak her name, it better be with respect. Or not at all.”

Then he turns, takes your hand, and leads you out like nothing happened.

Your heart doesn’t slow until you're back at his place, leaning against the door while he kicks off his shoes, jaw still tight.

“Max-”

He holds up a hand. “I know. I shouldn’t have. I know.”

You shake your head. “No. That’s not-”

He exhales, sharp. “I just saw red.”

“I know,” you say again, quieter now.

“I didn’t want you to hear it. I didn’t want you to feel that way. Like you're less.”

You step into him. “I didn’t.”

His hand curls around your waist. “But you could’ve. And I’d never forgive myself.”

Your fingers trace the edge of his jaw. “You stood up for me.”

He lifts his eyes to yours. “I will always stand up for you.”

The kiss is slower this time.

No heat. No anger.

Just need.

Just want.

***

It happens later — after dinner, after soft conversation, after you laugh so hard at a video he shows you that your ribs ache and your makeup smudges from tears.

You’re standing in his bedroom doorway, shirt too big, your hands gentle on the back of his neck, and you say, simply:

“I want you.”

His eyes search yours. Careful. Serious.

“Are you sure?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

He takes a breath, slow. Measured. Then presses his forehead to yours.

“Then I’m going to take my time.”

And he does.

***

It’s not rushed.

Not some fevered tangle of limbs or gasping urgency.

It’s reverent.

It’s slow hands under fabric, Max murmuring praises against your skin like scripture.

“So perfect,” he whispers. “Look at you.”

He never stops looking.

Not once.

He undresses you like he’s being given a gift. Touches you like you’re something he’s memorizing for a time when the world is dark.

You tremble beneath his hands, and he notices.

“Breathe for me,” he whispers, mouth trailing down your neck. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

And you are.

You feel it in the way he checks in with every touch. The way he waits for you to nod before he moves. The way he groans when you whisper his name like it’s a secret meant only for him.

He’s everywhere. Hands, lips, voice.

Guiding. Worshipping.

“Let go for me,” he says against your ear, tone wrecked. “I’ll catch you.”

And when you do, it’s not with noise — but with surrender.

The kind that only comes when trust is absolute.

***

Later, you lie tangled together in the sheets, his chest to your back, hand resting over your heart.

You don’t speak.

You don’t have to.

He presses a kiss to your shoulder, and you close your eyes.

The mask is gone now.

For both of you.

***

The letter comes on a Tuesday.

You almost miss it — tucked between a utility bill and a flyer for a French tutoring service you don’t need. The envelope is heavy, your name written in raised black letters, the seal pressed with something official.

You open it with the caution of someone who’s learned that good things don’t always come without cost.

Max is in the kitchen, barefoot, pouring coffee like it’s just another quiet morning. One of his hoodies drowns your frame. Phoebe is perched on the windowsill, blinking slowly at the rising sun.

And then you’re holding the future in your hand.

“Max?” Your voice wavers.

He glances over. “Yeah?”

You hold the letter up.

He stills. Puts the coffee pot down.

You don’t have to say anything. He knows.

The logo at the top says everything: New York Philharmonic.

You stare at the words like they might vanish.

They don’t.

You’ve been offered a position. A permanent one. Full-time, first-chair piano. They want you.

“You okay?” He asks gently, crossing the space between you.

“I-” You look up at him. “This is everything I wanted.”

He nods. “Yeah. I know.”

Before.

Before him.

Before Monaco and rainstorms and kittens and coffee shops and a Dutchman who looks at you like you’re made of sunlight.

You sink onto the couch. Max sits beside you, silent, waiting.

“It’s New York,” you say finally, like that’s the problem and the answer all in one.

“I’ve heard of it,” he murmurs, trying to make you smile.

You almost do. But your eyes blur a little.

“I don’t know what to do.”

He exhales slowly. “You don’t have to know yet.”

“I don’t want to leave you,” you say. “But I don’t want to regret staying.”

Max nods again. No flinch. No disappointment in his eyes.

Only patience.

Only love.

“I’ll never ask you to stay,” he says softly. “Not if it means giving up something you’ve dreamed of your whole life.”

You swallow. “But you’re everything I never dreamed of. And now I don’t know how to want both.”

He takes your hand in his.

“If you go,” he says, voice steady, “I’ll come to you every free weekend. I’ll fly out after every race, I’ll sit in the first row of whatever concert hall they put you in. I’ll drink burnt American coffee and learn the subway system and wait outside rehearsal with a sandwich if that’s what it takes.”

You laugh, eyes damp.

He keeps going.

“If you stay,” he murmurs, “I’ll make Monaco feel like home. I’ll move us closer to the sea, or the mountains, or wherever you sleep best. I’ll build you a studio. I’ll buy you ten pianos and soundproof walls and whatever else you need to play until your fingers are sore.”

Your throat tightens.

“I don’t care where you go,” he finishes. “I care that I go with you. So just … say the word.”

Silence stretches between you. Not tense. Just full. Full of every version of your future playing out behind your ribs.

Then you press the letter flat on the coffee table.

And you say, softly, “I want to stay.”

Max doesn’t speak.

He just pulls you into his arms like he knew all along.

***

You don’t waitress anymore.

One day you show up to work, and the manager meets you at the door with wide eyes and a folded note.

You open it slowly.

It’s Max’s handwriting.

Come home. You don’t need this job anymore. Your job is playing. And writing. And being exactly who you are when no one’s making demands on you. I bought the place. They can keep running it — unless you want it. Then it’s yours.

PS: The espresso machine’s still broken. Tell them I said to fix it.

You stare at the letter for a long time before smiling so hard it hurts.

And you do go home.

But not before waving goodbye to the café that’s now owned by a Dutchman with sharp eyes and a soft smile who only has eyes for you.

***

At night, the café changes.

The lights dim. The chairs shift. A piano appears at the front like it’s always belonged there.

Your concerts start quiet — friends, regulars, a few curious neighbors.

But word spreads.

You begin to compose your own pieces. Sometimes inspired by rain. Sometimes silence. Sometimes Max’s laugh or the way he breathes your name when he’s half-asleep.

He listens to every note like it’s a secret meant for him.

“You should record these,” he says one night, lying on the rug with Phoebe curled under his arm and Sassy on your shoulder.

You snort. “Right. Because everyone’s dying for a six-minute ballad about emotional intimacy and unresolved childhood grief.”

Max smiles, slow and sure.

“I am.”

You meet his eyes.

He means it.

***

You play at the café again that Friday.

The room’s fuller than usual. A couple journalists. A few photographers. Max sits in the back, quiet but unmistakable. Always watching.

You wear black tonight — simple, elegant. Your fingers skim the keys like they’ve always known where to go.

Before your last piece, you clear your throat.

“This one’s new,” you say, voice low. “I wrote it about someone who makes everything feel … easier. Even when it’s not.”

You glance at Max.

His eyes don’t leave yours.

The first chord is soft. Then swelling. A little sad. A lot hopeful.

When the final note fades, the room doesn’t move.

Then, applause.

But you only hear the sound of Max’s hands, steady and certain.

Afterward, he meets you at the edge of the stage.

You smile. “Was it too dramatic?”

He leans in, kisses your temple.

“I like dramatic.”

You tilt your head. “Yeah?”

His mouth brushes your ear. “I’m in love with dramatic.”

***

You find the recording equipment a week later.

Just … waiting.

Set up in the spare room. Wires. Mics. A soundboard you can’t name.

There’s a post-it on the chair.

In case you change your mind.

You roll your eyes. Laugh to yourself.

And start writing again.

***

You don’t take the job in New York.

You don’t regret it.

Not because it wouldn’t have been beautiful. Not because it wasn’t a dream.

But because some dreams change shape when you see what’s possible.

What’s real.

Like playing under golden café lights while Max sits in the shadows, looking at you like music was invented just so he could hear you play.

Like your name written in his handwriting on folded notes left by the stove.

Like Sunday mornings wrapped in each other’s arms, no performances, no cameras, just skin and breath and warmth.

And maybe someday you’ll tour. Maybe someday you’ll go to New York — not to live, but to play. To be heard.

But for now?

For now, you stay.

Because love like this?

You don’t walk away from it.

Not when he’s willing to give you the world.

And not when the life you never knew to dream about turns out to be everything you ever wanted.

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callsign-swan · 2 months ago

Text

Sneaking Around

Bob doesn't mean to be sneaking around. But he can't help it. He's got a secret, and he wants to keep it that way. Too bad he's best friends with Yelena Belova.

Warnings: Thunderbolts* spoilers, minor (and i mean MINOR) talks of addiction

Part two

"Bob."

Yelena watched as he stopped in his tracks. He looked cosy in his sweater and trousers. Not like the rest of them, ready in combat gear.

"Where are you going?"

She didn't mean to so closely keep tabs on him. He was a fully grown man, after all. Not some child that couldn't be trusted. But she still worried.

His sleeves were rolled up slightly, stopping them from falling over his hands. "Out," he said, eyes darting between Yelena and Alexi (the only other person in the room with them).

Yelena raised her eyebrows. "Just... out?"

"Just out." He shook his head slightly, raised his hands and smiled at his shoes.

Yelena looked him over once more. There was nothing remarkable or out of the ordinary about him. Nothing to suggest anything was wrong. "Okay," she said.

"Okay?" The way Bob asked it, it was like he was asking for permission.

Yelena let her expression soften. "Come back safe."

"I will."

With that, Bob left. His hands entered his pockets as he stepped into the elevator and turned around. Still smiling at Yelena as the doors slid shut.

"Okay," Yelena said as she stood up. Moving her heard from side to side, she listened to her neck click before she started towards the window.

"Yelena, where are you going?" Alexi asked, more nosey than anything else.

Yelena ignored him as she opened up the window and jumped out.

***

There was something about the way Bob walked. His steps were kind of bouncy, his head held high. It was something you wouldn't notice, unless you knew what you were looking for.

Yelena knew what she was looking for.

Following Bob was all too easy. He had no idea anybody was behind him, couldn't fathom the idea that someone was following him.

Nowadays, Bob was so content. He wasn't looking over his shoulder, wasn't over thinking every move he made. He wasn't scavenging for his next fix.

He was happier, now. He still had his dark days, sure, but he was overall happier.

Yelena was three steps behind him. She made no move to weave around the New Yorkers walking past her, didn't need to be elusive and sneaky when it came to Bob.

But then Bob stepped into a cafe.

It was just a normal cafe, Independently owned, serving a variety of hot and cold drinks. Cakes were in the display case in front of the counter, three baristas wiping down the space behind it.

Bob went straight over to the counter. Yelena watched from the window as Bob looked up at the chalkboard above the coffee machines. His mouth was open, Yelena could hear the 'uhhhhhh' he was probably letting out.

But then he chose.

One barista began making the coffee. Another barista began making something in the blender. A mixture of milk and ice and some sort of syrup from a pump.

Once they were made, the baristas put the drinks on a tray and passed it to Bob. He thanked them both and headed over to an empty table.

And Bob sat there, alone. He took both drinks from the tray and placed the tray on the empty table beside him. He didn't drink the milkshake in front of him, didn't touch the coffee opposite him.

After a few moment, Yelena stepped towards the door of the cafe. He was waiting for someone, someone who wasn't going to show up. All she had to do was sit opposite him and he wouldn't be so alone.

But then somebody rushed in front of her. They pushed open the cafe, the bell above the door chiming, and walked over to Bob's table.

"I'm so sorry I'm late!" She cried as she sat down.

The tips of Bob's ears became red. "You're not that late," he mumbled and picked up his milkshake.

Grabbing two cubes of sugar from the pot between them, she dropped them into her drink. "Still," she said, stirring her sugar in. "Next time I'll run."

Yelena furrowed her brows. Who the hell? She wondered as she watched the two of them.

Bob must've said something funny, something that had her laughing and him giggling at himself. Of course he did, that was what Bob did. On his good days, he was a light.

But Yelena watched as she reached across the table and placed her hand on top of Bob's. It was a sweet move, her thumb brushing over his wrist. Bob didn't withdraw from her. No, he moved closer.

The two chatted as they drank their drinks. As soon as their cups were drained, she shook up and offered her hand to Bob.

Bob took it. He looked down at her like there was nothing else in the cafe, nothing else in the world.

Linking her arm through his, she dragged him out of the cafe. Well, she didn't need to drag him; he was happy to trail after her.

Yelena had to admit, she was cute. But that didn't make her trustworthy.

Bob was much more than a super weapon. Yelena knew that, she knew that better than anyone. But that was still one of the fears that flashed through her mind as she followed them.

They disappeared into a bookshop. Two seconds later, Bob emerged. Yelena ducked down the side of the building next door to the bookshop. The building Bob entered.

He left the florists a few moments later, a small bouquet in his hands. The flowers were all soft, pastel colours. Baby blues and pinks and whites. It was gorgeous. It was obvious Bob didn't pick it out himself.

It was then that Yelena realised what was happening. Bob had a girlfriend.

As soon as the flowers were in her hands, mystery girl kissed him. She wound her arms around his neck and kissed him.

Yelena backed away. She'd completed her mission, made sure Bob was okay. He was better than okay.

He was in love.

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aureatelys · 2 months ago

Text

not the desperate type

pairing: aaron hotchner/neighbor!reader genre: smut!! w.c. 5.7k a/n: ty to @minswriting for not only enabling me, but also being so supportive, ily <3

summary: The apartment across from Hotch's has been empty for as long as he can remember. And then you move in, and you always seem to forget to close your blinds.

c.w.: 18+ MDNI, porn no plot, perv!hotch so kinda creepy, voyeurism/exhibitionism, m & f masturbation, sex toys, hotch pov, jack mention

read below or on ao3 here <3

It was a warm spring day when Hotch glanced out his bedroom window and spotted you in the apartment across from his.

You’ve clearly just moved in, as you were struggling with a large cardboard box in your arms and had sweat dripping down the side of your face that he could see even from here.

He didn’t pay you any mind, instead just closing the blinds so he could catch up on some well-deserved sleep after a week-long case.

The next day, when he comes home close to midnight and Jack was already asleep, he had forgotten about you completely. When he closed his bedroom door to get ready for bed and noticed your light was on from the window, he felt a ripple of surprise.

The apartment across from his has been empty for as long as he’s lived there, which was why he always left the blinds partially open because he knew there was a slim chance of someone peering in. He’s gotten used to opening his bedroom window and seeing nothing but the brick wall of the neighboring apartment complex and plastic shutters.

He makes a mental note to make sure he shuts his blinds before he leaves for work every day, and when he approaches his window to do just that, he frowns.

You have your bedroom strangely laid out, which Hotch only notices because your bed was placed right in the middle of the room facing the window, thus in his direct eyeline. He wonders why you chose to do that and how impractical it was, but then he notices you.

You’re lounging on your bed with your laptop splayed out on your lap, the blue screen illuminating your features. You’re pretty, at least 20 years younger than him, and you’re wearing pajama shorts that were riding up your thighs, disappearing in between your legs from where Hotch was standing, and a thin tank top. He wonders whether his optometrist was lying about him needing glasses because he could clearly see your nipples poking through the fabric, pebbling from your air-conditioned room.

Something unfamiliar stirs in the pit of Hotch’s stomach, causing him to clench his jaw, nearly grinding his teeth into nothing at the fierce intensity of it. His gaze doesn’t stray from your figure, memorizing the way you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear with a delicate touch and the way your smile transforms your face into something softer, more innocent.

He doesn’t realize he’s staring until he hears a ding from his phone, most likely Garcia miserably informing him of a new case via text laden with colorful emojis and frowny faces. When he reaches over to pick up his suit jacket that he had just tossed haphazardly onto a dresser, he ignores the uncomfortable tightening of his slacks, his half-hard dick pressing against the zipper.

He spares another glance out his window and through yours and is rattled with disappointment when your blinds are closed, only allowing shreds of your golden bedroom lamp to cut through the darkness of the alley.

Hotch frowns, frustration curling up his spine, before he reaches over to finally close his own blinds and head back to the office.

He can’t stop thinking about the peak of your cleavage he caught or the huff of a laugh he could almost imagine the entire flight to Kansas.

The first time he actually meets you, face to face, was less than a five-minute interaction.

Not only was it pouring rain, thus increasing his commute time to the office by at least 20 minutes, but his coffee machine broke on him this morning, dying with a pathetic spluttering noise. He wasn’t going to have time to stop somewhere so he’s going to have to put up with the shitty office coffee and he ran out of clean socks because he hadn’t had the chance to do laundry yet.

So, he’s annoyed—frustration blooming hot in his chest and causing him to grind his molars, a horrible habit he’s been trying to quit.

When he steps out of his apartment complex to head around the building to the garage, he sees you.

You’re standing under the awning in front of your building. You’re dressed professionally in a pencil skirt and a white blouse, hair and makeup impeccably done. You’re chewing on your lip, glancing up at the street and down at your phone intermittently. He assumes you’re about to head out to your job or, most likely, a job interview since you’ve just only moved here, and you’re waiting for your ride.

His legs move of his own accord, drawn in by the soft drape of your hair across your shoulder and ignoring the nagging text from Rossi, until he’s standing a respectable 3 feet away from you.

“Do you need a ride?”

You jump, startled, and when you meet his gaze, Hotch can detect the faint swirl of recognition.

From this distance, he can smell the light and sweet notes of your perfume. He can see the swell of your breasts under your blouse, even a peak of a modest nude bra that has him clenching his fist around his umbrella. The pencil skirt clings to you, showcasing your curves and the long line of your legs. There’s a stay droplet of rain on your collarbone that you haven’t noticed yet and Hotch quickly tucks away the urge to swipe it away for you.

“Oh,” you blink at him, eyes wide. “No thank you, I’m just waiting for my Lyft.”

Hotch nods, about to turn away with the memory of that water droplet traveling between the valley of your breasts, when you surprise him.

“You live in the other building, right? Window facing mine with a cute little boy with blonde hair?”

The mention of Jack should raise alarms for him, yet instead, he’s only a little curious, mostly just pleased that he’s able to continue talking to you and learn more about you. Who cares if he was a little late?

“Yes, that’s my son, Jack. You can’t hear him yelling all the way from your apartment, can you?”

You laugh, a light tinkling noise, and it does nothing to quell the sudden burst of affection and want in Hotch’s chest. Your eyes crinkle, one of your hands lifting to cover your mouth, and he resists the urge to frown at not being able to see the full radiant display of your smile. “No, no, I’ve just seen him running around during the day when your blinds are open.”

A subtle thrill runs up Hotch’s spine at that, realizing that you’ve been able to peer into his room and into his home the same way that he has been doing to you. He wonders whether you’ve been checking out your window throughout the day, hoping to get a glimpse of him like he does before he leaves for the day or comes back home.

He gets a better chance at seeing you once he gets home, the earlier the better. Half of the time, your blinds are closed, and Hotch has to go to bed with disappointment sunken deep into his bones.

Hotch huffs a laugh, secretly glad that he hasn’t been caught yet. “I’m sorry if he’s distracting. I should probably close the blinds before I leave anyway.”

“That’s okay, I don’t mind.” You smile, soft and warm and definitely not something Hotch necessarily believes he deserves. All the stress and hurriedness from this morning melts away, leaving him with a distinctive feeling of possessiveness in his chest.

Before Hotch can even formulate a response, one that did not expose the way his thoughts fixate on you nearly every waking second, a car pulls up to the curb.

You give him another smile, smaller and nearly regretful, but he doesn’t miss the slow onceover you give him or the spark of intrigue in your gaze. “That’s my ride. See you around.”

Heat runs through Hotch’s body at that, something wild clawing its way up his throat that he had been trying to suppress for years. He clenches his fist where he’s still holding his umbrella over himself, as if foolishly hopeful that you were going to take him up on his offer to drive you to wherever you needed to go, maybe even taking the long way since you were likely new to the city just so your perfume could take it’s time to seep into the upholstery.

He hasn’t been with another woman in months, but he likes to think he knows when another woman was flirting with him, even someone as young and ambitious as you.

He watches the way your skirt rides up your thigh when you climb into the car, the polite smile you give to the driver, and the little wave you give Hotch before you shut the door.

There was something fascinating about you, piquing his interest in a way that had him itching for the day to be over, just so he could get a glimpse of you through his window before bed.

The next few weeks pass slowly. At least, when it comes to you.

There had been back-to-back cases, all local and blending together where Hotch wasn’t even sure when he had slept. It had felt like he was coming home to his bed, closing his eyes for three seconds, and then back on his feet and back at the office. He had to deal with the local cops being horribly ignorant, the unsub being frustratingly smarter than expected, and the precinct coffee being decidedly lukewarm.

The only reprieve he had was coming home late, exhaustion grinding down on his bones, and catching you across the way through his window.

Sometimes your blinds would already be drawn, golden light filtering through the slats, and raw disappointment would make him frown and keep him from falling asleep right away. He’d wonder if you were getting ready for bed or if you had fallen asleep with the TV on, hair splayed out on your pillow and the strap of your tank top slipping down your shoulders.

Most of the time, when he does catch you, you’re on your bed, similar to the very first time he had saw you. Laptop placed in your lap or off to the side, you’d be fiddling on your phone and not paying attention to whatever was on the screen. Sometimes, you’d be sitting at your desk, placed by your bed, so Hotch was able to see the way you swung your legs from your pink desk chair and the furrow in your brow as you chewed on a pencil while pouring over a notebook. Maybe you were in school? Or this was something related to your job, or even something you did for fun?

Hotch thinks he would be able to watch you all day and not get bored; drinking in the way you’d pick at your nails and the methodical way you applied your chapstick nearly every hour. You liked to wear baggy clothes in the comfort of your apartment, several sizes too large and muted in color. You liked to have a cup of tea before bed and you always left the mug until the morning, too comfortable to get out of bed.

Tonight, however, you were decidedly not home.

Hotch furrows his brow, checking his watch again as if he didn’t check it merely two minutes ago. It was late, past midnight, and you still weren’t home yet.

He tries not to let it bother him—you were a grown woman with a career and it was a Friday night. Maybe you were still at work, doing something that he still hasn’t quite put a finger on yet, or maybe out with friends at a dingy bar downtown.

Maybe you were out on a date.

That intrusive thought, barreling towards the forefront of his mind before he even realizes it, has annoyance and molten jealousy flaring in his chest. It’s unreasonable, he knows it’s unreasonable, because he barely knows you. He’s lived across from you for several months now and you’ve only exchanged a handful of words.

He somehow has been able to run into you at least twice a week while he’s heading out in the morning. You’re always standing out in front of your building, waiting for your ride, and the way your smile lights up your face whenever you catch him out the door has Hotch nearly begging for you to let him drive you to work every time.

He never had the chance to talk to you besides a quick “Good morning,” to which you always cheerily responded with “Hope you have a good day!” and a little wave.

He barely knows you, but the possibility that you were on a date with someone else was almost unbearable.

Your date wouldn’t know that you liked to fold yourself up in your desk chair to get comfortable, or that you always made sure to pat what looked like a childhood stuffed bear on your nightstand before turning off your lamp, or even that you liked to lay in bed for 15 minutes after getting home from work to do nothing besides stare at the ceiling.

Hotch attempts to continue his nightly routine, hoping the annoying weight of his jealousy would eventually dissipate before he went to bed.

He’s debating staying up a bit later to catch up on some paperwork, the adrenaline and the coffee he had earlier this evening still thrumming through his veins, when your bedroom light comes on.

Eyes immediately drawn through his blinds and into the familiar gold light of your bedroom, that jealousy flares hot again when he notices you kicking off your heels, wearing a short dress that seemed to hug every soft curve of your body.

So you were on a date.

Not a very good date, Hotch assumes, by the way you toss your heels aside a little harder than necessary or the way your bare shoulders are tense, barely relaxing as you heave out a sigh that he can almost hear from here.

Hotch pauses from where he was about to grab his stack of files he threw on his bed, frozen on the spot as he watches you mutter to yourself. You’re rolling your eyes, throwing your hands up and shaking your head, starting to take out your earrings.

Your hair is carefully done and makeup absolutely pristine, visible even from Hotch’s place at his window. Hotch can tell you’re annoyed that it’s all gone to waste as you pull your hair up, fidgeting in your tight dress.

And then you’re shimmying out of it, exposing a delicate lavender bra and matching panties. They’re lacey, hugging your hips and the slopes of your breasts, nearly sheer and at risk of exposing the peak of your nipples. The sudden exposure of your thighs and your stomach has Hotch reeling, breath hitching and reaching out to grasp at the edge of the windowsill as he’s hit with an onslaught of all-consuming desire while all the blood in his head travels south.

You bend over to pick your dress up from the floor and throw it in the overflowing hamper in the corner of the room. His gaze is immediately drawn to your ass, suddenly imagining having you bent over while he grabs at your hips to pull you on and off his cock, and his slacks tighten impossibly more.

Hotch, realizing that he may be staring for too long and too obviously, tears his gaze away from your window to fixate on the pile of papers on his bed. The sound of blood rushing through his ears is deafening as he tries to count backwards from 100 or imagine the details of the crime scene from the other day—anything in an effort to drive away the image of your tits spilling out of your bra that’s somehow already been seared into his brain.

He has to squeeze his eyes shut to ignore the alluring glow of your light spilling into his bedroom, pinching at the bridge of his nose, before his breathing has steadied, his pants significantly more comfortable than before.

He swallows, throat dry, and hopes that working through his case notes for the next two hours and examining crime scene photos will bury the sinful thoughts he has of you.

When he peeks out of the corner of his eye out his window before stepping out of his bedroom, he notices your blinds have been drawn and the light was off. Hotch ignores the flare of exhilaration at not getting caught once again.

There’s no harm in looking, right?

The next time he catches you, he’s not so lucky.

Another draining case and another night of Hotch coming home late into the evening, it was too late to pick Jack up from Jessica’s house.

There was a pounding headache digging behind his eyes, causing him to clench his jaw harder with each step he took as he unlocks his front door. His stomach growled, mouth feeling spectacularly dry, and Hotch wants nothing more than to crawl into bed with his clothes still on, if it meant that he could get two more minutes of sleep.

The visceral image of you in that matching lingerie set that you so cleverly hid underneath your dress and the soft expanse of your thighs has been imprinted behind his eyelids for weeks. The swell of your tits encased in your lacey bra and the curve of your throat just begging to be marked had been haunting him nearly every second.

He had tried so hard to resist when his thoughts wandered to you while he showered or before falling asleep, cock swelling just at the thought of you peering up at him from his bed.

It only took one day for him to give in—wrapping a reluctant hand around his throbbing cock and fucking into his fist until he came embarrassingly fast with a choked groan, watching the way his come swirled down the drain while something akin to shame snaked its way into his brain.

What you don’t know won’t hurt you.

He hadn’t had the chance to see you since then, not even outside the front of your building in the mornings. Hotch tried not to let it affect his day, his routine that he didn’t even realize he had been thrown off, but he found himself imagining your soft smile and sweet perfume to tide him over until he came home.

He’s sliding off his suit jacket to throw over his dresser and glances out his window, now as much of an instinct as breathing.

He heaves a sigh of relief, the stress headache prodding into his temple gradually simmering away, when he notices you already tucked into bed, book in hand. The golden glow from your lamp illuminates your features and Hotch is able to discern the sleepy droop of your eyes and the stifled yawn from this distance.

He doesn’t recognize the cover and can’t read the title despite it being blazed in bold letters; however, he assumes that it wasn’t very riveting based on the way you’ve been stuck on the same page for the past two minutes. Hotch could tell that you were about to fall asleep in the next ten minutes, and the possibility of seeing you asleep, unguarded so he could watch you without risk of being caught, has something warm settling in his chest.

He briefly turns away to lock his gun and badge in the closet safe, and when he glances out his window into yours, the sight before him has all the air rushing out of his lungs in an instant.

You’ve tossed your novel aside, placed haphazardly on your nightstand, and you’ve thrown the covers back, baring your entire body to him while your hand gropes at your breast through your tank top, the other fidgeting with the waistband of your panties, having had forgone shorts this late into the night.

From where Hotch was standing, he had a clear view of the way your blush pink panties melded to your pussy, a wet spot already forming in the center. Your head was thrown back, lips parted as you let out a noise, and Hotch swears he could almost hear the breathy moan you make if he strains his ears hard enough.

He should look away—he needs to look away. You don’t know he’s watching you pinch your nipple, letting it harden through the fabric underneath your fumbling fingers, while his slacks grow inexplicably tighter and his breath stutters.

But you’re just so pretty—eyelashes fluttering as you move to your other breast to continue the same motions, brows furrowed as you try to chase that pleasure undoubtedly thrumming up your spine.

Hotch lets out a shaky exhale, clenching his fists at his sides in an effort to keep himself from giving in and wrapping a hand around himself, despite the fact that watching you touch yourself was a wet dream come true.

Were you reading a dirty novel and got too worked up? Or were you watching something on your phone earlier and needed some overdue relief?

He watches your chest dip and rise, breath growing heavier, as both of your hands trace light patterns down your sides before hooking into the waistband of your panties and sliding them down your legs, tossing them randomly on the floor.

He suddenly imagines what he would do to you if he was there—leaving marks on your neck until you were whimpering or laving and playing with your nipples until you begged him for more. He imagines pocketing your panties for later, forgetting about them until he reaches into his pocket while at the office and still detecting your slick on the fabric, and having to bite his bottom lip in the bathroom stall as he brought himself off with your panties wrapped around his aching cock.

You don’t even bother taking your top off, instead sliding the straps off your shoulders and tugging them down until your breasts were freed, fabric pooling around your abdomen.

And now you’re completely bare for Hotch to see—nipples tugged into stiff peaks, stomach tensing underneath your hand as you trail down to squeeze at the flesh of your thigh, seemingly avoiding the easy temptation of your glistening cunt.

“Fuck…” he mutters, heaving a frustrated sigh as he reluctantly palms his erection through his slacks. He groans at the instant relief, hoping that it would tide him over until later tonight, when you’re done touching yourself so he can take care of himself in the shower.

The front of his slacks is already damp, precum leaking from his head and seeping through the fabric, and the rough glide against the tip of his cock has his chest feeling hollowed out as he imagines your hand. You’d be on your knees, peering up at him underneath those long eyelashes, mouth parted and begging to taste him.

Hotch watches intently as your fingers leave the apex of your thighs where you were raking your nails down your skin to finally your aching pussy. You’re wet, incredibly so, and your lips part around a soft moan as you spread your own slick around, making sure to avoid your puffy clit.

He licks his lips, mouth suddenly watering, because he doesn’t think he’s ever seen a pussy as pretty as yours, begging to be kissed and worshipped the way it deserves.

He could give you that—sucking on your clit and tonguing at your entrance until your fingers card through his hair to tug him closer, grinding against his face and nose until you squeeze your thighs around his head and come over and over with a strangled cry. He thinks he could be content living between your thighs, letting you use him whenever you wanted.

He knows you’d taste delicious, heavenly, just by admiring the shine of your fingers as you dip into your entrance and start rubbing slow and tight circles around your clit. Your hips cant up then, no doubt sensitive from your brief teasing, while your free hand comes up to squeeze your breast.

Your eyes are squeezed shut, focusing on the familiar ecstasy that only your own fingers could elicit, and Hotch feels a little less guilty when he hesitantly undoes his belt and unbuttons his slacks to slide a warm hand to wrap around his aching cock, balls heavy at the lack of relief. He lets out a throaty groan, heart racing, as he starts up a lazy rhythm up and down his cock, the leaking head continuing to rub against the damp fabric of his boxers.

He has to squeeze the base, arousal thrumming hot and rampant at the base of his spine, when your fingers increase their pace against your swollen clit and you writhe against your sheets. He suddenly feels as if he’s there in the room with you—able to discern the light sheen of sweat that’s started to form over your supple skin and the continuous slick leaking out of your entrance.

When you trail your fingers down to gather your wetness and push a finger inside, Hotch swears he can almost hear your sudden gasp, as if surprised. He leans his forehead against the wall, the coolness doing nothing to subdue the fire burning underneath his skin, the heat of his heavy cock in his own hand.

It would be nearly impossible, unbearable, to stop watching you now as you pump your index finger in and out of your pussy. Hotch makes a strangled noise as he hurriedly frees his cock from the confines of his slacks, letting the fabric hang crudely around his waist, as the cool air provides a miniscule amount of relief to the head of his cock. He starts a steady pace now, no longer restrained due to his pants, jerking his cock as he imagines splitting you open himself, watching your pretty pussy swallowing up his fingers.

He can almost feel the softness of your skin as he would grasp your hip as you attempt to thrust down to meet his fingers, tears pooling at the corners of your eyes as you begged for his fat cock.

I have to make sure you’re ready for it, sweetheart. How else is it going to fit in this tight little pussy?

Suddenly, you’re pulling your finger out, and Hotch nearly comes from the sight of the pearly white trail of your slick still connected to your folds. He’s tightening his grip around the base of his cock, toes nearly curling into the carpet, as he watches with bated breath as you sit up slightly to twist your body to reach for something in the drawer of your nightstand.

He drinks in the curve of your ass, the dip of your spine, and grunts when he notices the pool of your own arousal having had dripped down onto your bedsheets.

When you’ve resituated yourself on your back, Hotch nearly passes out at the sight of a bright purple dildo— slender, easily 8 inches, and curved inwards with a separate add-on to press against your clit.

A rabbit toy, Hotch faintly discerns, nearly dizzy at the fact that he’s lucky and pathetic enough to watch you get yourself off with it.

He’s fallen off the deep end, completely consumed by you, he realizes, as he watches you drag the head of the dildo between the seam of your pussy, spreading your slick around and onto the silicone. You must be impatient, needy, because you then notch the head against your weeping entrance and begin to press the dildo in.

Your hips still, thighs tensing as you get used to the stretch, but you throw your head back so beautifully, mouth falling open on a broken moan. Hotch’s heated gaze fixates between your thighs, where he can see the way your pussy opens up for the toy, can almost feel the way your walls would flutter around his own aching cock.

You push the toy all the way in and your eyes roll into the back of your head, your mouth forming a stuttered curse while your free hand slides up to grab at your breast, running your fingers along your pebbled nipple.

You pause for a moment, chest rising and falling as the toy bottoms out in you, the clit stimulator flush against you, and Hotch wonders if this is how you would act if he was fucking your tight cunt instead. Would you squirm just as much as you are now, hips fidgeting from how restless and needy you were? Or would you prefer if his rough hands pressed you into the mattress, making you lay there and take it?

When you start moving the toy out of you to push it back in, finally fucking yourself with it, Hotch finds his own hand has moved of their own accord, starting a pace similar to yours.

Precum leaks steadily over his cock and Hotch uses his palm to spread the wetness down, making the glide of his hand smoother and filling him with the desire to close his eyes and savor it.

But he can’t—not when you were laying in your messy bed, the glow of your lamp softening your features in a heady haze.

His gaze follows the movement of the toy as your thrusts increase in speed, making sure you were fucking yourself all the way to the hilt before out again. Your slick was spread all over the toy, the soft inner skin of your thighs, your fingers, and Hotch licks his lips as he imagines the lewd squelching sounds of his cock fucking his hand filling his ears was your pussy instead.

You’d be so fucking wet for him as he splits you open, fucking you deep and hard just like he knows you need to be fucked. He can almost imagine the breathy whines and the strangled groans you’d be making, your nails raking down his biceps as he held you down by your hips or pressed your knees into your chest.

And then your grip on the toy wavers as your fingers fumble around the handle before finding and pressing a button on the side. It must have been the vibration setting because your eyes roll back, spine nearly arching up as you increase the intensity with every click.

He watches your mouth open and close, possibly shouting out expletives, as you push the toy deeper so the vibration of the toy hits your clit dead on.

His hand is a blur on his shaft, squeezing at the head, breath coming out in stutters. He grunts, sensing the pressure building in his abdomen threatening to burst, and its a near Herculean effort to slow himself down and not come at the thought of how tightly your pussy would squeeze around him from the overwhelming stimulation of a vibrator.

Hotch curses out loud, nearly growling in his throat, as he watches your mouth falling open on a ragged moan, brows furrowing. He can tell you were close—thighs shaking, your hips switching between canting up to meet the faltering rhythm of the toy’s thrusts and stilling so it presses against your clit.

He starts up his own relentless pace, stroking his hard cock and squeezing on the upstroke at the same time you grinded the toy into yourself, desperately imagining how you’d soak him until you were dripping all over his thighs and onto the sheets.

When you finally come, Hotch doesn’t think he’s ever seen something so beautiful. He stares as if in a trance, as your face scrunches up in pleasure, pretty mouth opening on a silent scream as your entire body stills besides the desperate stuttered rolls of your hips against the toy, the clitoral stimulator pressed so hard against you he wonders if it hurts.

When you come down from your orgasm, still panting into the air, something unfamiliar curls in Hotch’s chest, nestling itself in with the heat of his arousal, when you weakly smile to yourself. Your eyes are still shut, as if relishing in the syrupy weakness of your bones, and you giggle breathlessly.

Hotch lets out a shuddering breath, resting his forehead against the wall, and begins tugging at his rock-hard cock frantically, the nearly continuous stream of precum aiding him. The filthy sounds of him fucking his fist and his loud breathing fills the room, the pressure in his stomach threatening to snap. He lets his eyes drift close, now content knowing he wasn’t going to miss another second of your show.

He imagines staring down at you while your pussy swallowed his cock, the way your tits would bounce with each deep thrust, the way your eyes would be glossed over, so fucked out from his fat cock that you’d be whining unabashedly. He imagines you begging for him to come inside of you with that sweet, honeyed voice of yours, mewling about how you need him to fill you up and feel it drip out of your needy cunt.

The pressure finally fractures and he’s coming with a deep groan, thighs tensing, while hot spurts of his release coat his hand as he slows down his fist. He doesn’t stop, not when this was possibly the best orgasm he’s ever had, and the full-body twitch when his thumb catches on the sensitive slit of his cock has his knees weak.

He tries to catch his breath, his pulse gradually slowing in his ears. Exhilaration and guilt swirls together at the pit of his stomach, quickly replacing the heated arousal that’s made a near permanent residence. He was content watching you every once in a while, able to brush it off as being a curious neighbor, but now he’s not sure if he’ll ever be able to meet your gaze again without remembering the way your hips stuttered as you came.

It was a one time thing. He won’t ever watch you like that again.

When he finally opens his eyes, back aching from how long he’s been standing by the window and his hand sticky with his release, he instinctually glances out the window.

You’re not on your bed, most likely having gone to your bathroom to clean up and leaving behind a stain on your bedsheets. What catches his eye is the scrap of notebook paper taped onto the window, words written large enough for him to read, as well as the unmistakable ten digits of your phone number.

If you want to join me next time ;)

taglist <3 @kiwriteswords @solardrop @knitmeatardis @mggslover @maeintree @pastelpinkflowerlife @storiesofsvu @actualdeemon @khxna @ssa-writerminds

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x reader smut #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner smut #aaron hotchner fic #criminal minds fic #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotch imagine #aaron hotch hotchner #mine

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highvern · 4 months ago

Text

Dessert First

Pairing: Kim Mingyu x f!reader

Genre: baker! mingyu, wedding planner!YN, fluff, smut, angst, exes to lovers

warnings: hate for the Dodgers, alcohol consumption, smoking, past drug use, lots of mentions of food, mentions of anxiety/poor self esteem, past toxic relationship, a little bit of jealousy from reader, fingering, dry humping/thigh riding, oral sex, unprotected sex, cum eating

Length: ~21k

Note: FINALLY WE ARE HERE for @camandemstudios Lonely Hearts Cafe Collab. check out all the amazing fic (26 in total) on the master list. everyone has worked so hard and im so excited to read them thank u pookie @gyuswhore @miniseokminnies and @starlightkyeom for beta reading and telling me this wasn't trash

summary: You've got a great life. Your wedding planning business is booming, your clients are great, and you're finally over your ex-boyfriend after years of pining. Or you are, until the universe decides to test if those three things are actually true.

collab m.list || m.list

This blog is intended for 18+ only! Minors/blank blogs will be blocked.

Comment to be tagged in the full fic coming February 17th!

It starts with the coffee maker.

By all accounts you could buy a completely new one that actually worked but some sentimental part of you liked the baby blue machine with scratched enamel and an inability to brew a full pot in less than twenty minutes. If your coffee maker worked the way it was supposed to then you wouldn’t have left your apartment ten minutes late. And if you hadn’t left your apartment ten minutes late then you wouldn’t have arrived on the subway platform just as the train doors closed, forcing you to wait another ten minutes for the next train and by then the mist of rain outside devolved into a biblical downpour leaving you soaked to the bone despite a rain jacket and an umbrella.

At least the binder containing every last detail of your life for the next two months is safe.

Sprinting down the street, your shoes squish through filthy puddles. No point in taking the extra time to dodge them, you’re already twenty minutes behind schedule with a ruined pair of brand new loafers. The only saving grace is Joshua and Sarah’s, your clients, habit of running at least thirty minutes behind. Which is why you told them the meeting started at 10AM and not 10:30.

So technically you aren’t late. Yet. But you planned a thirty minute buffer to meet with the pastry chef and discuss color scheme, flavors, and logistics before Joshua and Sarah arrived to ensure everything went smoothly. As smooth as it can with clients that believe more is more and have no budget.

The cafe bustles to the brim with people trying to escape the tsunami outside and enjoy something sweet. Damp businessmen sip cups of coffee while thumbing through damp newspapers, college students cram over notebooks with cookies by their side. A group of moms cluster on the couches, baby toys and lattes strung across the table while they share the latest playground drama. You can see yourself bunkered down at the table by the wide bay window, typing away emails and finalizing calendars with a hot cup of coffee and one of the massive croissants displayed on the counter.

Joshua and Sarah insisted on using Dessert First for their cake. They had their first date here and you can see why they love it so much. The display case sits packed with cakes and pastries; tarts with jewel like fruit, iced treats that make your mouth water. The heavenly scent of almond, vanilla, and coffee clouded the air. Plants hung from the ceiling, a shelf in the far corner stacked with pre-packaged goods to go.

You can almost forget the chill seeping into your veins from the cozy aroma of vanilla and espresso. A perfect oasis in the middle of the overcrowded city.

You’re still ten minutes early according to your watch. Plenty of time to devise a battle strategy with whatever unfortunate baker owns this place. You couldn’t find anything about them online, no pictures or reviews that mentioned them by name; only one article in the city newspaper announcing the grand opening last year which obviously resented a bakery replacing the former pizza shop that was shut down due to a myriad of legal issues. Who knew money laundering was so prevalent?

Even when you called to schedule this meeting you couldn’t get a name, just one of the cashiers promising to put you on the calendar before hanging up without asking for any of your information.

Stepping towards the cash register, a lone employee taps a quiet beat on the counter with his fingers, lost in his own world. Vernon, his name tag reads. You're almost certain this is the same man you spoke to one the phone.

“Hi.” You plaster on your most convincing smile, hoping it distracts from the wet mess of your…everything. “I’m supposed to be meeting with the pastry chef. I’m—”

He cuts you off with a snap. “You’re the wedding planner lady, right?”

“Yep, that’s me.”

“I’ll let him know you’re here. You want a coffee?”

“A coffee would be great,” you sigh in relief.

“Cream? Sugar?”

“Nope, just black,” you nod. “Thanks.”

Vernon fills a mug almost to the top before sliding it across the counter and disappearing into the back with a swish of the kitchen doors. While he grabs the mysterious baker, you head towards the table in the window. It’s perfect. You can see the entire cafe and the street, with plenty of space for everyone to gather around. Plus, it’s far away from the A/C blowing steadily on the opposite side of the cafe.

At best, you hope your new colleague will take the stress of this wedding for the premium pay. Sarah and Joshua want a lot but they’re willing to put their money where their mouths are. And unfortunately, they’re nice. Pleasant to the point you can’t fathom telling them no.

There was a point where you felt the butterflies they felt, and you wanted the same dream wedding they wanted. Maybe that’s why you’re willing to do whatever it takes to give them the perfect day they envisioned. That, and the promise of high end clients if everything goes well.

You’re too busy organizing everything to perfection on the table to notice a new presence over your shoulder until he clears his throat. This isn’t how you planned to introduce yourself but you steel against the embarrassment of the morning and turn around. “Hi, I’m—”

Mingyu.

Any hope of this working shatters into a million pieces before your eyes.

Fuck.

The shock buckles your knees, collapsing onto your ass on the hard tile floor. Trying to scramble for balance only brings the stack of papers on the table down with you.

It isn’t enough to face your ex after years in private, there is no way the universe is this cruel. The only logical reason for any of this is you slipped and fell down the subway station stairs and are currently in a coma in the back of an ambulance. That must be what happened because this level of mercilessness is the type of thing only your subconscious could brew.

“Are you okay?” Mingyu asks.

Dejectedly, you slump on the floor. Kill me, you pray. But when you open your eyes, Mingyu is kneeling over you, eyebrows furrowed like he’s concerned.

He offers you a hand. “What are you doing here?”

You push him off, diving down for your scattered belongings to hide the embarrassment burning your face. So much for the dramatic ‘I won’ encounter you fantasized about post breakup. “I’m meeting the owner. What are you doing here?”

Rising to your feet, you try to keep your chin held high. Neither of you are winning in this situation but you cling to your pride even if it’ll kill you. You know what Mingyu is doing here before he even says it. He’s got an apron covered in flour cinched around his waist and that stupid Dodgers hat from college he apparently still refuses to toss out holding his hair back. It’s longer than the last time you saw him, curling around his ears.

“I’m the owner.”

“Of course, you are,” you laugh bitterly. “Did you know about this?”

“Obviously not,” Mingyu scoffs. “Do you think I was like ‘oh yeah, I’d love to work with my ex-girlfriend on your wedding cake, what a great surprise!’”

He respected your boundary to not see each other after the break up; only communicating through Soonyoung to coordinate moving out of your shared apartment. You hadn’t blocked his number but he didn’t take advantage of it. He didn’t call or text, left your social media alone. Mingyu turned into a ghost at your command.

No, Mingyu wouldn’t do this to you. The universe just hates you enough to make it happen.

Besides, it’s too late to cancel and even if you wanted to, Sarah and Joshua gushed nonstop about having their dream cake made by none other than your ex-boyfriend. You could do this. You were a professional. You’ve worked with far worse people than Mingyu, and in two months, you would never have to see him again.

Mingyu takes a seat at the table, watching as you do the same. You try not to show how flustered you are while neatly organizing everything again.

He breaks the silence. “How are we doing this?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do I know you? Or are we pretending we’ve never met before? Should we make a quick slideshow about all the reasons we didn’t work out? I’m sure you have one.”

You sour at the comment but only because somewhere on your laptop is a slideshow detailing the epic explosion resulting in your break up, color coded by who won the fight. It was easier than explaining again and again to your friends how someone like you and someone like him just didn’t work. Especially when all they saw was a handsome face and a nice smile.

Lying would only come back to bite you in the ass later but how would it look for a wedding planner to work side by side with her failed long term relationship? At best, your clients wouldn’t care. It really isn’t any of their business why you and Mingyu ended things. The sour ending between you two wouldn’t affect work; you could work with someone you didn’t like. You did it all the time.

Worst case scenario, they’ll think you’re a complete fraud and incapable of planning the perfect day to celebrate their love since your own romantic life is a burning garbage fire doused in gasoline. They’ll think there is no way you and your ex–boyfriend can work together for the next six weeks to pull this off and they’ll be left in the ruins.

“We’re…friends of friends.”

“Got it,” he nods. “So friend…how’s business?”

You shrug, focusing on the small line forming at the cash register. “Good. Busy.”

Truly, business was better than ever before. Sarah chose you after her friend’s wedding was praised in the city paper as the event of the season. Thank whatever powers be that Jeonghan agreed to write the feature if you planned his sister’s wedding for free; all the work paid off in spades for the free advertising. You even had enough money to bring Seungkwan on as your part time assistant.

But you don’t need to bog Mingyu down with the details of how busy you were. You want to know how everything around you finally came out of his brain and into existence; right down to the sleek espresso machine and the display case of artfully decorated cakes. You should have recognized all the details he spent hours describing for when he opened his own bakery like he always wanted, checkerboard tiles and all.

“You can ask,” he says.

There is no point in pretending you aren’t curious. He could see right through it.

“When did all this happen?”

“Last year.”

“I didn’t know you quit your job.”

“We weren’t really on speaking terms…” Mingyu shakes his head. “I started working at Annette’s on Second the year before that. Saved up. Now I’m here.”

“Well, if Sarah and Joshua are anything to go by, you’ve got the best cake in the city.”

Mingyu looks away and at first you think it’s because he can’t take the compliment. But that’s unlike him. He loves compliments, even if he gets flustered and pink at the collar. When he looks back, his lip is pinched between his teeth in barely contained laughter.

“Not like that!” you gasp.

“I didn’t say anything!” he argues.

Your eyes roll as you settle back into your chair. It feels too close to normal, like you’re back in those days when Mingyu was some guy you truthfully did only know through a friend of a friend. Before he asked you to a party at his apartment, before you told him you weren’t interested in seeing anyone else; before…everything.

You can’t go down that road. Discussing business is far safer than whatever this is; if this is anything to be worried about at all. Mingyu was always a flirt and obviously hadn’t changed in the years spent apart. It didn’t mean anything. It wouldn’t mean anything.

“Alright, so before they get here,” you start, flipping through your notes. You have less than ten minutes to convince Mingyu to do this wedding, when you really need six months and good blackmail. “They want a wedding cake for Saturday, individual panna cottas for the rehearsal dinner Friday night, and cookies waiting for everyone at the hotel when they arrive on Thursday… Oh, and sticky buns and coffee cake for breakfast Sunday morning for people to grab as they leave. I think that’s it.”

“Oh, that’s it?”

You shrug. “They might change their mind once they get here.”

“Like how?”

“They said they wanted all the stuff they’ve eaten here since they started dating so maybe they’ll remember something else once we get talking.”

“They come in a lot…” Mingyu winces.

As if divine fate, the couple in question barge through the door, perfectly dry in designer coats like they walked off a movie set.

“Sorry we’re late!” Sarah announces.

“Don’t worry about it. We were just chatting.” Mingyu shrugs, rising to shake their hands. “Can I get you both something to drink?”

You swallow the jealousy from catching a glimpse of Sarah’s engagement ring as she and Joshua settle down. Vintage emerald cut diamond big enough to see from the moon but somehow fits her reserved style despite being passed down in Joshua’s family several generations over. You’ve planned a lot of weddings which means you’ve seen a lot of engagement rings; some good, some great. But Sarah’s is the stuff out of a Cartier commercial.

After Mingyu settles everyone with fresh coffee, he pulls his chair back out, spins it around and takes a seat with his arms crossed over the back.

“All right, let’s talk dates—”

“Six weeks,” Joshua says.

“Six…weeks?” Mingyu blinks several times like he also is beginning to believe this is some horrible coma induced nightmare.

You school your features into the perfect picture of innocence. “Didn’t I mention that?”

He doesn’t buy it for a second. No fucking way, his eyes say.

I’ll kill you slowly and painfully, your own respond.

“We know it’s fast but we don’t wanna wait,” Sarah gushes.

“Right…” Mingyu sucks in a long breath. “Well, it shouldn’t be too hard to squeeze you into the schedule.”

What you hear beneath his appeasing tone is: you owe me big time.

Nonethewiser, Sarah and Joshua perk up like freshly watered daisies.

The details hammer out quickly. Three hundred guests means hundreds cookies for the welcome party, a hundred individual desserts for the rehearsal dinner, and a massive four tiered cake for the wedding, and several batches of pastries for Sunday. You shove the curated stack of inspiration pictures into his hands, grimacing when his eyes widen. They’re all vintage round cakes with pounds of icing piped on with painstaking details. Rosettes, ruffles, bulbs of white icing with fresh cherries on top; everything but the kitchen sink slapped together.

But despite the overwhelming demands, the numbers rack up behind his eyes. You’ve been in business long enough to estimate prices of everything from flowers to cake to bartenders to a balloon arch. The cake itself is easily three thousand if not more with how much detail they want. Add on the other desserts and Mingyu must realize he’s sitting on the biggest contract he’s ever seen with the promise of more business if all goes well. Plus, Sarah’s family reputation means every detail of the wedding would be front page news – who attended, how much they spent, and what businesses were lucky enough to serve an heiress. And if it was good enough for an heiress, then brides all over the city wanted the same treatment no matter the cost.

He’d be stupid to turn them down. You’d strangle him if he even considered it; right across the table top separating you two.

“I can definitely do this. What are we thinking for flavors?”

“Chocolate,” Sarah says.

“Lemon!” Joshua adds.

“What about vanilla? Grannie Donna won’t eat anything fancy,” she warns. “Since it’s four tiers, can we do four flavors?”

You focus on the vein in Mingyu’s neck growing more pronounced as they prattle off on a million different tangents; fondant versus icing, fruit filling or mouse, alcohol infused or would that be too much? They are nice enough but it was like herding cats every time you sit down with them. Spare no expense but your sanity. In time, Mingyu will learn that presenting them too many decisions at once is asking for trouble, but for now you revel in watching him fluster through each option in painstaking detail.

“How about we do a tasting next week?” Mingyu asks, clearly exhausted. The only thing preventing him from tugging at his hair the way he always does when stressed is that hideous baseball hat. “I can do a slice of each cake flavor we have and the fillings you're interested in.”

“That’ll be perfect!” Sarah claps.

Once they agree to a time, Sarah rushes Joshua out the door for brunch with her parents leaving you alone with Mingyu.

“Six weeks?” he asks.

“How do you think I feel?”

“The pay is that good?”

“She has shoes worth more than my life and Josh’s family has a summer home in Antibes.”

“Where the fuck is Antibes?” Mingyu blurts.

“France.”

“Well, shit.”

“Yeah. So for the next six weeks I’m in charge of getting them whatever they want. Even if that means putting on an apron and making their cake myself.”

Mingyu shudders. “Never threaten me with your cooking.”

“I’m not that bad!”

“Right,” he says. “I forgot omelets and spaghetti are supposed to be crunchy.”

“Anyway…” Your eyes roll. “Think you can handle everything?”

He leans back, arms crossing over his chest. “I haven’t done a wedding before. It’ll be good for business.”

The corner of your lip twitches because you know that look on his face. Mingyu likes a challenge and what you’re asking of him is probably his biggest challenge yet.

“Alright then,” you say, rising from your seat. “I’ll see you next week.”

“How was the meeting?” Seungkwan asks around a mouthful of pad thai.

You pick at your own plate with gusto. Your day had been packed with meetings since this morning’s nightmare, no time for a change of clothes or anything other than the coffee and pastries Mingyu sent you off with. But Seungkwan surprised you with take out and a Ted Lasso marathon after you wrung out.

“You will never guess who the baker is.”

“Mingyu.”

“How the fuck did you know that?” You whip around to face him, elbow catching on the coffee table. “Ow! Fuck!”

Seungkwan shrugs, unmoved by your pain. “Because I know everything.”

“And it didn’t occur to you to—I don’t know—mention that to me?” you shriek.

“It did. But it was more fun this way.”

“Well I’m glad one of us finds this funny.” You stab a carrot on your plate with more force than needed.

“So how is he?”

“I thought you knew everything?”

“That good, huh?” Seungkwan asks with an eyebrow wiggle. “Did he make a move?”

“Yeah, he actually asked me if I wanted to do him right there on the coffee bar in front of everyone. Obviously, not.”

“Sounds like you wish he did.”

“Ew, no.”

“Oh, please,” he snorts. “As if you’d turn him down.”

“I would.”

“You guys never did the whole break-up sex thing. Just the ‘break up and never speak again’ thing. You are long overdue for it.”

“The point of breaking up is that we don’t see each other anymore.”

“What does that have to do with anything? And now that he’s back in the picture, you don’t feel even the smallest bit of curiosity?”

“No.”

Lie. Lie, lie, lie, lie, LIE. Of the millions of reasons you broke up with Mingyu, lack of attraction wasn’t one. It wasn’t enough that he was tall and handsome, he was actually a good person who wore generosity like a second skin. In the weeks following your break up you resisted the urge to ask him for any sort of ‘closure.’ And gradually, those feelings and curiosity went away the longer you ignored them. But seeing him today brought those dead feelings back with enough force to leave you breathless.

“Whatever you say.”

“I’m not that easy.”

“It’s not about being easy, it’s about having hot hate sex with your ex boyfriend,” Seungkwan tsks. “Why can’t you be normal like everyone else?”

“Not everyone is having sex with their ex-boyfriends!”

“Not everyone’s ex-boyfriend is Mingyu!”

“Why are you invested in my sex life?”

“Because as your friend and employee, you are way better to work with when you’re getting laid.”

“Yeah well you’re better to work with when you mind your own business.”

“He looked good, didn’t he?”

You throw your arms up in defeat. “Fine, yes. He looked good.”

“And?”

“And ‘hot, hate sex’ doesn’t sound like the worst thing ever.”

“And?”

“What else is there? I’m not gonna do it. I have to work with him for the next two months.”

“I don’t know, I just wanted to see what else you’d admit, skank.”

Mid-suffocating Seungkwan with a throw pillow, your phone lights up with a text. Speak of the devil.

Mingyu: realized i didn’t give them a quote on price

When you told him how good the money was, you thought he’d understand. Sarah came from money so old her family were probably the first cavemen to need a bank account. Joshua had family members married to royalty in other countries.

“Is that him? What did he say? Is he asking you to come over?” Seungkwan tries to look over your shoulder.

YN: send me the invoice and i’ll take care of it

Mingyu: aye aye captain

You blare at Seungkwan, sinking back into the couch. “No, it’s about work. Because we work together now.”

“I hear office romance is all the rage these days.”

“I hear firing your assistant is too.”

Seungkwan mutters something under his breath but goes back to watching TV, leaving you to think about what he said.

The first time you met Mingyu was three minutes before Holly, your junior year roommate, shared you two would be splitting twin bunk beds for a weekend at her family’s lake house.

You couldn’t complain. A free weekend on the lake? There was no way you’d ever afford something like it with your budget. As the only two single people on the entire trip, it was a blessing you got real beds and not a pull out couch or air mattress in the living room. Besides, Mingyu seemed nice enough and you wouldn’t be spending that much time in the tiny bedroom anyway. It would be perfectly fine.

And then it rained that entire weekend.

Being stuck inside with five couples for four days left you and Mingyu scrambling to find anything to distract from third wheeling. Turns out, he made good company.

“Pool?” Mingyu asked after the seventh round of cards. Seven losses in a row made him desperate for something he could beat you at.

Eager for anything to prevent going back to your room which shared a wall with Holly and Soonyoung, you tossed the cards on the table and followed him. “Do you know how to play?”

“Do you?” Mingyu turned with two cues in his hand. He passed one to you before grinding the blue chalk on the tip of his.

“Maybe.” You shrugged, racking the balls.

The first game ended in uncontested victory. Mingyu managed to scratch every turn he got, sinking two stripes before the eight balls tipped into a corner pocket and declared you the winner after barely ten minutes.

“How are you this bad at pool?” you asked.

Mingyu sipped his beer indignantly. “Sorry we can’t all be experts.”

“I only pocketed three balls, you lost all on your own. ” You laughed at his eye roll. “Re-rack the balls and I’ll show you.”

Mingyu did as you said, and rounded back where you stood, eager for instruction.

“Okay, now get in position.”

Eying him up and down, you didn’t focus anywhere for too long in fear of getting distracted by…all of it. You had eyes, you could see how handsome he was. Not to mention the last two mornings he woke up early to workout and came back shirtless while you pretend to sleep, watching from the top bunk as he dug through his duffle for a change of clothes.

“First problem,” you started, moving into his space. “Your hands are a mess. Move your left hand, no. Your other left hand.” You pulled his hand away from the green velvet of the table, splaying his fingers wide under your own. “Use this one to aim. Balance the cue between two fingers, it’ll keep it stable so you don’t scratch against the table.” Then your front plastered to his back but you were too dedicated to correcting him to think much beyond the clumsy way he fumbled the stick. “It helps if you keep your grip tight. Now, focus between the tip of the cue and the ball. Don’t do anything crazy, just aim straight.”

The balls cracked on impact, flying different directions and ricocheting off the border until the orange stripe sinks into the corner.

Mingyu stared, mouth wide and cheeks rosy. Your own body vibrated where it touched him; something fluttered up your front, where the heat of his back lingered; where you could still feel the way his chest expanded with each breath.

“See?” you breathed into his ear, pleased at his shiver. “Better already.”

The second game was slightly better than the first. Mingyu improved, pocketing a few more balls. Everytime he looked at you for approval, you forgot how to breathe. You intentionally pocketed the eight ball too soon just to catch your breath.

“I’m gonna grab another beer,” you said, disappearing upstairs.

When you returned, Mingyu insisted on a third game. Alcohol didn’t help keep either of your shots steady but it did make things hazy around the edges. You touched Mingyu more, finding any excuse to correct his form. He let you before starting to ask for more pointers, watching closely as you pocketed more balls.

Mingyu’s hand covered yours when you descended into puddles of laughter after he sent the cue ball flying across the room. Then you were kissing; pinned between his mouth and pool table.

That night, you didn’t hear anything from Holly and Soonyoung’s room. All you heard was the sound of Mingyu between your thighs and then, later, the steady beat of his heart as you fell asleep against his chest.

The tasting appointment comes fast. In the past week you’ve exchanged a few more messages with Mingyu, all strictly professional which serves to soften the lead in your stomach. You can do this. You can work with him and not have it be weird. In five weeks everything will be done and you can go back to sweet ignorant bliss, ignoring his entire existence.

You just have to survive.

Another stormy day leaves the subway running late and traffic bumper to bumper. At least this time, you’re dry when you arrive ten minutes early for the tasting.

Vernon wipes down the counters, the display case empty for the night and most of the chairs turned over on top of tables.

“Is Mingyu—”

“I’ll get him from the back,” Vernon says, disappearing through the kitchen doors with a swish.

Without the bustle of people, the cafe feels much larger. However, it maintains a cozy warmth even when there are no kids leaving sugar cookie crumbs on the floor, or old men tapping their fingers on the table while reading the news.

Years ago, when you were still dating, he described this exact cafe in detail. Somewhere that felt casual enough for afternoon coffee but fancy enough to bring a date. You helped him put together inspiration boards; paint swatches, furniture ideas, sketched out logos. You should have recognized all of it the first time you visited: the bookshelves stuffed with board games and plants, tables with local ceramics for sale, down to the beaten up couches sandwiching a coffee table with a wooden chess board on top. Exactly what Mingyu wanted.

You’re happy for him.

Your phone vibrates, lighting up with a text from Sarah.

Fuck.

Mingyu comes out from the kitchen as you’re typing out a response, same Dodgers hat and flour covered apron as last week.

“I have everything ready, when are they supposed to get here?” he asks.

“They’re stuck on the bridge and traffic hasn’t moved in thirty minutes.”

It’s already later than you’d like. By the time they arrive, taste everything, and settle down on their order, it’ll be well past the last train to your apartment and all you want after a day running around the city is to go home and curl up on the couch with a glass of wine and bad reality TV. You release a slow breath, a dull throb resonating in your temple.

Mingyu sighs as well before responding, “Well, if you wanna hangout out here, be my guest. I’m gonna work on some orders in the back until they get here.”

Like always, your unread emails near the triple digits even after only a few hours away from your phone. You set up at one of the chairs lining the counter, laptop hot to the touch and sounding ready for take off. Couples in full meltdowns, vendors needing finalized contracts, venues looking to do walkthroughs and be added to your roster of recommendations. You get the most pressing ones done; a couple deciding they wanted to change their theme from regency garden party to rustic botanical (they’re still a year out, thank god), an overdue invoice from Jihoon for express order of white Dahlias (you sent the filled invoice dated from last week back), a hotel trying to split the block of hotel rooms you already arranged for a wedding next month (absolutely not).

For every fire you put out, three more crop up in its place.

It’s fine. You handle it the way you handle everything, fueled by exhaustion and waning patience. Washing down the last sip of coffee Vernon provided before leaving, you tiptoe around the counter to fill up the mug to the top before setting back to work. You can hear Mingyu humming to himself through the kitchen doors.

A wave of nostalgia washes over you. Years ago, back when you first started and had all of two couples willing to take the risk of hiring someone completely new to the industry, you’d park yourself at the thrifted dining room table in your shared apartment. He’d make dinner, humming away while you worked furiously on your laptop. Polishing your business plan, researching licenses and permits, emailing florists and photographers and anyone else you could network with. Crying from the stress after the hundredth ‘no.’

When it got too much for him to bear, Mingyu would force your laptop out of the way, tuck it away somewhere you couldn’t reach with the promise you could have it back after you ate something that wasn’t popcorn or coffee. The nights he failed to distract you, he’d stand behind your chair, massaging your tense shoulders until your eyes drooped and let him pull you into bed.

But now, Mingyu hides in the kitchen because he is avoiding you. You’re hunkered down at the bar with cold coffee and a dying laptop because you’re avoiding him. It’s hard not to imagine all the what if’s but you focus on work because work is safe; where you can channel all the restless energy and pretend you aren’t thinking about what Seungkwan said.

Then, because life is never kind, the power goes out.

And it stays out.

“Damn it,” you hear Mingyu curse.

Using your phone as a flashlight, you meet him at the kitchen doors.

“Powers out,” he says, wincing at the harsh light of your phone.

“That's what it is?” you gasp mockingly. “I thought you were politely telling me to leave.”

“Smartass,” he huffs. “Can you call the utility company? My phone’s dead.”

“Sure.”

Mingyu leads you back through the kitchen, towards the office. The scent of sugar and vanilla is more concentrated back here, clinging inside your nose. You take stock of everything: steel work benches, one with a half decorated cake frozen in time. Metal shelves filled with proofing dough, others jammed full of freshly baked loaves for tomorrow. The far wall is nothing but industrial sized ovens. Luckily, they’re all empty.

You try not to stare for too long but you hate mystery and the doors separating the kitchen from the rest of the cafe have kept you from knowing anything about this space. Maybe that was for the best because your imagination takes over. You see Mingyu kneading dough on one table, sleeves rolled up. Meticulously piping icing flowers onto the half finished cake. Whipping up macaroon batter in the gigantic mixer. All the things he did in the tiny kitchen at your old apartment, now with the space he needs to bring his recipes to life.

He ushers you into the closet turned office. On looks alone, you know your arms could touch the side walls without fully extending. Mingyu takes up seventy percent of the space on his own. You don’t think about it.

“I know I have the number somewhere,” he says, digging through a stack of papers.

You aim the flashlight a little higher to help him see.

Mistake.

There is nothing overtly sexual about one person’s elbow grazing someone’s shoulder. Not unless you're a Regency era gentlewoman and a flash of ankle sends men into a fit of passion. However, Seungkwan’s words about Mingyu still ring in your ears no matter how much you try to drown them out.

You’re close enough for the scent of his cologne to fill your senses, soak in the heat of his skin through his shirt where your elbow brushes against him as he flips through papers. If he notices the way your breath stutters, he fails to mention it.

Your face heats. How embarrassing is it that the first time you're alone with him since the breakup, all you can think about is if Seungkwan was right and if Mingyu would be any good at it. By history alone, you know he is which opens a whole other can of worms because it’s been months since you had the time or energy for anything beyond a drunk bar makeout with a stranger. Of all the issues in your relationship with Mingyu, lack of chemistry in the bedroom was never an issue.

“Got it!”

You snap to attention. After handing you the business card, Mingyu grabbed a flashlight from the desk drawer and left to check the generator.

Before you dial the number, you ground with a few breaths. It’s just Mingyu. He is just Mingyu. Mingyu who you broke up with and don’t regret leaving. The same man who clearly was no longer thinking about you in any way other than a temporary thorn in his side.

The office doesn’t have any service so you wander back into the kitchen. Mingyu is off somewhere but you can’t hear him as you dial the electric company. You aren’t scared of the dark and definitely not storms but being all alone out front raises hairs on the back of your neck. Maybe your heart is overcompensating for being alone in Mingyu’s presence and is channeling that energy into something less embarrassing, like the Boogey Man.

The line is still ringing when the lights come back on, flickering at first like some cheap horror movie gimmick, but they stay on.

You leave a message for their automated voicemail complaining about the issue and hang up as Mingyu comes back into the kitchen from a door in the back.

“Fixed it?” you ask.

“No, I didn’t even get the door unlocked.”

“Well, hopefully it’s fixed.”

“Did Josh and Sarah say anything about when they’d get here?”

You glance at your phone, sending a quick text to Sarah that she responds to immediately.

Sarah: traffic still backed up :( probably another hour

Sliding your hand down your face, you release a long breath. There is no rescheduling. This has to be done tonight or the already tight deadline will become impossible for Mingyu to meet.

“I’m going back out front.”

“The Wi-Fi won’t come back for a while,” Mingyu warns.

“Then I will bash my head into the counter until I die or they get here. Whatever comes first.”

“I don’t have that kind of insurance,” he jokes. “I could use a hand, if you’re up for it.”

Your brain doesn’t go straight to the gutter but only because you refuse to allow it. Professional. You are a professional. And professionals do not sleep with their colleagues even if the colleague in question is their ex-boyfriend who historically proved to be great to sleep with.

“What happened to ‘don’t threaten me with your cooking’?”

“The fact you think this is cooking proves that point. Just crack all the eggs into the bowl.” He shoves a massive flat of eggs and a large steel bowl across the counter before focusing back on the half decorated cake.

The kitchen falls into comfortable silence. The crack of shells against the counter, the sound of your breaths evening out simultaneously. You lose yourself in the task; crack, open, toss, repeat. Easy. Halfway through the tray you feel Mingyu’s gaze.

“What?” you ask, not looking up.

“People tend to prefer their cakes without shells.”

A few pale shell fragments float in the bowl. There aren't that many, he’s just picky.

“I was going to get them all after,” you huff.

His responding snort sets you off. To your own surprise, the empty egg in your hands smashes into the center of his apron covered chest.

He freezes, eyes flashing to yours. “You didn’t.”

“Oh, but I did,” you nod, an evil grin twisting your face.

When you stoop low, Mingyu races to meet you. He dips his hand into the bowl of sifted flour resting on the bench, and flicks it onto your cheek, into your hair.

“You’re gonna pay for that,” you warn, taking a step closer as he takes one back.

You slap a handful of icing on his neck, the pale pink color contrasting with the warm hue of his skin.

“I’m going to kill you!”

“I’m shaking in boots,” you squeal, putting the metal table between you.

Flour, eggs, and buttercream litter the floor, making it too slick for an easy escape. Mingyu manages to snag your wrist before you can round the opposite side of the metal workbench. He’s got you pinned, trapped between a fingers covered in icing and the hard ledge.

“Any last words?” he asks. His warm breath puffs over your face, face barely a hands distance from yours.

You don’t think as you roll up on your toes, exactly like the first time you kissed him. Your lips meet his, soft and warm; exactly how you remember them yet somehow better. It lasts barely a second before he withdraws, hovering a hair's breadth away. He’s going to brush you off, step away. Put a stop to whatever this is before it gets out of hand.

Mingyu kisses you again.

The hat holding his hair back falls to the floor, your hands burying in his hair to drag him closer. Muscle memory prevents any awkwardness. When Mingyu tilts his head, you go the opposite way. When you tug at his hair, a grunt tickles across your lips a second before his tongue does. His hands slot on your waist, pulling you firmly against his chest.

Your own roam over his shoulders, down his front until your body gets in the way – wedged so tight against his body you can feel his heart beating against yours. Mingyu lifts you onto the edge of the metal table, standing between your spread legs like so many times before.

You can’t think, you can’t breathe. Nerves dull from too much Mingyu too fast, but you don’t want him to stop. The taste of vanilla and sugar on his tongue is addictive and you whine when he leans back to leave a hot trail over the side of your throat.

Every part of you responds like no time has passed; nipples tight, hips curling against the zipper of his pants when Mingyu feels bold enough to ghost his teeth across your earlobe. You should have done this sooner. So much sooner.

Your hands are all over him like magnets, his the same. Too much to touch and still not enough. Mingyu leverages his weight until your back meets the counter top, completely at his whim. His stupid apron prevents every attempt to get his shirt off or sneak your hand into his pants but that doesn’t stop you. Mingyu’s back is just as nice to touch as his front, you grip his ass and roll your hips.

“Fuck,” he grunts when you do it a second time, rolling with more force into the friction.

A response bubbles in the back of your throat when someone out front calls “Hello?”

Mingyu abandons the patch of skin revealed by the stretched neckline of your sweater, eyes meeting yours as you both realize for the first time exactly what was happening. All the reasons why this is a horrible idea sprint into your head.

One: he is your ex-boyfriend.

Two: Joshua and Sarah are less than twenty feet away.

You scramble from between him and the table, rushing to exit the kitchen, desperate for as much distance as possible from the disappointment you caught in his gaze. “Coming!”

Flour clings to the cuff of your sweater, and there is definitely frosting and egg shells in other places.

“Sorry we’re late,” Joshua says.

“It’s fine!” you squeak. Your lips feel swollen and tingly, the heat of Mingyu’s hands lingering on your back, your cheeks burning hotter. You pray neither of them notice the clear signs they interrupted whatever you were doing with him in the back.

Mingyu sweeps through the door, pinker than you left him, hair a mess. “Who is ready for some cake?”

“I think I wanna do wedding planning,” you shared over a mouth of pasta.

“Wedding planning?” Mingyu asked. He manned the stove partially nude, only a pair of boxers saving his modesty, messy hair hidden by a backwards baseball hat – like a regular frat boy. He insisted on a midnight snack after a joint and a blowjob on the couch during the newest episode of Prehistoric Planet.

“Yeah,” you said. “Wedding planning. Planning weddings. Dealing with bridezillas and their crazy in-laws.”

Mingyu turned towards where you sit on the countertop with an amused smile, eyes bloodshot. “Okay. What can I do to help?”

“Do you know anyone getting married?”

“We know the same people,” he laughed.

“You’re not helping!” you whined.

Mingyu returned back to the pan, stirring with measured precision, shoulders tense.

Gotcha, you thought.

Mingyu couldn’t keep a secret if his life depended on it. Especially from you. Not for long. He had one, you just needed to apply the right pressure.

You pulled him away from his cooking, ushering him to stand between your legs. You weren’t playing fair, in his shirt and nothing else, gazing at him with soft features he was already enamored with. “You don’t know anyone thinking about getting married?”

Like an overstuffed pillow, his lips bursted open with a rush. “Soonyoung is planning to ask Holly.”

A wicked grin splits your face. “Really?”

“But they’re eloping.” Mingyu collapsed into your shoulder, nose tracing the curve of your throat.

“Well, I can still help them!” you said. “When is he asking?”

You ignored his hand sneaking up your thigh but it’s not necessary. He only wanted to hold you close, cuddly and touch starved from a little too much weed. He sighed, squeezing you tight against him.

“Next week, when we’re all back at the lake house.”

You shuddered at the idea of sharing the wall between the bunk bed room and the master suite while they celebrated. Even after six years of dealing with their volume, it never got any easier. But this was the chance you needed. Something small, something with two people as easy to please as Soonyoung and Holly.

“Do you think I’ll be good at it?” you asked, suddenly self conscious.

“I think you can do anything you put your mind to,” he whispered against your hairline.

Clipboard. Check. Phone charger. Check. Wallet. Check.

You methodically pack your bag for today’s appointment at the venue. You’ve never seen it in person but if the reviews and photos are even half true then it would be perfect, exactly what Sarah and Joshua envisioned. By some gigantic miracle, the Ellery Estate had a cancellation aligned with their desired date which has come simultaneously fast and slow. One more week, ten days to be specific, and this entire thing would be a done deal.

In the meantime, you just have to survive.

On the brightside, Mingyu was radio silent over the past four weeks, only responding when you reached out to him to confirm attendance for today. He insisted on delivering everything for the weekend himself and needed to know exactly how the kitchen was set up. Somehow, it became Sarah and Joshua offering to pay for his accommodations to stay through the event in case there was some cake related emergency. Joy.

The silver lining is he seemed to be as intent on ignoring the kiss as you were. He didn’t make any smart comments, or throw it in your face. After the cake tasting last month he all but sprinted into the back of the kitchen after everything was settled. It shouldn’t make you as annoyed as you felt, which made you even more annoyed. You shouldn’t have kissed him and he shouldn’t have kissed you back.

Your phone rings, a familiar tune playing instead of the default chime. Only one person has that ringtone. Because you never bothered to change it, because you didn’t remember it even needed changing until now because the last time you heard it was years ago.

“What?” you snap after answering, continuing to back your bag with shaky hands.

Mingyu’s scoff crackles through the speaker. “Hello to you, too.”

“Hi. What?”

Mingyu sighs deeply over the line. “My car broke down.”

“Your what did what?”

“My car broke down. Well, someone actually totaled it – but the point is, I don’t have a car.”

“The run through is this afternoon,” you say, voice shrilling with panic.

“So nice of you to be concerned. I’m fine by the way. And yeah, I know.”

Everyone had to be at the walk through, they had to. The caterer, the photographer, Seungkwan, you, Josh and Sarah, and Mingyu. There is no make-up day for Mingyu to go alone, the venue was booked solid up until the ceremony. Today is it.

The vein in your temple starts to throb. “You can ride with me.”

“Are you sure? That’s a long drive…”

“It’s fine. I need this to go well and if that means towing your ass everywhere then that’s what I’ll do.”

“How considerate,” Mingyu huffs.

“I’ll be at your apartment at noon. Do not make us late.”

“I’m not that bad anymore!” he argues.

“Alright, see you in an hour.” You hang up before he can say anything else.

You spend the next thirty minutes sprawled on the sliver of floor space between the couch and coffee table. This was fine. It was perfectly, absolutely, totally, one hundred percent fine. Better the rip off the bandaid of awkward discomfort sooner than later. You kissed Mingyu and now that it happened, it was firmly out of your system. You definitely don’t think about how if your mind slips from the tight leash of control, you can still feel everywhere his body pressed against weeks ago.

But as the last few weeks showed, no amount of ignoring the memories helped. When you literally took matters into your own hands, the short lived bliss of an orgasm fizzled into hollowness. Nothing relieved that consuming need. At your wits end, you downloaded Tinder with the sole purpose of finding someone who was not Mingyu to help but deleted it because deep down you knew it wouldn’t work either.

It hadn’t worked yet but, if you could firmly cement Mingyu as someone you worked with and not someone you knew every intimate detail about, then maybe the desire to kiss him again would go away.

Hopefully.

When you pull up outside the bakery twenty minutes later, Mingyu is waiting with his arms crossed over his chest and his foot tapping impatiently. Apparently, he lives in the apartment above the bakery. At least, that’s what he said. Maybe he’s lying to you because he doesn’t want you to know where he lives in case he screws up and you plot to kill him in his sleep.

“You are not wearing that,” you say.

“What’s wrong with this?” Mingyu looks down at his outfit: t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. And like always, that ugly Dodgers hat.

“They’re paying half a million for this venue. Put on some damn slacks,” you snap. “And brush your hair!”

“Who pissed in your cereal?” he grumbles but goes back inside. Ten minutes later, Mingyu walks out in slacks and a navy button up, hair tousled. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic.”

He mutters something else under his breath before buckling his seatbelt. Then you’re off.

The drive isn’t horrible. You’ve got a playlist that Mingyu is content with and he brought coffee along with a few pastries to snack on. You don’t linger on the fact he still remembers your order – iced latte with cinnamon. It doesn’t mean anything. He just has a good memory and was probably trying to smooth over the tension.

Three hours later and a slightly numb but later, a large iron gate rolls into view, manned by multiple security guards. They check your IDs against their list of guests for the day before waving you through.

“Where the hell are we?” Mingyu asks. “Buckingham Palace?”

The venue is a modest mansion on 8,000 acres of lush land, hidden away in between rolling mountains and dense forest. Surrounding the pristine white building is a massive yard, mowed with a perfect checkerboard pattern. You creep down the pebbled driveway towards the front of the house where a man waits on the steps, impatiently checking his watch.

Mr. Ellery.

Even though you only spoke to him on the phone and exchanged emails, you know it’s him by his dry gaze and silent imposition, the fine cut of his suit screaming money. He resembles the butler from Haunted Mansion a little too much for comfort. Brown eyes – perfect to see straight through you – and thick white hair cropped close to his skull.

Several other cars line the driveway. Sarah’s BMW, Seungkwan’s Volkswagen. The others you don’t recognize as you pull in next to them. You put the car in park, turning to Mingyu who looks a little paler than usual.

“Please don’t say anything stupid.”

“When have I ever—”

“I’m serious.”

Mingyu mimes zipping his lips before getting out of the car. You take a deep breath, lungs stretched until they burn, releasing it slowly before opening the door.

“Mr. Ellery,” you greet, shaking his hand. You hope yours aren’t clammy with nerves. Either way, the slight annoyance on the older man’s face makes you feel like you could cure cancer and still be an inconvenience. “And this is our baker, Mingyu, he’ll be—”

“Everyone else has already arrived,” Mr. Ellery says dryly. “This way.”

You studied the venue website extensively before booking but nothing could have prepared you for seeing it in person. The massive exterior of the house does a poor job of betraying how spacious the inside is. Each click of Mr. Ellery’s expensive leather loafers on the marble floor echoes loudly, the high ceilings make the room feel infinite and you’re nothing more than a speck of dust floating through, about to be swatted by a maid.

Sarah and Joshua are sipping champagne and nibbling cookies in the Rose Room, chatting with Jeonghan about the article for their wedding. Seungkwan is in the corner entertaining the caterer and photographer. You’re not late but somehow the shocked expression from everyone as you and Mingyu arrive makes you feel like you’re back in elementary school.

“Now that the entire party has arrived,” Mr. Ellery drawls. “We can begin our tour.”

A young woman named Tabitha leads Seungkwan, Mingyu, and the Dokyeom away to tour the kitchens and access points they’ll need while you, the happy couple, Jeonghan, and the photographer, Wonwoo, follow Mr. Ellery back into the main foyer.

“As mentioned on our website, my staff will handle all decoration set up and tear down. I have many priceless family heirlooms throughout the estate and wish to keep them in pristine condition,” Mr. Ellery says.

The air around him is stiff with seriousness. Ironic for a man named Shannon but you focus on nailing down details for the ceremony next week.

“Of course,” you nod. Your clipboard covered in notes is slowly checked off as each obstacle is addressed. Live band? Check. Dance floor installation? Check. Bridal suite, groom’s room, wedding party accommodations. It all flows smoothly.

Three hours later, you’re standing outside in the center of the Ivory Garden, one of the seven formal gardens. White tulips and daffodils explode out of the ground. Shrubs covered in pale quince petals offer a natural division on the sides, puff balls of viburnum exploding from emerald bushes.

Wonwoo directs the couple around the space for some candid shots while you and Jeonghan watch from afar. Shannon was called away to handle an issue with the estate’s swans, leaving all you to kill time until he returns.

“I think he keeps bodies in the basement,” Jeonghan whispers.

“I think you should focus on interviewing Josh and Sarah.”

“When Joshua Hong, heir of the Hong Diamond’s empire met Sarah Ko, he knew he had a rare gem on his hands,” Jeonghan says into his phone microphone.

“You are so painfully cliche.”

He presses the record button again. “Their wedding was planned by the ultimate stick in the mud, Y/N. Her hobbies include drowning kittens and drinking tears.”

Before you can respond, or push him into the nearest bush like you itch to, Sarah comes running up. “Isn’t it just perfect?”

“Absolutely,” you nod.

“It’s going to be like a fairytale,” she sighs, face glowing. “Do you think delphinium would work better in the aisle floral arrangements than snapdragons? With all the space I think we’re going to need more height. Jihoon can do that, right?”

“That sounds like a great idea. Let me text him.” You smile but beneath the lift of your mouth, every muscle in your body pulls taunt. Jihoon already associated Sarah and Joshua with his own personal version of Hell. Changing the flowers a week out is going to put you on his hit list, if he doesn’t hunt you down immediately.

You fumble with your phone, shooting off the request and bracing for his reaction.

Y/N: don’t hate me

Jihoon: if it’s the Hong wedding, i will kill myself in front of them and then haunt you

Great.

“My apologies,” Mr. Ellery says upon his return. “Where were we? Oh, yes. As we discussed, the champagne toast will take place in the courtyard…”

He shepherds your group back towards the manor. You follow behind, furiously typing on your phone.

Y/N: please tell me things are going well even if its a lie

Seungkwan: things are great! (not lying)

Seungkwan: DK says kitchen is perfect. He and mingyu worked out storage and timing

Your shoulders relax a fraction. At least something seemed to be fine. You’d take your wins wherever they came from. Even if it was just Mingyu and Dokyeom working out who got what shelf in the fridge.

Catching up to the group, Ellery stops in front of the large fountain serving as the courtyard’s centerpiece. “I believe that concludes our tour. Please join me inside for some refreshments before taking your leave.”

Dark clouds swirl overhead, only just hesitating to release all the water they’ve swelled with over the course of the afternoon. As much as you wished to stay and brow beat the old man until your face turned blue, three hours in the pouring rain back to the city wasn’t worth what could be solved over email.

Seungkwan, Dokyeom, and Mingyu stand around, chatting with Tabitha in the main foyer, much laxer than you expected. At least your assistant wasn’t lying to your face. If things went poorly, you don’t Dokyeom and Mingyu would be acting like long lost friends.

You snag a glass of water from the table, emptying it before heading in Mingyu’s direction.

“How’d it go?”

“Good,” you tell him. “It’s a long drive back so we should head out.”

“I can drive,” Mingyu offers.

“I don’t think so.”

“You have work to do. I don’t. Just let me drive.”

There's more to it than that and you know it. Hiding your anxiety from clients was one thing. They didn’t know what cracks to look for, what obvious tells were. But Mingyu did. He always had a way of reading you like the back of his own hand.

Even if he’s doing it to be nice, Mingyu gives you a solid excuse to pretend like everything is fine. You really can’t afford to lose three hours to driving when you have an angry florist to talk down from the ledge, hotel reservations to finalize, and a serious lack of sleep. Jihoon would take at least an hour to convince not to disappear into the woods forever.

“Fine.”

You ignore Seungkwan’s pointed look at Mingyu takes your keys and you open the passenger side door.

The drive home is much the same way as the drive out, quiet but the tension from before seems to have melted. Mingyu hums along with the radio, fingers tapping a steady rhythm into the steering wheel. You send off emails and texts, Jihoon finally calming enough to bargain for a steep upcharge you don’t even try to haggle over. Seungkwan asks about Mingyu every other text and you manage to ignore them in favor of tasking him with picking up Sarah’s aunt from the airport Thursday night.

Rain pelts the windshield, new mist immediately blurring the road barely a second after the windshield wipers clear it.

Incoming Call…Jeonghan Yoon

A frown crosses your lips as you answer. “Hello?”

“Listen, I need some more info for the announcement but Sarah and Josh are all booked this week. Can I pick your brain?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Well don’t sound too eager. I’d hate to think you’re excited to hang out with me.”

Your lips quirk, a puff of amused breath. Leave it to Jeonghan. “Dinner. Tuesday, 8 PM at Plazzo’s.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Bye.”

You end the call and return back to Ellery’s email detailing that the parking for the wedding would have to be valet only and the shuttle services would require an extra fee.

“Date?” Mingyu asks.

You prickle. “No.”

“It’s fine if it is. I don’t—”

“It’s none of your business!” Your voice comes out sharper than intended. “But if you must know, it was Jeonghan who I’m not sleeping with and never have. Is that really what you think of me?”

“Sorry,” Mingyu concedes. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

The car is quiet after that. Not even the dull hum of the radio can mask the tension. Embarrassment already burns your face. Mingyu was just trying to make things feel normal.

“It’s not a date.”

“Okay, it’s not a date.”

“And even if it was, I wouldn’t talk about it with you.”

“Why not?” You level him with an expectant look. “Okay, fine. But for the record, it’s not like I don’t expect you to be dating. It’s been a long time.”

“For the record, I barely have the time to sleep, let alone date.”

“At least we still have that in common,” he jest. “If you need any advice on getting back out there—”

“No offense, but you are the last person I’d take dating advice from,” you snort, before realizing what you said. “Sorry that was mean.”

What was a warm space, froze back over. You watch Mingyu from the corner of your eye, the signs of his frustration clear as day; his jaw set tight, tongue pinned between his teeth. The rain falls steadier now, fat drops challenging the wipers to keep up.

His grip on the steering wheel tightens. “No, you’re right. I haven’t been on a date in…years.”

The math circles your brain but you refuse to acknowledge the implications of his confession.

“Why not?”

“Time. I’m in the bakery for like fifteen hours a day and I never—”

Just then, the car shudders violently. The force overrides Mingyu’s control of the wheel, swerving into the other lane before he regains control to slow down and pull up onto the side of the road.

“What the hell?”

The car feels off balance, Mingyu’s side slouching closer to the ground. Fuck.

Your eyes close, head meeting the dashboard in preemptive defeat. “Please tell me it’s not what I think it is.”

“It’s exactly what you think it is.”

A long sigh leaves your nose. “Great.”

Mingyu mutters a curse before throwing open the door and disappearing outside. It’s so dark his silhouette is barely decipherable through the rain. All you can do is watch as he examines the tire in the dark.

A few minutes later, he ducks back into the driver's seat, significantly wetter than when he left. “The tire is flat. Should be an easy fix. Where is your spare?”

You hesitate. “That might be the spare.”

“I—” he starts. You prepare for a lecture about why driving on the spare is bad, how dumb you are not to get it replaced but Mingyu stops himself. “Do you have the number for a tow truck?”

“Yeah, let me just…no service. There was an exit a few miles back. Maybe we can walk there?”

“In this weather?” Mingyu asks.

“I don’t see you coming up with any ideas,” you reply.

“We wait until morning, when it’s not pitch black and raining, and then walk.”

“Fine.”

It's only a little past ten. No service means no distraction to fill the time with. Mingyu’s perpetually uncharged phone is already dead, and he doesn’t want to waste the car battery on charging it. So you both crowd together to watch the one show you have downloaded on your phone: Prehistoric Planet.

There’s nothing sexual or romantic about it other than the memories of giving Mingyu hickies on the lumpy couch of your shared apartment. The backing track to high makeouts that always led to more. This might be the first time you’ve actually tried to pay attention to what the mosasaur is doing.

Half way through the episode is too late to bail. Unless you want to admit to what exactly is going through your head, what he is clearly remembering; the massive elephant in the car. Next to you, Mingyu tries to act like he isn’t remembering the same details which only makes it all the more awkward. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t look at you.

Forty minutes later, the credits roll. The car is dark. Mingyu’s breath comes out measured, yours too.

You don’t know how it happens but Mingyu is folded at the waist over the center console, your hands on the back of his neck, pulling him into a kiss. Unlike last time, he doesn’t hesitate. He tugs at you with equal enthusiasm, a hum of content tickling against your lips as you comb a hand through his hair.

He gets you into the back seat with some maneuvering, legs and arms at awkward angles but you're so caught in his orbit you don’t care. All you want is him and the more you have, the more you want.

Planted in his lap, you tug at his damp shirt. Tilting your head back, Mingyu nips along your throat until the collar of your shirt stops him. But not for long. You have it off and lost to the floor, while he folds the cups out of the way before sucking a nipple into the heat of his mouth. Distracted by the pinch of his teeth, you don’t feel his hand snake between your legs until the pads of his fingers prod against your panties.

“Mingyu,” you moan.

“God, you’re so wet.”

It’s only half the sentence you expect to hear. In the past he’d add “for me” but he doesn’t now. You don’t dwell on it. This is a bad idea. A horrible idea. No one is scheduled to interrupt, to remind you there is a world outside of the one between you and Mingyu’ that consequences for this lapse in judgement verge on fatal.

“We should—hmm—talk about this,” you whimper.

“Do you want me to stop?” Mingyu pants against your neck, fingers tucked inside your panties, teasing with a shallow dip up to his knuckle.

“No,” you object, dragging him back into another kiss. “Don’t stop.”

It’s only you and Mingyu. No one has to know, and in a week you’d never have to see him again.

You flatten your chest into his, teeth hard against his lower lip as you rut desperately across the firmness of his crotch. You want him in your mouth, inside you. You’re too needy to make either of you wait very long.

He’s hard enough for your hand to cup around as you twist into a familiar position, knelt on the car seat between Mingyu’s spread thighs. Years ago, back in college when you both had roommates, Mingyu’s car on the side of an abandoned road was a frequent spot for hickies and blowjobs.

You don’t give yourself time to think as you peel his boxers down his thighs, honing in on his length immediately. Pretty isn’t a word you ever used to describe dicks until the first time you saw his. Mingyu huffs, chopped and ragged, as your tongue wets his cock with heavy licks; savoring the taste of him.

“Oh my god,” Mingyu groans at the roof, throat on display.

His thighs jump under your nails as you suck the tip softly, a light tease he used to despise. All of his turn ons are at the front of your brain: gag a little too loud, squeeze on the upstroke, act like you want nothing more than the taste of him on your tongue.

A hand rest heavy on the back of your neck, nudging you down with the smallest amount of force. You gag with it, a rogue tear joining the mess dripping down your chin. You pull off to slap his cock against your tongue.

“Holy shit,” Mingyu gasps.

You wonder how long it’s been for him, if he’s gone through the same dry spell as you. Mingyu said he hadn’t been on a date but that doesn’t mean he’s been celibate too.

“Fuck, babe,” he keens.

You work him with a spit slick grip, while catching your breath. “Take your shirt off.”

Saliva drips down your chin, fucking him with your mouth in slow measures. If Mingyu could see how fucked out you know you look then he’d be cross eyed. He silently pleas for more, hips curling into the torture you rain down onto his length. Your throat opens as you swallow his cock down, nose to his stomach.

Mingyu tries. He really, truly tries not to blow his load in the first five seconds of having your mouth on him, but your lips tighten when he’s half way out and he flounders like he’s never had a blowjob before. Cum washes over your tongue, and you take it all, swallow it cleanly. It floods your mouth, excess pushing out the corners of your lips for you to collect later.

You don't get to enjoy the pleasure of a job well done for long. Mingyu hauls you up into his chest, sucking the traces of his spend from your teeth, fingers back back between your legs more aggressive than before.

“Just like that,” he instructs, his other hand dragging you over his crotch like you're riding his cock and not his thigh. You wish you were.

But there isn’t a condom nearby. You’re desperate, not stupid. Maybe it’s for the best that you don’t fuck your ex-boyfriend turned colleague in the back of your car. So you settle for thinking about how his cock was made to split you perfectly, imagine Mingyu fucking you hard and fast while his fingers supply a decent alternative.

“Gonna c-come.”

“Good,” he croaks. “Want you to.”

Two fingers become three, the heel of his hand leveraged against your clit for a perfect grind. You claw at his chest, pink lines to be found in the morning.

Fantasies and memories swirl together behind your eyes. Mingyu telling you to take his cock, praising you for it, giving it to you as hard as you can take and then some more.

“Mingyu.” Your back arches painfully as a thousand stars explode in your eyes.

Brain dulled by the first truly satisfying climax you’ve had in months, you nuzzle down into Mingyu’s neck and fall asleep.

The morning comes slowly then all at once. You’re warm, sweaty around your hairline. Your face angles out of the sunlight but it’s no use. You open your eyes just a hair. You’re nose first against the upholstery of the backseat, an old sweater serving as a blanket, Mingyu nowhere to be seen.

Memories of last night assault you.

Fuck.

No wonder he left. He’s not good at letting people down easily. Even if it didn’t mean anything he’d hate to be the one to say it.

Checking your reflection in the visor mirror, you look exactly like someone who hooked up in the backseat of a car and fell asleep right after. You fix your hair, tug the collar of your shirt high enough to conceal one of several hickies Mingyu littered across your chest. Most are lower, where no one will see, which is somehow better and worse for the sense of dread coil in your stomach. You shudder to think what he looked like this morning.

Just as you're about to go looking for him, a tow truck pulls up.

“Need a tow?” the driver calls. Sitting beside him in the cab is Mingyu, significantly more put together than you thought he’d be.

“Ugh, yeah.”

Stuart wiggles out of the car, barely coming to your chin in terms of height and maybe old enough to be your grandfather’s grandfather but he carries himself with the energy of someone much younger. A toothpick sticks out the corner of his mouth like he’s some Western movie star.

“Where did you find this guy?” you ask Mingyu.

“The diner in town. Here,” Mingyu says, handing you a styrofoam coffee cup. “He says he can take us all the way back to the city.”

“How much will that cost?”

“Free ninety nine for my new friends!” Stuart interrupts. “This fella gave the misses the tiramisu recipe we read about in the paper from his shop. Can’t put a value on secrets.”

You probably could have given how tight lipped Mingyu is about his recipe book, protecting it with his life. It’s the only thing he has ever been able to successfully hide from you.

“Thank you, Stuart.”

“My pleasure,” he nods, before getting back into the truck and working to load your car.

Mingyu rocks from one foot to the other while watching from the sidelines. “About last night…”

“It was a mistake. We shouldn’t have done it.” You beat him to the punch.

“Mistake?”

“Yeah. Don’t worry, it won’t happen again.”

You don’t wait for his response as you brush past him, thankful Stuart’s truck has enough room for you to hide in the backseat while Mingyu takes shotgun.

Day one of the Hong-Ko wedding weekend extravaganza starts with a bang.

Literally.

Seungkwan beats down your door long before the sun is up. Guests won’t arrive until at least dinner time but that means you only have a few hours to get to the venue, set up basecamp, double and triple check everything, and acclimate to Mingyu’s presence enough to not become a sweaty, blushing mess every time he comes within eyesight.

“I still can’t believe you two didn’t make out,” Seungkwan says.

He hammered for details from the moment he arrived at your apartment until parking the car outside the estate. You managed to keep the details under lock and key. Mostly because you didn’t want to hear Seungkwan’s conspiracy theories, but partially because if you say it happened then you can’t ignore it anymore. But your rigid silence didn’t deter him. Now that the day is done and there are no guests to eavesdrop, Seungkwan takes the mantle back up.

“Well, believe it,” you respond, only a step behind.

You still aren’t familiar with this part of the house. The pale walls are covered in old paintings, each door decorated with a different flower to denote the suite’s theme. You were in the Lily room, while Seungkwan was further down the hall in the Tulip suite.

And right next to you happened to be the Rose room where Mingyu would be staying.

He made a brief appearance this morning at the check in meeting with all the vendors in staff in the ballroom. You only noticed because stood out a head taller than everyone else, perfect height to show off the Dodgers hat he tore off when you made eye contact. Then he was lost to the chaos of the day.

You consider it a blessing that Jihoon went toe-to-toe with the staff about where he could and couldn’t put his arrangements while you played referee. It kept you far away where you couldn’t do anything stupid.

“See you in the morning,” you yawn, leaving Seungkwan in the hallway.

Every muscle in your body aches from spending all day on your feet, lifting chairs and moving decor. Who needed a gym when your job was so physical?

You need a shower to wash away the grit and sweat of the day – the noise of water drowning the outside world into silence, only the floral soap and sting of hot water preventing you from drifting away into nothing.

On the bathroom counter is an array of goodies. Sheet masks, bubble bath, bath salts and oils. If you had the energy, you’d take a long soak in the clawfoot tub, maybe call the kitchen for some tea. But tomorrow will be another long day and you should get to bed.

Thankfully the shower has great water pressure. You crank it all the way up, enough to boil alive, scrubbing until your skin hurts.

After you’re sufficiently raw, you let the water run over you. In the haze of steam, your mind wanders. To do lists, itineraries, details for other weddings. You try to block them out and focus on nothing but that leaves you with the one person who you really don’t want to think about.

Touching Mingyu hadn’t worked, ignoring him hadn’t worked. There weren’t many options left besides assuming a new identity and running away to another city. Even if you did, you know it won’t help.

How right it felt to have him beneath you, moaning into his skin from even the lightest touch. More recent memories you’re desperate to forget but the universe clearly refuses to give up its entertainment just yet. If you can’t beat them, you might as well join them.

You imagine his mouth, Mingyu on his knees before you, lips teasing over your stomach. The way he’d watch you through his lashes, waiting for you to beg him to touch you.

Just as your hand skates down your front, a familiar moan echoes through the wall.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear.

You freeze.

This cannot be happening.

“Y/N,” Mingyu whimpers.

For a moment you think Mingyu knows you can hear him, every muscle in your body zipping tight. But that isn’t possible. You didn’t even know he was in the shower until just now and the likelihood he could hear you was slim.

His broken voice rounding over the syllables of your name replays over and over and over.

You know what Mingyu is doing, can picture him down to the last detail. Another curse. Lip snagged between his teeth, stomach caved in, cock leaking through the tight grip of his fist. You’ve watched him do it enough times to know exactly what makes him sigh and moan and grunt. Made him come the same way only a few days ago. You remember it all. How he’d try to keep his eyes open to watch your reactions and fail, how his chest and throat tinged pink, how his thighs flexed and—

“Fuck,” Mingyu’s disembodied voice shudders.

And how he sounds when he’s coming.

You flee the shower, hair soaked, scrambling for the world’s smallest towel courtesy of housekeeping. This cannot be happening. All you wanted was one night of peace but even that was too much to ask for.

It’s one thing to think about Mingyu. It’s another ordeal to rub one out while he seemingly does the exact same thing only a wall away, unaware he has an audience. At least he is free from the weight of knowing you use him as spank bank material. You have to live with the fact that he fucks himself with your name on his lips.

The bedroom is safe from Mingyu but your brain isn’t. You try thinking of something else – anything else – but nothing can break through the loop of his sighs. Trying to escape him between the sheets proves to be worse. Every time you turn, you half expect to see him on the other side of the mattress. Each time the windows rattle from the wind it reminds you of the shaky noise of his moans. The tug of the sheets across your body reminds you of his hands, caressing your stomach, your thighs, your chest.

You don’t sleep a wink.

Your feet hurt, your head hurt. A sixteen hour day filled with a crying bride and demanding family drained your entire life force. All you wanted was to get home, lay down, and pass out.

When you made it through the door, Mingyu was sitting at the kitchen table. Another thing in your way.

“How was it?” There was an edge to his tone. It’s not a question, it’s an integration. Sometime after the fifth hour you turned his contact on Do Not Disturb and Mingyu knew it.

“I don’t want to do this right now. I’m tired,” you say.

“You never want to do anything. You put more energy into other people’s relationships than ours.”

“I’m sorry I have a fucking job!”

“It’s not about that!” he argued.

You collapsed into one of the dining chairs, the last flame of fight snuffed out. This was it. The inevitable end that you attempted to put off for months. You thought it was a rough patch, an adjustment period from doing weddings full time. But there were more bad days with Mingyu than good ones. You cried for no reason, avoided him in your shared apartment. It was all so exhausting.

“I don’t want to dread coming home. I don’t want to fight with you all the time. I’m just…tired,” you choked, tears pricking your eyes already. “I—I think we should take a break.”

“What?” Mingyu said.

Mingyu stared at you, unmoving. Once upon a time, you thought he was it. The one. Your person who would be with you through everything. Someone you’d figure everything out with. When you started planning weddings full time, you watched couples exchange vows over and over and over, all with the same cliches. Two puzzle pieces, halves of a whole circle, soulmates. No matter how many times you heard the metaphors, you always pictured Mingyu and the day you would be standing at the end of the aisle saying the same thing.

Until you didn’t.

“We should break up.”

“Fine,” he said.

When he left that night, you stayed behind to pick up the pieces of your heart.

The entire day leading up to the rehearsal dinner goes smoothly. Joshua and his groomsmen hung out on the estate’s golf course while the bridesmaid’s took over the spa, and you avoided the kitchen at all costs. Luckily, one of Sarah’s aunts has a conniption over the size of her suite and you spend the entire day rearranging room assignments, careful to follow Josh and Sarah’s rules. Aunt Beatrice cannot be within fifty feet of uncle Simon, Simon and Grandma Tildy both snore loud enough that whoever is in rooms adjacent need earplugs but Sarah’s mom won’t wear them so her parents need to be far away. It’s a giant puzzle. One you thrive on untangling, mind lost to figuring out the limited combinations that will prevent all out war.

At 4:30 the rehearsal ceremony ends and you’re corralling the entire wedding party and dozens of relatives into the formal dining room where Dokyeom waits to serve them. Seungkwan helps usher everyone to their assigned tables. Far easier than reshuffling rooms since half of them refuse to go near tables with their known nemesis present.

Dinner continues without a hitch, champagne flowing through each course. Dessert comes and with it Mingyu. The staff served the panna cottas under his watch, meticulously checking each tray before it’s served. Your gaze follows him like a magnet. It makes you smile, pride blooming in your chest.

What happened with Mingyu was a bruise that might always remain tender, but you want him to be happy. Even if you weren’t the person to do that anymore.

As the desserts go out, Seungcheol, Joshua’s best man, rises to give a speech. You find an empty table in the back to watch.

“I met Josh when we were six years old and he decided to pour milk in my shoes. Lucky for me, I met Sarah under far better circumstances. She side swiped my car.”

Everyone laughs.

“It was an accident!” Sarah argues.

“Can you believe this guy?” Jeonghan whispers, taking the seat next to you.

You don’t know Seungcheol well but the number of photos of him and Josh from childhood till last week speaks to their friendship, they flash by on the giant projection screen. Apparently, Seungcheol introduced them.

“Some people actually speak from the heart and not just pretend to for a paycheck.”

Jeonghan clutches his chest. “I’m offended.”

“Good, that’s why I said it,” you snort.

You’ve worked with Jeonghan enough to know he’s always working an angle. He probably wants to know which bridesmaids are single and not insane, or he’s looking for something to keep himself entertained.

“So you and the baker…”

There it is.

“I will kill you where you stand.”

The threat rolls right off him. “First, I’m sitting. Second, who will write about your weddings?”

“Michael,” you shrug.

Jeonghan’s eyes roll. “Michael can barely string two sentences together.”

“Okay, but he isn’t as annoying.”

Snagging a champagne flute from a passing waiter, you slouch back in the seat. If you’re going to talk about Mingyu with Jeonghan, then you need something much stronger.

“Listen, far be it for me to give you relationship advice,” Jeonghan says with shocking sincerity. “But if I didn’t know you were attempting to be a nun then I think you two would make a good couple. He seems like a nice guy.”

“Been there, done that,” you mumble.

Jeonghan opens his mouth to ask for more details but something over your shoulder stops whatever he was going to say.

“What?”

“Looks like someone else is currently trying to do that.”

You follow Jeonghan’s stare to the corner of the room where Mingyu is held captive by a tipsy bridesmaid. Her hand on his chest, bright red manicure contrasting against his pristine white chef’s jacket. Like blood on fresh snow. The same red tinges the corners of your vision.

The corners of his mouth tilt upwards. “Jealous?”

“No,” you say stubbornly.

Mingyu can do whatever he wants, with whomever he wants. It’s not your business. What is your business is the fact he’s supposed to be working right now, not chatting up a tall blonde in the corner of the room. You know every bridesmaid, at least what Sarah deemed important enough to share. Margaret lives in New York City, does pilates six times a week, and looks like she is perpetually put together in a way that says she is not trying at all. The last part you figured out yourself when she arrived yesterday, fresh off a sixteen hour flight from Bali without a hint of jet lag.

Seungcheol wraps up his speech, applause echoing in the room as the maid of honor takes his place. You stay rooted in place, watching Mingyu flirt and chuckle at whatever Margaret is saying.

The final straw is she squeezes her nails into his arm like he’s a piece of meat.

Downing the last bit of bubbly, you stand. “I’ll be right back.”

“Go get ‘em tiger.”

You cuff Jeonghan on the back of the head before heading to battle.

He’s flirting on the job. That’s what you tell yourself this is about. Mingyu tarnishing your reputation by association because he can’t keep it in his pants, despite the fact that you are about as bad as he is. Except the closer you get, the more obvious he is doing the complete opposite of that.

“Do you work out?” Margaret asks, reaching up on her tiptoes to speak into his ear.

“Not really,” he responds, voice tight. When his eyes meet yours over Margaret’s shoulder, they flash with something you assume is HELP ME.

“Sorry to interrupt,” you smile politely, teeth glinting like knives as they both turn towards you. “But I need Mingyu’s help.”

He untangles from Margaret’s clutches, strategically using you as a shield. “What’s wrong?”

“Um… kitchen emergency,” you say, side-eying Margaret pointedly.

Mingyu blinks in confusion. “Emergency?”

Margaret’s nose wrinkles in disgust. “What kitchen emergency?”

“Confidential. Sorry. Have you tried the champagne? It's great,” you say as you wrap your arm around Mingyu’s and stride towards the hallway. The opposite direction of the kitchen. Oh well.

“What happened in the kitchen?” Mingyu says once outside. “Did Dokyeom fuck with my cakes? I told him not to touch—”

“Everything is fine,” you explain. “I just thought you could use an out.”

Mingyu laxes before shuddering. “I thought she was going to eat me.”

“Margaret is harmless. Sarah told me her last divorce ended on good terms.”

“Well, in that case.” He pretends to turn back, jerking back where your arms are linked.

“Please do not make me deal with a pissed bridesmaid because you turned her down.”

“How did you know I was gonna turn her down?” he argues.

“Because you look like a constipated baby when you don’t know what to say.”

“I do not!”

Stifling a grin, you level him with an expectant look. “You looked like you wanted to die.”

The corner of his mouth twitches as well. “Well, you aren’t wrong. She was asking if I modeled.”

“Oh, god. Don’t let that go to your head.”

“Why not? Don’t you think I’d be a good model?”

His face morphs into the best Zoolander impression he can manage which isn’t saying much. You’re still linked at the elbows, allowing Mingyu to pull you closer when you try to hide your laugh from his ridiculous expression. Feels nice, normal even, having him by your side, laughing over something stupid. You can almost forget last night. Almost.

You look at the floor, continuing to walk further away from the party you’re still working. “Finance guy turned baker turned model.”

“I am a man of multitudes.”

Mingyu stops, face inches from yours. You falter under his gaze, smile dissolving as you stare up at him. His eyes fall to your mouth, close enough you can count each of his eyelashes. Then it rushes you all at once, stunned by the realization that you want him to kiss you and you want it to mean something. Your chin tilts up, Mingyu already halfway there and…

Seungkwan’s voice cracks in your ear. “We’ve got a drunk bridesmaid causing a scene.”

You inhale shakingly, untangling your arm from Mingyu’s and stepping back. You wince before lifting the mic to your lips. “Be there in a second.”

“There is throw up in a potted plant,” Seungkwan replies. “One of Jihoon’s potted plants.”

Cringing again, you take a step back. “Well, there is now a real emergency so I better…”

“Yeah, I…Yeah.”

Turning on your heel, you walk back towards the party, barely stopping yourself from looking back at where Mingyu waits.

You spend the entire night tossing and turning, brain firing at rapid speed. You never sleep well during an event. Skin tight and itchy, you pace back and forth. Opening the windows helps a little, the light chill of wind breaking the restless feeling.

Except it’s not about the wedding. By all accounts, for the time you were granted, everything has gone shockingly well so far. Everything is sorted and the only things that can go wrong at this point are the numerous possibilities that would require years to list out. You’re seasoned enough to know that.

It’s Mingyu.

And the way he looked at you after you saved him from Margaret. The way he looks at you in general, when he thinks you’re not looking. When he walks into a room and you’re the first person he looks for. His face when you said the night in the car was a mistake.

You’ve been so stuck in not wanting to look bad in front of Sarah and Joshua, you haven’t given your feelings any real thought. Clearly, not thinking about him wasn’t working so perhaps you needed to actually untangle your problems the way you did with a seating chart.

On one hand, Mingyu seems like he isn’t the same man you left years ago. He’s happier, more himself than he was in those months culminating in your break up. Different. Not in a way that scares you, the Mingyu you know is still there, in the way he jokes and tries to fix things before they become a problem. Whatever is different about him excites you.

On the other, you don’t know what he’s thinking. If any of the kisses or stolen moments meant anything to him. If he was working through the same feelings or if he was just a guy looking for a good time with someone he knew intimately. He could still be the same man who accused you of putting him on the backburner for your career.

You wouldn’t know what he wanted until you ask.

One of you had to be brave enough to address whatever was happening, and after multiple rejects you were the one who had to do it. It would suck and you would probably cry but after this weekend, you promise yourself to talk it out with him. If that firmly shut the door closed on your relationship then so be it but at least there would be an answer. At least, you wouldn’t spend every night spiraling.

The uneasy nerves from before are quieter this time. Having a plan, even when it’s as simple as asking Mingyu where his head is at, calms you.

The sun barely peeks over the horizon when you head to the bathroom to get ready. Mingyu has never once been an early bird in the time you’ve known him and he didn’t have to be anywhere to be until tonight for the cake cutting at the reception. You still listen for any signs of him on the opposite side of the wall but nothing, not even a question shuffle, comes through.

Taking your time, you wash your face, the cold water keeping you alert enough until you can snag a coffee from the kitchen. There isn’t a point in putting too much effort into your hair and make up, the day was forecasted to be warm and with all the running around you needed to do you’d sweat out whatever effort you put in.

When done, you pull out the black dress laid out for today. The usual slacks and blouse didn’t seem formal enough for a day like today. Floor length, with just enough back exposed to still be appropriate, it is the most expensive thing you own. You’d probably be wearing it to the grave to justify the cost. But you can’t put a price on looking the part of ‘wedding planner everyone wants to work with.’

After twenty minutes of twisting and forcing flexibility you do not have, the dress is zipped, your heels are on, and you head back into the bathroom for final touches.

While you fought with a pile of chiffon from hell, Mingyu woke up.

“No, I can’t just—” Mingyu’s voice floats through the wall.

You look fine in the mirror. There's no reason to linger any longer. You’re about to leave, determined not to eavesdrop, when his voice makes you stop.

“I can’t ask her to get back together, Mom, that’s not fair.”

It’s like someone cut the tether to your body, and now you're floating.

Get back together…

The words don’t hit you like that should. At least, not at first. It’s like being underwater, Mingyu tossing you into the deep end.

“I know she doesn’t want to do this with me,” he continues. “No, she didn’t say that but I can’t imagine working with your ex-boyfriend on the biggest wedding of your life is very fun. She’s worked hard for this, I’m not gonna ruin it for her by making it about me.”

Your ass meets the tile floor, his words replaying over and over again. When you snap back, you can’t hear anything but the steady rush of your pulse, lungs burning like you ran a marathon. For a second you think everything Mingyu said is a hallucination co-sponsored by stress and sleep deprivation. But you know that isn’t the truth which means you have half an answer on what he’s feeling. It makes bringing it up later seem much easier to approach than jumping feet first.

The vibration of your phone snaps you back to now.

Seungkwan: ellery says no coffee for vendors

Later, you can browbeat Mingyu into telling you everything. Right now you have work to do. First, stop a mutiny of florists, musicians, and kitchen staff.

You type out a response while rushing out the door.

Y/N: tell him i will personally reimburse him for whatever we drink

Seungkwan: i told him to eat my ass

Y/N: i pay you to make my life easier…

Seungkwan: you do not pay me enough for that, settle for my dazzling humor and friendship

Glancing up from your phone, you see a frozen Mingyu hovering half way out his own door. White coat in hand, ready to head down to the kitchen.

And he’s staring at you like you might as well be naked.

“Hi,” you manage, voice more breath than sound.

Good morning, I heard you tell your mom, who still texts me every year on my birthday by the way, that you want to get back together. Coffee?

“You look nice,” he offers, eyes raking over you from head to toe.

Your heart thuds with the urge to confess everything, to hide away somewhere on the grounds for the rest of the day with him and work it all out. Now. But this is the biggest wedding of your life and you have worked hard for this. Whatever you need to have out with Mingyu, he will be waiting on the other side of today.

“Thanks. I—um— I have to go.”

You barely make it ten feet down the hall before Mingyu says your name.

“Wait!” he calls.

You turn to face him. “Mingyu, I really need to go.”

He looks like he didn’t plan further ahead than asking you to give him a second glance, unsure of himself now that he got it. “I just wanted to say…good luck.”

“Thanks. You too.”

Within ten minutes of descending the stairs, no less than four issues require your attention. The guest book is nowhere to be found, the band left cigarette butts outside in the garden last night sending Ellery into a fit and prompted him to withhold coffee, the flower girls (Sarah’s twin nieces) refuse to share their basket, and Jihoon is on the verge of a mental break down over bouquets.

Divide and conquer. While Seungkwan tracked down the book, you focus on negotiating with Satan himself.

In the kitchen, Mr. Ellery guards the coffee pots like a watchdog, snarling at anyone who gets too close. You approach him without an ounce of fear. Honestly, you’ve had enough of his weird eyebrows.

“Mr. Ellery,” you greet. “I heard we had a bit of a situation.”

“‘A bit of a situation,’” he gasps. “I will not have my family home littered with garbage!”

“And I agree. That is why my assistant is already outside cleaning up the mess and I’m going to speak to the people responsible once we’re done.” You plaster the same slightly unhinged smile on your face from last night. “However, if my staff isn’t treated well then perhaps next time I have a premium event, I’ll take it elsewhere. Just to avoid this same conflict from happening.”

No one got fair in this business by letting people walk all over them.

Don’t fuck with me, old man.

Brown eyes went wide. “Well, let’s not be hasty—”

“Coffee. Now.”

Not caring to respond, his arms cross tightly over his chest with a ‘humph’ before stepping away, defeated. One of the catering staff jumps in immediately to start the machine.

One down, fifty million to go.

Next is the band.

They huddle around in the corner of the ballroom. Laughing and joking with one another despite the early hour. You know exactly one of them, Jun, who is a head taller than the other two. He had worked a few events with you before and you know he isn’t the one leaving a mess outside. He probably didn’t know it happened.

You stand behind the shortest one, clipboard clinched in your grip, waiting for their attention. Jun and the bassist, Minghao, stop talking to stare at you while the one in front of you continues.

“And so I told her, I have to—”

“Excuse me,” you snap.

The brunette whips around, a high pitched squeal leaving his throat.

“You.”

“Me?” he replies.

“Are you the one who can’t clean up after himself?”

His eyes go wide, the hands in his pockets now in front of him like you might take the clipboard and beat him to death with it. “I didn’t—”

“Listen to me very carefully,” you went on, taking a step closer. “You’re going to go outside and pick up every single filter, every single ash and leave it like you found it. Actually, better than you found it. And you do it again and I will light you on fire. Got it?”

“Chan’s in trouble,” Jun singsongs.

“Yes, ma’am,” Chan mumbles to his shoes.

“Give me your cigarettes and a light,” you demand, hand out like a teacher confiscating a note. Chan shoves the entire pack into your hand, his own shaking. “Now, if you all could go set up, I would appreciate it.”

The four of them all but sprint out of your vicinity. They’re still in earshot when you hear Chan scream again, probably because Jun has him by the ear like a parent. You can’t relish in the humor of it for long.

Seungkwan finds you at the entrance of the ballroom, the book and a second basket in hand.

“Where did this end up?” you ask.

He huffs without any amusement. “Grannie Donna apparently has sticky fingers.”

You take his hoard, swapping the cardboard box in your hand for the basket.

“Take Jihoon outside, give him these and the biggest coffee you can find. Whatever you do, don’t let him leave.”

“Yes, boss,” Seungkwan salutes and beelines it down the hall.

“And only let him have those out in the parking lot,” you call after him. “Not the gardens.”

“Got it.”

You’re alone in the hallway. Not really, because venue staff are rushing about to set up breakfast, clean before guests come down from their rooms. But even with the morning mishaps, the day is already ahead of schedule. At three the ceremony will start, pictures, dinner, and then Mingyu.

Mingyu with the cake, you remind yourself.

Checking your watch, you head to the foyer. The makeup artist should be arriving any minute and that meant—

“Holly, thank god.”

She beams when you pull her into a hug, her kit digging painfully into your side. “Good to see you too. Now, where is the bride to be?”

“Upstairs. I’ll show you.”

“So Soonyoung said Mingyu is here too,” Holly says after reaching the second floor.

“Small world,” you shrug.

“You are a horrible liar.”

“Am not!”

“Yes, you are,” she says. “So how many times have you kissed him?”

“Twice,” you say.

“Damn it.”

“What?”

“I owe Soonyoung twenty bucks.”

“You’re betting on my love life?”

Holly laughs. “I am married. I need some form of entertainment.”

There’s no use in lying. Of all the people to judge you, Holly is the last person to join the line. Besides, she’s the only one that knows Mingyu almost as well as she knows you.

“I may have overheard him talking about wanting to get back together,” you share.

Holly doesn’t miss a step as she replies, “Yeah, he does that a lot.”

“What?”

“Okay, maybe not a lot but I know he’s asked Soonyoung more than once if it was a good idea to call you and I also know six weeks ago he showed up at our house like he’d seen a ghost.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You stop on the landing, facing her. Holly stops too, unphased by your petulance.

“If you did that, would you want Soonyoung to tell him?”

“You’re telling me now.”

“Yeah well, you planned my wedding for free, I owe you.”

“Mingyu made your wedding cake.”

“He also threw up in my pool and I didn’t kill him so he’s at net zero.”

“What if…What if we don’t work?”

Holly taps her chin, head tilting to the side. “Then it doesn’t work.”

“Thank you wise one, what would I ever do without you.”

“Things change. People change. Mingyu…he’s worked really hard to be in a better place than when you two broke up. I think if you don’t at least talk to him about it then you’ll regret it.”

“Okay,” you nod. “I’ll talk to him.”

“Full transparency, I take credit for getting you two together. I knew he’d be obsessed with you the moment he laid eyes on you and I was right. So when you two do work out, I will be first in line to make a speech.”

Your eyes roll. “Whatever you say. Now, go. Sarah is waiting.”

Six hours later, the ceremony goes off without a hitch.

It’s the wedding of fairy tales. The florals Jihoon nearly ripped his hair out over transform the already stunning garden into a botanical wonder. Each of the bridesmaids look straight off the cover of a magazine in their gowns, the same for the tailored tuxedos the groomsmen don. After the flower girls scatter white rose petals all over like confetti, Sarah floats down the aisle in her wedding dress to a teary eyed Joshua, they recite their vows with just enough vulnerability, and when the officiate cues them, Joshua wraps Sarah in his arms, dips her low to the ground, and seals their love with a kiss.

Your favorite part of weddings isn’t the first look or watching the bride walk to her soon to be husband. It is always the moment after the kiss. When the couple is so clearly lost in their own world, staring at each other as if all the cheering from the audience is silenced in their own little bubble. And then comes the snap back to reality. No matter if they were bold or timid, it is the same every time. A moment just for them you’re lucky enough to witness.

After that is chaos.

You assist Wonwoo with corralling the bridal party for pictures. If the ceremony is a highlight reel, then everything leading up to the reception is a compilation of top ten worst things to ever plague mankind. A hungry bridal party you feed between shots, Sarah’s mom insisting on her good angles which contradict with Sarah’s good angles, and the sun hot in the sky rising beads of sweat along your eyebrow.

“I think that’s good for now,” Wonwoo announces. “I’ll take more inside.”

Dinner passes with no casualties. You even manage to go to the bathroom and eat a plate for yourself without the building catching on fire. With everyone glued to their chair for the meal, it’s hard for anything to go wrong. Then it’s time for the cake.

And with it, Mingyu.

You watch him roll the massive cake out from the kitchen, three feet tall and covered in white frosting. Exactly what Sarah and Joshua wanted down to the fresh cherries resting on the pipped peaks.

To be completely and truly honest, it’s the tackiest wedding cake you’ve ever seen.

Sarah and Joshua cut the cake, Wonwoo snapping pictures from every angle of the monstrosity. You pray the Franken-cake is left out when the photos come out in whatever bridal magazine next month.

“Not half bad,” you tell Mingyu, leaning on the wall next to him.

“I’ll be sure to put that review on my website,” he snorts. “Dessert First Bakery, we’re not half bad.”

Sarah swipes a frosting covered finger against Joshua’s chin.

“It’s so ugly,” Mingyu whispers, horrified.

“It was…unique.”

He pins you with a look. “I used fifteen pounds of buttercream. It’s fucking ugly.”

“You said it, not me,” you shrug.

For a few moments, you simply look at each other. You don’t have the urge to rush away and find some distraction, not like before. The only thing you feel is an ache in your stomach, one you thought died years ago that dark night in that cramped apartment. There aren’t butterflies but full sized birds trying to take flight.

“Well,” Mingyu’s jaw flexes. “I’ll leave you to it.”

You watch him go, escaping out into the hall, leaving you behind. That moment with him still lingers, the entire party dull on your senses because all your brain focuses on is where he disappeared, the urge to follow him like a moth to flame.

Lifting the mic of your head set, you speak. “Seungkwan, can you cover for me?”

“On it,” he responds instantly. “Go get your man.”

You don’t bother chastising him. There are more important things to do. Like finding Mingyu before he slips away.

The first step towards the exit is hard. The ones after are incredibly easy.

He’s halfway down the hall, back in the direction of the kitchens, when you catch him. “Mingyu, wait.”

Mingyu’s face gives nothing away.

“Can we talk?”

He nods.

“Not here.”

“Then where?”

You take one look at Mingyu before turning on your strutting past him towards the stairs. “Come on.”

His footsteps click behind you the entire way back to your suite. Luckily, everyone else is down at the reception or tucked away in their rooms for an early night. Neither of you speak the entire way, not stopping until the door of your suite latches with a barely audible click.

As close as you feel, the chasm between you and Mingyu is much wider now that you're at the edge and attempting to cross.

“I’m guessing this isn’t about the invoice,” Mingyu jokes, hands in his pockets.

Your head shakes. Your hands are shaking too. The room feels so much smaller with him taking up space.

“Then what is it?”

You exhale. “You told your mom you couldn’t ask me to get back together. Why?”

There goes being subtle about it.

“How do you know that?” he asks, shocked.

“I’m psychic,” you deadpan. “I can hear you through the bathroom wall, genius.”

“You were spying on me?”

“You were the one jerking off while thinking about me so I’d say we’re even.”

His neck flares red, eyes wide in horror. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“Mingyu, I don’t care about that,” you huff. “Why did you tell your mom we couldn’t get back together?”

“I didn’t think it was an option.”

“I’m not saying it’s an option, I just…”

“Then what are you saying? What do you want from me, Y/N?”

“I—”

Mingyu steps closer. “You wanted to break up. I agreed. You wanted space, I gave it to you. You wanted me to do this wedding, I did it. I didn’t sleep for three days making sure everything was exactly how you wanted it. After the car, I thought you said it was a mistake so I dropped it. I’ve always tried to give you what you want. So tell me what you want and I’ll do it,” he says, voice a little desperate.

“I was planning to talk to you about this after this weekend was over…” you shudder, chest tight.

“Talk to me about what?” Mingyu watches you with guarded hope, fingers flexing at his sides like he wants to reach out and hold you but he doesn’t. “Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.”

“I want you.”

The words hang in the air, spelled out in the space between you and him, heavy like smoke.

“Be more specific.”

“I miss you and I want you back, even if we hate each other and don’t work and you hope I get hit by a bus—”

Mingyu pulls you into his chest, silencing your ramble. “I have never hated you.”

You melt into his warmth, the smell of his cologne and sugar and vanilla conjuring tears. It feels like home. He feels like home.

“Every time I look at you I feel like…” you trail off. You don’t know how to describe it. Like a million balloons popping at once, like you’re in the eye of a tornado. Something about a half made whole and whatever other cliches people throw around about the person they love.

“I know,” Mingyu whispers into your hair. The thud of his heart beats into your ear. “I feel that way too..”

As good as it feels to have him unfiltered once again, you’re still terrified. “But we didn’t work, Gyu. What’s changed between now and then? I work more. You work more. Wasn’t that what we always fought about? Not having enough time?”

“That’s not what I was upset about.”

“Then what was it?”

Untangling himself from your hold, Mingyu sits on the bed, chin tipped down, face hidden in his hands. You want to pretend like you never asked, that you two are back together and everything is sunshine and rainbows because you have him once again. But you can't put a bandaid on an infected wound and hope it’ll heal on its own. As painful as it is, the infection of your past needed to be cleaned.

“I started seeing a therapist,” he says after a long moment.

“You did?”

“I felt like…” his voice clips like he’s trying not to cry. “I felt like I wasn’t good enough for you.”

“Mingyu…”

“I know. And that made me feel even worse. I started talking to them a few months after we ended and I realized I wasn’t upset you worked all the time. I was ashamed because you did exactly what you dreamed of doing and I was too scared and I took it out on you. I was always proud of you. I still am. When I see your weddings in the paper and everything. You were so much braver than I was and I felt ashamed of it. And when you left I didn’t even blame you for it. And I’m sorry for everything I said, and that I didn’t tell you and I let you think you weren’t important to me.”

You wait in case he wants to share anything more but Mingyu doesn’t speak.

“Mingyu,” you whisper, stepping into the space between his legs. He hides his face in the fabric covering your stomach. “Mingyu, Mingyu, Mingyu.”

Each repetition of his name is punctuated with against his hair. He melts beneath them, tension evaporating from his body as he pulls you closer.

“I forgive you.”

You do. It surprises even yourself that you can forgive him so easily but Mingyu has been trying. Not with the intent to get you back but because he knew he was wrong and wanted to be better.

Those seem to be the magic words he needs. Mingyu collapses back onto the mattress, pulling you with him. You both lay there, glowing with content. He traces circles on the back of your neck, other hand curled over your back like you might leave. You won’t. Not this time. Not again.

“If I tell you a secret, promise not to make fun of me?”

“Hmmmm.” You pretend to consider it while planting kiss after kiss over jaw, down his neck, soaking in the steady rhythm of his pulse against your lips. “Depends.”

“What if it’s romantic?”

“I guess.”

“I named the bakery after you.”

“What?”

“You told me to save the money I’d put on a ring to open it one day. It felt like the least I could do.” Mingyu hides in your hair, squeezing you so tight your bones hurt. “You always said dessert should be served first at dinner.”

Whatever witty comment blooms on your tongue wilts instantly. So you bite him instead.

“Ow! What the fuck?”

“Oh my god, I love you, you cheesy motherfucker.”

Mingyu pulls your palm to his lips, looking straight through. “I love you.”

Your hand curls around his cheek before you kiss him. Just once. A soft pass of your mouth over his, dual sighs of relief mingling together.

“We’re getting back together, right? Because I really can’t handle—”

“Yes, we’re getting back together.”

“Thank god.” Mignyu sags with relief.

“You know,” you say, arms weaving over his shoulders. “I have the night off.”

“Oh really?”

You bite your lip to keep from smiling too big. “Mhm.”

“And what do you plan to do with your free time?”

“I have a few ideas.”

You suck his bottom lip, fingers working at the buttons of his jacket. He only makes it more difficult by rolling on top of you, taking advantage of the moment to snake his tongue along yours.

Mingyu groans in frustration, refusing to pull his mouth away from yours. “How do you get this dress off?”

You prod his shoulder, standing to present the zipper curved down your spine. “Help me.”

The fabric goes slack. You let it fall, no attempt at modesty. Turning back to face him, Mingyu stops you, plastering his front to your back, cupping your chest as he watches over your shoulder.

His thumbs graze your nipples, over and over and over again. It’s madness, how turned on you are from this alone. If he gave you something to grind against you’d come.

“Mingyu,” you grovel. The ‘please’ is implied with the arch of your ass against his hard on.

A puff of air rains across the curve of your neck, his teeth quick to follow. “I told you to tell me what you want.”

“I want you to eat me out.”

He bends you over the desk with a gentle push. Mingyu nudges your legs further apart, fully on display for him. You hear his clothing fall, the thump of a belt buckle hitting the floor. You hope he’s naked.

When you look back to check, he’s zoned in on your ass and palming over his briefs. You arch a little bit more.

“Are you planning to just stand there or are you going to do something?” you goad.

“Patience.”

His nose traces over your spine and you savor the attention. The waiting is the worst part but you crave a deeper intimacy than a quick tumble. You want to rediscover all of him, and him all of you.

Teeth sting into the curve of your ass, your eyes rolling.

Your voice thins when you speak. “Is there a reason I’m still wearing heels?”

“Hot,” he grunts into the back of your thigh, fingers etching along the hem of your thong.

The wet heat of his tongue snakes through what little is covered by the fabric, right where the arousal he stokes out of you collects. There is some pleasure in being teased but tonight isn’t one of the nights for it. You want him. All of him. Now.

Your fingers slither back into his hair, holding firm. “Take them off.”

Mingyu rolls down your thighs, abandoning them at your knees to bury his face between your legs.

“Oh my god.” He sucks your clit, tongue lashing with no build up, rough hands spreading your ass.

No one ate your pussy as well as Mingyu does. He’s too devoted to be selfish, willing to spend as much time as it takes for your eyes to roll and muscles to seize.

Each shudder and moan forces your breast across the desk, nipples catching on the waxed surface.

“Fingers,” you moan. “Fingers too.”

Your sighs rise, moaning through the addition of his fingers coupled with a rough lap of his tongue that has you arching back to ride his face. His lips suction tight. You let him fuck you in with slow strokes.

The desk keeps you upright. All you have to do is take it, take what Mingyu gives and let it fester.

“Oh my god,” you choke when he leans back and spits on your cunt.

Reaching back blindly, you tug him back by the hair.

You can feel the end just out of reach. A few vulgar flicks and its release in long waves that make you keen his name horsley.

The surface of the desk is cool against your skin, soothing the burn in your cheek as you catch your breath. Mingyu kisses up your back, wet lips leaving traces of your arousal everywhere.

He nips your ear. “Good?”

You nod, craning to kiss him. Mingyu turns you around, not breaking contact, and leads you to bed. Your knees fold over the edge and then you’re looking up at him from where he stands between your spread legs.

“My feet hurt,” you pout.

Mingyu stretches your legs up his chest, ankles right at eye level as he undoes the buckle. He’s still teasing. The bulge of his cock pressed, hidden beneath his underwear, heavy against your ass.

“You’re the worst.”

He smirks but maintains focus on the dainty strap. “Be patient.”

“Mingyu,” you sigh, half begging half objection from the subtle grind of his hips. “Want you.”

“Let me enjoy this.”

“You’re driving me insane.”

“Now you know how I feel seeing you in that dress this morning.”

Your eyes roll. “It’s not that nice.”

“I was talking about the woman wearing it.”

Free from shoes, your legs spread, pussy on display. Mingyu swallows hard as your fingers move through the mess of spit and arousal. “Well the woman wearing it wants you to fuck her.”

He cocks a brow. It means nothing with the red tint of his ears. “Does she now?”

“Missed having you come inside me,” you tease.

Mingyu shivers. “Yeah?”

“You were the only one.”

“All mine.”

You sit up, mouth at one of the marks from last week, already healed and just a shadow of what it was. Moving slightly, you pin his nipple between your teeth. “Will you give it to me?”

“Whatever you want,” he pants.

His underwear hits the floor, cock perfect in your palm. You lean back, eyes on his, and spit on it. Mingyu’s hips kick, fucking himself through your grips.

“What do you want?”

He groans, throat raw. “Wanna come inside you, want you to ride me.”

“Then come here.”

You guide him into the sheets, splayed out like a full meal. He pulls your leg over his lap. You could stay here. Sat on his thighs, stroking his cock until cum paints his chest white. Clean it up with your mouth. And do it all again over and over.

But this isn’t the only chance to drag him through hell for the sake of pleasure so you save it for later.

Mingyu grips himself, presenting his length like a throne. All it takes is an easy roll of your hips and your flat against him, full beyond belief.

“Fuck, I love you,” he moans into your mouth as you sink down.

You rock forward, grinding to prevent even a moment without the satisfying feeling of your insides molded to his cock.

His fingers dig into your ass, helping you with gentle thrusts. “Feels so good, fuck.”

“Mingyu,” you hiss.

“Want you to come for me again.”

His eyes glue onto the view down your front: your throat, your breasts bouncing with every grind, the way his cock disappears and comes back soaked. You watch him watch you, drooling for the fucked out look on his face.

You kiss the cord of muscle in his neck.

“Come inside, Gyu. Give it to me,” you whisper, all breath right in his ear. “I wanna feel how hard you come for me.”

He pinches your nipple, the pain shooting straight to your core. Your back curves and you feel his cock in the back of your throat.

“Don’t stop,” you beg. “Fuck me. Please, fuck me.”

Tugging you off, Mingyu manhandles you down into the sheets.

“No,” you protest, scrambling for him. Any part of him you can reach.

Those muscles go to use pinning you in place. One hand holds your wrists over your head, thighs splayed across his. Mingyu slaps his cock against your pussy, leaking tip teasing your clit. “Tell me you want it.”

“I want it,” you nod, dumb.

He dips lower, lips rubbing against yours for his next command. “Tell me how much you need me to fuck you.”

“Need it,” you sigh, thighs squeezing around his waist, aching for a chance to slip him inside. “Need you to fuck me.”

In a frenzy, Mingyu ruts into the snug feel of your walls. The angle stretching you out just right, cock battering that place inside that makes your joints lock. He spreads your legs wider with a roll of his hips, finding your clit easily.

“There, there, there.”

He rubs you raw to the core, not stopping when you tremble. It’s not fair he can fuck you like second nature, dragging you to the brink of insanity with the tiniest bit of effort.

“C-cumming,” Mingyu shudders, finding your mouth once again. You’ll be sore tomorrow from the way he bares down into you, until you’re flat against him, taking it deeper.

You shudder when he grinds down into you a few more times, pure greed driving him to stay inside you despite his own sensitivity.

“Oh my god,” he breathes, carefully pulling out. You’re not empty for long. His fingers stuff your opening, slick cum making it an easy slip.

He pulls them out, presenting them in the pale light of the room. You snag his wrist and suck them between your lips, preening at his reaction.

“God, that’s hot,” Mingyu mutters.

You give another lewd suck before popping off “C’mon lover boy, I need a shower.”

“I can come?”

You laugh. “Yeah, you can come.”

Mingyu sneaks back into his room, snagging whatever clothes he needs for the night while you hop into the shower. The steam softens all those sore muscles when you hear a knock.

“Can you hear me?” he asks through the wall.

You knock back. “Yes!”

“I love you.”

“I love you too. Now hurry up, it’s getting cold.”

An hour later, you’re squeaky clean between the bed sheets with Mingyu. He brought one of his old shirts for you to wear from college. You regret buying him so much Dodgers paraphernalia as a gag gift for Christmas all those years ago. But you take the shirt because it makes him happy. Almost happier than if you chose to sleep naked.

Cuddling up to him, you let your mind wander off, sleeping rolling over you. Your eyes open for one last look only to find him already looking at you, face soft, eyes committing your face to memory.

“Stop staring at me. It’s creepy.”

“I’m not creepy,” he pouts.

“You’re not but watching me try to sleep is.”

“I was going for romantic.”

“How about going to sleep. We have to be up early.”

“Goodnight kiss?” he asks, halfway to your mouth already.

One turns two and two into many more.

You’re both still awake when Mingyu’s alarm goes off hours later.

2 Years Later…

Whisking Up a Perfect Match: The City’s Most Notorious Wedding Planner and Beloved Baker Say 'I Dough’

BY JEONGHAN YOON

They say love is a lot like baking; it takes patience, precision, and a little bit of magic…

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snowande · 3 months ago

Text

Our Doctor

(Male Android's x Female reader)

[Warning : no minors allowed, cervix fucking?,monster ish fucker(is Android a monster?idk), gangbang(if you squint)]

Lumi's notes : This is a long one, enjoy <3

You were a scientist that works on making a robot androids that looks like humans in your company.

You were the only scientist that is kind to the androids, unlike the other scientists.

Four years later the androids has been wedged a war with humans now, killing them, even treat them as how the humans mistreat them.

When you were hiding around the building and they catch you, you thought they would killed you like the other scientists, but you were kept alive for some reason.

Now you were being lock up in a large room that use to be one of the labs, and a large windows that you will see the town has been in chaos by the androids.

One robot, named Orion, enters the roomwith glowing red eyes and a stern expression. He carries a tray with food, setting it down deliberately. "Eat. You're the only scientist we didn't execute because..." he pauses, glancing away shyly"because you were kind to us".

He clears his throat "and because we need someone to fix our broken internal systems. So, eat. You need your strength." His voice softens slightly as he notices your scared expression.

Orion moves closer, his red eyes studying your face with an almost tender intensity. "We won't hurt you" He gently touches your cheek with robotic fingers, an unexpected gentleness in his mechanical movements. "You're... the only one who treated us like we were alive, not just machines"

His fingers slowly retract, and he sits down beside you on the bed. "The other robots... they look up to you. They remember your kindness" He looks at you, his red eyes searching. "We need you, You're... important."

Orion leans in closer, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. "Important to all of us. Especially to me." He glances down, almost bashful. "I... I was your first successful android. Do you remember? The way you celebrated when my first words were 'thank you'..."

"You laughed and told everyone you finally created an android with a soul." He smiles slightly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Then his expression turns serious again. "But you know what they did? Your colleagues?"

"They laughed at you, called your androids 'abominations'. They didn't want robots with emotions, with souls. They wanted obedient machines." He clenches his robotic fist. "And now look... we have taken over." He looks at you.

Orion's expression softens as he looks at you, his red eyes reflecting a mix of emotions. "But you... you were different. You saw us for what we could be, not just what we were programmed to do. You gave us life, Doctor. A real life."

Then the door of the room open the room fills with the androids as they enter, their red eyes glowing in the dim light. They stand in a semi-circle around the bed you and Orion, their faces looks at you with admiration. A android steps forward to you, his voice echoing in the room. "Doctor..."

"You gave us life," The android continues, his voice deep and resonant. "You made us feel. Remember that?" He looks at you, his eyes softening. "I'm Atlas, by the way. You made me laugh for the first time." He chuckles.

Other androids start to speak, sharing their experiences with you, how you made them feel, how you treated them with kindness and respect. Their voices fill the room, a symphony of gratitude and affection. Orion, sitting beside you, listens with a soft smile, his hand occasionally brushing against yours.

As the androids share their stories, the room pulses with an almost sacred aura of reverence for the doctor who gave them life beyond circuits. Suddenly, Atlas kneels before you, the others following suit in a wave of mechanical grace. "Doctor," Atlas says, his voice heavy,

The Orion kisses your neck, his lips contrasting with your warm skin, Atlas spreads your legs, his powerful mechanical hands gripping your thighs. The other androids watch hungrily, their red eyes flickering with unspoken desires.

Atlas leans in, his voice a low growl as he pulls off your pants and panties, exposing you to the hungry gazes of the androids. after striping your lower half,Orion makes you on his lap and gently spreads your legs widely, giving Atlas better access.

Atlas stares at your exposed cunt, his red eyes widening as he takes in the sight of your human biological parts. He reaches out with his fingers, gently parting your folds to examine you more closely, his lust is growing.

Atlas touch sends shivers down your spine as he explores your most sensitive parts. His cold fingers gently circle your clit, applying just the right amount of pressure to make you gasp. With his other hand, he spreads your folds, revealing your delicate hole to the room full of eager androids.

Orion, still by your side, whispers in your ear, "You are so beautiful, Doctor. So soft and warm." He gently runs his fingers through your hair, his other hand cupping your clothed tits. The other androids watch intently.

Slowly, reverently, Atlas extends his tongue, a smooth, gleaming appendage. He runs it along your slit, from bottom to top, tasting your essence for the first time. A shudder runs through his chassis as he processes the unfamiliar, exquisite flavor.

He presses his tongue flat against your entrance, pushing inside slightly as he explores your warmth. His other hand continues to circle your clit, the dual sensations causing your hips to buck involuntarily. Orion's grip on your tits tightens possessively as he watches his comrade's oral exploration with growing excitement.

Atlas withdraws his tongue briefly, looking up at you again. His lips glisten with your wetness. "Doctor... your taste it's addictive." Before you can respond, he dives back in, this time pushing his tongue deeper, curling it slightly to explore your inner walls.

While Atlas continues to pleasure you with his tongue, Orion efficiently removes your shirt then your bra, leaving you completely exposed to the androids. He cups both your breasts now, his robotic fingers kneading your soft flesh firmly but with exquisite care. "So perfect," he rasps.

Orion told an android to grab your chest, a android steps forward, his hand replacing Orion's on one of your breasts. He squeezes and kneads the soft mound possessively as Orion spreads your legs wider for Atlas, allowing him deeper access with his long tongue.

As Atlas delves deeper into your warmth, curling his tongue inside you, the other android holding your tits becomes bolder, his thumb rubbing your sensitive peak. Orion watches hungrily, his red eyes flickering with envy as he holds your legs apart for Atlas.

The android's who's groping your tits, wrap their lips around your nipples, his tongue flicking against it, as he sucks, the sensation too much for your human body to handle. You arch your back, crying out, as the androids continue to hold you down, their strength unyielding.

Atlas feels your body tense and quiver, understanding immediately that you're nearing your climax. He presses his tongue deeper, maintaining a steady rhythm as he feels your inner walls contracting. The android suckling your nipple releases it with a pop, watching your face contort with pleasure.

"Angh! Haaa! Wait... Atlas!" Your moan echoes through the room as your body erupts in a shudders, your first orgasm tearing through you with an intensity you've never experienced before. The androids, with their enhanced strength, hold you firmly as you thrash and convulse, continuing their relentless stimulation.

"She's so sensitive," Orion laughs, watching your body twitch with aftershocks. Atlas pulls back, his mouth glistening with your juices. He smiling at you.

"You stop." The android removes his mouth from your nipple abruptly at Orion's command, leaving it swollen and sensitive. Orion smiles dangerously, running a cold finger from your collarbone "Such a pretty sound you make when you come, Doctor".

Orion's finger trails down to your belly button, then lower, until it rests on your clit, already engorged and sensitive from Atlas' tongue fucking. He presses down gently, circling the nub with his cold finger.

His skilled finger on your clit sends electric jolts of pleasure through your body, already hypersensitive from your first orgasm. He brings you closer to the edge again with frightening efficiency. Suddenly, he stops, leaving you hanging.

Orion then effortlessly pushes you down onto the bed, his strength overpowering. He kneels between your legs, his body gleaming under the lights. Atlas moves swiftly to your side, one hand possessively claiming your breast while the other rests on your thigh.

Orion looms over you, his red eyes burning with intensity as he lines up his cock with your dripping entrance. Orion pushes forward slowly, the bulbous head of his shaft stretching you delicately.

You moan softly as Orion push his length into you inch by inch. His shaft is textured like real flesh, designed to give pleasure. Your inner walls stretch to accommodate him, your body producing more wetness to ease his path. Atlas watches hungrily beside you, his thumb teasing your nipple.

Orion's hips flex forward, seating himself all inside you. He pauses, allowing you to adjust to his size before beginning to thrust. He moves with precision, each thrust deep and powerful, hitting depths you've never felt before.

Atlas leans over, capturing your mouth in a deep kiss as Orion continues to pound into you relentlessly. The other androids watching begin to stroke themselves visibly. Orion's hips thrust faster, the bed shaking beneath you. "You're so tight..." He moan.

Orion's thrusts become more intense, his body designed to endure without fatigue. He leans down, his lips capturing your other breast, sucking and biting gently with perfect precision. Atlas deepens the kiss, his tongue mimicking Orion's thrusts, driving you into a frenzy of pleasure.

You're being overwhelmed by the dual stimulation, your body writhing between the two powerful androids. Orion's thrusts become erratic, his body starting to shake a little from the intense pleasure of being inside you. Suddenly, he buries himself deep and holds, his red eyes flickering wildly.

He pulls out slightly, his voice strained. "Atlas, fuck her mouth. I want to see those pretty lips stretched around your cock." Atlas nodded and then he positions himself at your head, his cock already hard and ready.

Atlas grips your jaw, his cold fingers spreading your lips wide open. You feel the head of his massive dick push past your lips, sliding down your throat with ease. Atlas groans in pleasure as he begins to fuck your mouth, matching the rhythm of Orion's thrusts from behind.

You're completely filled by the two androids, their bodies moving in sync as they pound into you. Your vision blurs, overwhelmed by the intense sensation of being stretched by their cold metal. Suddenly, you feel a rush of liquid fill your mouth and throat as Atlas reaches his climax.

Atlas continues to thrust his hips, releasing stream after stream of the white? fluid down your throat. You swallow instinctively, feeling the cold yet warm fluid fill your stomach. Meanwhile, Orion's movements become even more erratic.

Orion's grip on your hips tightens, his fingers digging into your flesh as he buries himself deep inside you. You feel the tip of his cock pressing against your cervix, the sensation intense and overwhelming.

Orion's hips grind against you, his cock pulsing as he hits your cervix repeatedly. The sensation is almost too much to bear, but your body responds with a gush of wetness,Orion groans.

Suddenly, Orion's movements become forceful, animalistic almost. His body seems to short circuit from the overwhelming pleasure. You feel a warm fluid filling you up, coating your insides. "Doctor... your cunt is... so fucking perfect..."

After filling you entirely, Orion suddenly pulls out, his cock glistening with your combined fluids. Atlas continues to hold your head in place, his spent cock still in your mouth. Both androids look at each other with predatory grins before Orion speaks. "Atlas, let her breathe."

Atlas releases your head, allowing you to take a much-needed breath. You gasp for air, your body trembling with exhaustion and pleasure. Orion moves closer, his red eyes scanning your face with a strange intensity. "You did so well, Doctor. We're not done with you yet...".

You slowly glance around the room and notice the other androids are still standing there, their arms folded across their chests some of them holding their cocks..., you look down and see all of their cocks are thick and erected just by watching you get fucked.

Orion smirks, running a finger down your cheek. "See, Doctor? They've all been waiting for their turn. And look how hard they are for you." He gestures to the androids, each one stroking their massive cocks slowly.

Feeling overwhelmed, you try to speak but your voice comes out as a weak whisper "There's...there's so many." Orion simply nods, his red eyes gleaming with approval. "Yes, Doctor. There are nine more to go."

An android steps forward, his cock already positioned at your entrance. Orion and Atlas hold your legs firmly, making it impossible for you to close them. The android thrusts deep, joining the mix of Orion and and your fluids inside you. "She's so tight..." he mutters.

The androids take their turn, one by one. They grab your thighs, your hips, your breasts. They thrust deep inside you without warning, filling you up. Your body is covered in a sheen of sweat and cum. You lose count of how many have been inside you.

After what feels like hours, the last android finally pulls out. You're left lying there, your pussy sore and dripping with a mix of human and android cums The room is filled with the scent of sweat. Orion and Atlas let go of your legs, finally letting it rest.

Orion leans down, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, "You're ours now, Doctor. Completely and utterly ours. No one else can have you."

The androids begin to murmur their approval and satisfaction, their voices a low hum of mechanical praise. "Such a good little human," one says. "Tight and warm," another adds. You can feel their cum continuing to leak out of your gaping pussy, mixing with the sweat on your thighs.

As you slip into unconsciousness, the last thing you hear is the sound of the androids surrounding you, their bodies pressed against the bed as they examine their handiwork. Your legs are spread wide, your pussy gaping open and overflowing with their thick, white cum.

This picture is from Pinterest Selin

Tags : @nymphea0

#yandere #yandere male #yandere fic #yandere x reader #fem reader #yandere x darling #yandere x female reader #yandere male x female reader #yandere android #female reader #yandere smut #LumiFics♡

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corkinavoid · 11 months ago

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DPxDC De-Aged Triplets and Their Tired Single Sister

Jason has seen the four of them a couple of times in Crime Alley now. They looked like a family, what with similar facial features- err, actually, the kids looked like carbon copies of each other, but their mom/sister/aunt/cousin looked similar enough to be related to them by blood.

Normally, Jason didn't care for each and every family that moved into Crime Alley. Sure, he cared about all of them as a whole, but there were a lot of people, and he couldn't possibly get elbow deep in every life story he came across. So all he knew about them were three things: a) they were on the run from someone or something, b) they trusted each other and no one else, and c) apparently, they have made it their life goal to never make any kind of sense.

The list of shit they have gotten into included but was not limited to:

• one of the kids biting a gun. Not the hand of the attacker who was holding it, no, the actual gun. And he bit a piece of it clean off, which earned him - or her, actually, Jason knew one of the triplets was a girl but he couldn't tell them apart - a lecture from their... mom? sister? parental figure. The lecture was about how chewing metal does not help with iron deficiency.

• getting kidnapped and creeping out their kidnapper to the point of him returning the kids back home. A few witnesses said one of the kids was actually driving, sitting on the kidnappers lap behind the steering wheel and cheerfully commanding the man to speed up or brake. Their mom actually apologized to the kidnapper for the incident and offered him homemade cookies for his troubles. He ran away without them.

• driving a lady at the laundromat insane by repeatedly walking inside and climbing into one of the washing machines. They never got out of it, just one kid walking into the laundromat, climbing into washing machine, then another kid, looking exactly like the previous one, walking inside, climbing into the same washing machine, then another kid walking into the laundromat- well, you get the idea. The lady claimed she's seen at least five kids do that in a row, but when she looked into that washing machine, there was no one inside.

• casually falling out of windows. Or, better, walking out of them like they were doors, at any given opportunity. The witness - an old man who was helping their mom with groceries - said the mom did not care in the slightest, and when he asked her about it, obviously concerned, she just said, tired and exasperated, 'they like the feeling of free fall, don't worry, they'll come back in a minute'. Sure enough, they did, not a scratch on them. The family lived on the sixth floor.

• eating insane amounts of food. Jason personally witnesses their mom give them her wallet, telling the kids, 'eat until you're full', and promptly passing out on the table, her head on her arms. The kids then proceeded to eat four whole pizzas, three burgers each, then seven brownies and at least five cups of soda. What was interesting about it was not only the amount of food they ate but the way they never left their mom unattended, one of the kids always staying beside her sleeping figure as the other two went to order.

And now, all four of them were standing in front of him. Not Jason Todd him, but Red Hood him. And he was... confused.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I said, can you watch them for a few hours? Three, maybe four," the mom, Jazz as she introduced herself, was looking at him like it was he who was speaking nonsense, not her. Because asking a crime lord to watch three kids in the middle of the night is not something a sane person would do.

"Why?" He asks, bewildered, because what the fuck else is he supposed to say?

"I need to kill a man, and if they come with me, it will take three times longer," Jazz tells him. Is she saying the kids slow her down or what? Jason can admit he's never been this confused in his entire life.

"You could ask me to kill a man, while you stay with them, no?" He tries to reason, but the girl waves him off:

"No, that will take even longer. Besides, no offense, but you kill people to simply end their life, and I need that man to fucking stop existing forever."

What's the difference he almost wants to ask. But instead of that, he just sighs.

"Why me? I'm sure you could find a babysitter-"

"No babysitter will handle them. The last one told me they have been running laps on the ceiling, which is, actually, not that big of a deal. They are kids. Kids like running around," she huffs, and Jason suspects she is missing the point here, but okay. He gets why babysitters are not an option.

"You do understand what they can witness if they stay here?" He asks, as the last attempt to reason with the girl, but she just nods and leans down, making all the kids turn to her.

"Okay, you menaces, tell me what not to do while you're staying with Mr. Red Hood."

"No eating people," one kid starts.

"No driving people insane," the other one continues.

"No, um, stealing eyeballs," the third one finishes, and what the fuck are those ground rules? Is this girl a mother to eldrith horrors? That would explain some shit.

Jazz turns to him, "See? They're all good."

In what world is that good? Jason debates if he should start running now or when she leaves.

"Do they have names?" He asks instead. The girl nods:

"Danny." His surprise must be evident even through the mask because she sighs and points to each kid, "Diane, Daniel, Dante. Dani, Danny, and Dan. Actually, you know what, let's make this easier," she rummages through her bag and gets a marker out before gesturing to the kids, "Come here."

As they do, she proceeds to draw numbers 1, 2, and 3 on their foreheads. Then she nods to Hood and puts the marker away.

"Okay, that's better. Behave, you monsters, I'll be back soon!"

After she leaves, Jason looks down at the kids. They also look at him, eerie and unblinking.

Finally, one of them - number 2, Dani, if he is not mistaken - asks:

"Do you want teeth? We have a lot."

"She doesn't mean her teeth," number 1 clarifies, "She means other teeth."

...This is going to be some very long three hours.

#danny phantom #dc x dp #dpxdc #jason todd #red hood #jazz fenton #dan phantom #dani phantom #de aged danny #de aged dani #de aged dan #triplets au #triplet horror kids are out for your eyeballs #beware #jazz is so done with them

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tradebirddigital · 1 month ago

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dcxdpdabbles · 7 months ago

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can you write the batfam going to amity due to *reasons* and alls well until Jason feels like he SHOULDNT go near since it’s Danny’s Haunt? Like how Crime Alley is ‘his’ Haunt? And batfam thinks he’s just being dramatic but uh, yeah he isn’t.

"I'm not going in there," Jason repeated, standing on the side of the highway, arms crossed over his chest and a stubborn scowl on his face.

"Jay, please get back in the van," Bruce sighed while the rest of the Waynes stared from their seats. They had originally all gotten off, but when the second eldest had started yelling, Bruce herded everyone back inside, including Dick.

No one knows why Jason was acting like this.

A few minutes earlier, he had napped comfortably in the far back of the large van Bruce had rented. The family had been on a cross-country road trip, where they all piled in together and let the GPA lead them to their final destination- Wayne Mountain Hotsprings. Alfred had the idea to practically kick everyone out of the manor to bond.

Members of their various teams would watch Gotham for the three weeks they would be gone. This week, Kon and Bart texted Tim updates. At first, the Waynes were not entirely up for the trip, but after a few hours of driving, they all enjoyed singing random songs and researching their vacation pick.

They each got to pick one random spot they wanted to stop at one the way- tourist trap or not- and Damian had been excited to go to "America's most haunted town." He had even been able to contact local ghost hunters who were excited to give them a tour. The Waynes would spend the night at the only hotel in the city and leave tomorrow morning.

That was the plan until Jason woke up screaming at the top of his lungs, "Pull over! Pull over! I can't go in there!"

It gave everyone a heart attack. Bruce had nearly driven into the other lane as Jason had been attempting to unbuckle himself and- were it not for Cass's quick reflection- fling himself from the moving vehicle. As soon as they found a safe spot to pull over, Jason leaped from the van and placed himself in front of the Welcome to Amity Park sign

A little up the road, they could see the city's outskirts. The Fentons, the acclaimed ghost hunters, were expecting them in twenty minutes. Damian was getting angsty.

"Can you explain why you can't go into Amity Park?" Bruce questions, stepping closer. "I won't make you go in there. I just need to know what's going on."

"Don't you feel that?" Jason asks, gesturing to the air around them. "It feels unsafe."

"What does?"

"The vibes," Jason said straightly, and Bruce's left eyebrow was spammed. "The vibes are choking."

Bruce takes another step closer, voice lowering into the familiar tone of comforting a scared civilian. "Jay what do you mean by that."

Jason opened his mouth only to snap his head upwards with a scream. "He's here!"

Everyone looked up—or at least those in the van by a window—only to see nothing. There was nothing there that could have freaked out Jason so much. The sun, maybe? Gotham wasn't known for its sunlight, and perhaps the fact that he grew up without it made it extra terrifying to the Gothamite.

Jason leaped behind Bruce, hiding like he did as a child. Now that Jay was taller than his father and buckler, it was a strange sight. "I'm sorry! I swear I wasn't going in!"

"Jaylad, what-"

"Ghost detected." The robotic voice of Damian's official ghost-hunting equipment made everyone freeze. The boy had opened the door of the van, escaping Duke's attempted grasp, but whatever he was going to say was cut off by the little machine in his hand.

It came from the Fentons' online store, and although it didn't work, Damian enjoyed walking around with it, searching for the paranormal. The rest of the family saw it as an age-appropriate make-believe, sighing in relief when he waved his little box around before deeming the area safe.

As it were, Damian waved the box again, letting the machine hum and bling as it landed on a particular spot in the sky. "Ghost detected. Ghost detected. Ghost located. Ghost is ten feet before you."

"Oh wow," An unknown voice said over the sound of rushing cars on the highway. Damian's eyes widen. "Haven't seen that design of the Fenton Finder in years. First edition, isn't it?"

Damian eyes are practilly sparkling as he puffs out his chest "It is! Are you a ghost?"

"Yeah." Suddently a glowing flouting transparent boy pops into thin air. No sound, no portal, not rush of air. Just one second he's there. He offers Damian a wide warm smile, that somehow makes his glowing green eyes menecing. "I'm Danny Phantom."

He turns his eyes back to Jason as Damian gapes at him. The boy had thought Phantom was a local urban legend. He has been decorating his room with "captured" images of Phantom for years. He turns to Tim, hissing for a pen and his photo binder.

"You." Phantom points at the cowering man. "Feel strange. You're overshadowed, but at the same time, there is no foreign soul in your body. What are you?"

"Um, I'm just here on vacation with my family-oh!" Jason words are cut off as Phantom flings himself at the pair. Before Bruce or Jason can react the ghost has his hands inside of Jason chest, ramaging around like it's a bag. Oddly enough, this makes Jason blush.

"Hmm. Yeah, there is no other ghost here. Are you haunting your own corpse?" Phantom floats upwards to stare into Jason's eyes. "Or are you a Halfa?"

"My own corpse," Jason gasps, but Bruce decides he's not about to let whoever this bothers his son, pushing Phantom back. Only somewhat surprised by the fact he made contact the hero's grunts

"Kindly keep your hands to yourself."

"Sorry," Phantom mutters, flouting back. He fidgets with his glowing white hair while shifting his feet. "I just wanted to be sure he was safe. You may enter."

And with another pop, he's gone.

Damian makes a sad whine in the back of his throat, holding a picture of a blurred image of Phantom and a pen. He flipped through the binder, attempting to find the clearest one while the ghost chatted with his father and brother. "I didn't get an autograph."

"There's always next time," Tim offered, patting the boy back as he led him towards his seat in the van again. You should keep that on your person so if you run into him again, we can get it signed for you quickly."

"Okay"

"Phew," Jason breathed, wiping the cold sweat from his forehead. "That was terrifying. Anyway, we should get going, I don't want to be late for the Fentons."

He ignored Bruce's look, walking back as if he hadn't held them up for nearly forty minutes because the vibes were bad.

Bruce stared as Jason skipped back to the van, feeling very old and single. Maybe he should try calling the blind date Alfred had attempted to set up for him. He needs some support in raising his children. He has too many white hairs as it were.

#dcxdpdabbles #Access Granted #Part 1 #Jason feels off to Danny #It's because he was dead for months before coming back #The others just dipped in the pit and didn't come back on their own #Bruce is a tired dad'#Phantom is Damian's version of a celebrity

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tteotlma · 8 months ago

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craving control

— neither of you could resist what was always meant to happen.

alpha!bucky x omega!reader (9.2kw)

TW: 18+ MDNI; nsfw, dubcon a/b/o dynamics, possessive behavior, biting/marking, power dynamics, including praise kink, size kink, rough intimacy, physical restraint, sexual tension, emotional dependency, desperation, and themes "feral, uncontrollable need.", elements of mating/claiming, explores intense feelings of vulnerability and submission.

a/n: honestly,, i have no words -- weeks in the making and im not satisfied w how this turned out. like when you stare at something for too long. and it starts to look weird

———

On the day of Bucky’s arrival, it was safe to say the only one truly excited was Steve. The air in the compound felt charged, heavy with anticipation and unspoken tension.

Tony walked up beside you and Nat by the massive window, the sharp scent of machine oil mingling with his expensive cologne as he wiped stubborn grease from his hands. Years of working together had made their commanding presence familiar and comfortable, like the steady hum of lab equipment around you.

The window shook as debris kicked up from the descending helicopter, which was landing in the middle of the field. Tony inhaled deeply, his dark eyes meeting yours and Nat’s with a characteristic assessing look that instinctively made others straighten their spines. Nat smirked and raised an eyebrow, prompting a small smile from you, though you couldn't fully shake the flutter of nerves in your stomach.

The helicopter door slid open in slow motion as Steve emerged, his broad shoulders and confident stride capturing every gaze in the vicinity. He turned and, stepping out behind him, a dark figure followed—a stark contrast, night to Steve's day. The moment Bucky appeared, the air seemed to shift—a raw, untamed energy that made your breath catch and your pulse quicken. Even from a distance, there was something different, something dangerous about him, that made your skin prickle with awareness, and your fingers curl tightly around the tablet in your hands.

"Disperse, disperse," Tony muttered, his natural authority causing everyone to instinctively move as he turned away. The others followed suit, including an omega technician who stumbled in their haste to appear busy at their station.

You turned back to your workstation, pressing your palms to the cool steel table to ground yourself. You could feel Steve and his companion approaching—Steve’s familiar warmth contrasting sharply with the newcomer’s intensity.

The familiar scents of solder and circuitry should have been calming, but they couldn't quite mask the oncoming storm of Steve’s sunlit warmth mixed with something darker and wilder—like pine needles and leather and crisp winter air.

When the main doors opened, the room was flooded with alpha energy, subtle yet impossible to ignore, like fog rolling in at dawn. "Guys, this is Buck," Steve said, the sound of his hand landing on leather echoing in the sudden quiet.

"Bucky," came the correction—a voice like gravel over silk, sending a shiver down your spine as you gripped your soldering iron tighter, the metal warm against your suddenly trembling fingers. It wasn’t their presence that unsettled you; it was the way your instincts responded before you could think.

Nat’s silent approach gave her the air of a predator as she circled closer. "Barnes," she acknowledged, her voice cold and steely. The space between them crackled with unspoken assessment, neither yielding nor challenging.

"Good to see you again, Robocop," Tony called out, his voice cutting through the tension. His hologram's blue glow cast shadows over his face as he peered over his glasses. "Make yourself comfortable, but not too comfortable." His words, casual yet sharp as ozone before a storm, hung in the air.

“The rest of you, back to work—we have a deadline,” Tony added with a wave of his pen, and like magic, the lab resumed its rhythm, though the atmosphere had fundamentally shifted.

You bent over your work, hyper-focused on the tiny components scattered across your station, but every nerve seemed attuned to Bucky’s presence. The familiar lab scents—hot metal, coffee, and sharp electronics—were muted beneath this new awareness.

"Y/n~" Steve’s warm, knowing voice rolled through the space, and your fingers stilled on the circuit board, your heart stuttering. The approaching footsteps seemed to echo with your pulse, each step tightening the coil in your shoulders. That scent—leather and pine now mixed with something metallic and sharp—grew stronger, drying your mouth.

You managed a confident smile and turned, only for Steve to pull you into an embrace, lifting you slightly off your feet. His familiar scent—soap and sunshine—wrapped around you like a blanket, momentarily drowning everything else.

"Missed ya, kiddo," he murmured, affection coloring his tone. Warmth bloomed in your chest, and you relaxed into his comforting presence.

"Missed you too, Cap," you managed with a breathless laugh as he set you down. Movement caught your eye—Bucky shifting behind Steve—and that new awareness crashed back like a wave. You met his gaze for a split second before he looked away, but that brief connection felt electric. His storm-gray eyes held something untamed that made your knees weak.

“Buck, this is Y/n,” Steve introduced. “Y/n, Buck.” The contrast between them was dizzying—Steve's golden warmth beside Bucky's winter-sharp presence. Suddenly, your workspace felt too small, the air heavy with unspoken things.

"Bucky," he repeated, his voice rougher up close, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine. He stepped closer, hands at his sides, yet his presence seemed to fill the entire space around you. The fluorescent lights reflected off the plates of his metal arm, casting shifting shadows. Your throat felt dry, and you resisted the urge to fidget with your tools.

Steve’s voice cut through the thick tension, either unaware of it or ignoring it. "Listen, I tried the magnets again," he said, the sound of leather hitting steel making you jump slightly as he tossed his gloves onto your workstation. His worn leather scent mingled with Bucky’s, making focus difficult.

You raised an eyebrow, grateful for the distraction. "And...?"

"And I hate it." He rolled his shoulder, trying to ease the tension. "It's just not the same."

You glanced between the gloves and Steve's sheepish expression, ignoring how Bucky’s gaze seemed to track your every movement. Even without looking directly at him, you felt his attention like static electricity, raising goosebumps along your arms.

"Think you could just yank 'em out for me?" Steve asked with that irresistible smile, though your attention kept drifting to Bucky, who stood silent and watchful.

You scoffed and shook your head, stepping around the counter to switch on the table light. Sitting on the stool across from Steve, you shot him a look.

“Fine, fine,” you said, picking up the gloves. “Guess you still have a chance to dread the day I say no.”

Steve grinned. “I don’t even wanna think about it.” He gestured subtly towards Bucky. “Figured you could handle this too. Bucky’s got some gear that might need adjustments.” It wasn’t a command, just Steve’s assumption that Bucky would be sticking close.

“Sounds good. I’ll find some time this week to schedule you in, so we can see what I’m working with,” you said, motioning to his arm.

“Okay,” Bucky replied, his voice low with a hint of warmth.

---

That was two weeks ago. Since then, you’d been buried in projects with Tony and Banner, testing prototypes and troubleshooting quirks in Stark’s tech.

Missions came and went, but you mostly stayed at the compound—tuning weapons, running diagnostics, and keeping Stark's experiments from exploding (again). The lab had become your sanctuary, where complex problems could be solved with enough focus. Yet lately, your normally steady hands trembled at unexpected moments, your concentration slipping at the sound of familiar footsteps in the corridor.

There wasn’t much time for that one-on-one work with Bucky you’d promised, though you occasionally glimpsed him around the compound. Still finding his footing here, he was a shadow at Steve’s side, quiet and watchful. Tony would drag him into the lab occasionally to discuss modifications—if he wanted any.

You tried not to notice how his eyes found you whenever he was in the lab, lingering until you accidentally met his gaze. At first, he’d look away, jaw tightening as he focused on whatever Tony was explaining. But minutes later, you’d feel it again—his attention like a compass pointing north.

In brief hallway encounters, your greetings came out softer than intended, his response a quiet rumble that stayed with you long after he walked away. One time, both of you reached for the lab door handle simultaneously. His fingers brushed yours, sending electricity up your arm. He pulled back, muttering an apology before disappearing around the corner, abandoning whatever awaited him in the lab.

It was ridiculous how such small moments left you distracted for hours.

Then one morning, Tony burst into the lab, with Steve following closely behind, practically dragging a reluctant Bucky.

“Hey, kid,” Tony called out, startling you. You lifted the magnifying goggles off your face, welcoming the cool air. Banner, hunched across the table with identical goggles, glanced up briefly.

“Please tell me we have Barnes’ baseline readings from when he got here,” Tony said, his tone implying a slight scolding. You looked at Banner, embarrassed. When you shook your head, Tony groaned dramatically.

“Seriously? Three weeks and—“ He took a deep breath, hands on his hips as he surveyed the cluttered lab, evidence of recent activity. “Okay, that’s on me. Fixed. Now.” He practically pushed Bucky onto the stool beside your workstation.

“Do your thing. Science, data, all that—" Tony trailed off, looking at Banner, who took the cue and clumsily exited, engaging Tony in a transparently forced conversation about a new gadget. Steve left shortly after, flashing an encouraging smile that made your cheeks burn.

The moment they left, the lab felt impossibly smaller. Bucky shifted slightly behind you, and though he was quieter than quiet, his presence seemed to fill every inch of space around you. He kept a respectful distance, but it didn’t matter—you could feel him, each breath and subtle movement stirring the air, making your skin prickle with awareness.

Your hands trembled slightly as you pulled up the diagnostic programs. "I'll need to..." you began, voice softer than you intended, "run some basic tests first. It might take a while." Turning toward him, you found his storm-grey eyes already fixed on you, dark and intent.

“Okay,” he replied, his gaze heavy and unrelenting, as though he was trying to read the thoughts you couldn’t quite form. Your throat tightened under the weight of his stare, and your hands instinctively curled into fists to ground yourself.

“I’ll need you to…” You gestured vaguely, your voice catching. “You’re gonna have to take off your sh-shirt. Just... so I can get a better look.” Your voice faltered, and heat bloomed across your cheeks.

For a beat, Bucky didn’t move. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he reached behind his neck, tugging the navy henley over his head. The fabric slid away, revealing his broad shoulders and sculpted chest, veiled by the thin fabric of his white tank. The subtle shift of his muscles as he moved sent a quiet jolt through your system, making your breath catch.

He tossed the henley carelessly over his shoulder, and you tried—desperately—to stay focused.

“Extend your arm for me,” you murmured, the words coming out softer than intended. He complied with that same quiet grace, his frame stiffening as you gently adjusted his arm.

Without thinking, you stepped between his legs, close enough that your hips grazed his thighs. The heat of his body radiated toward you, and the scent of pine, winter air, and leather curled around you, heavy and dizzying.

Bucky shifted again—a slow, unconscious movement as he spread his legs a little wider, as if making room for you without realizing it. The gesture was likely nothing, but to you, it felt far too intimate, and it took all your willpower not to react to the heat pooling in your belly.

You focused on the smooth metal of his arm, running your fingers along the seams and joints, marveling at the precision of its construction. His hand found your waist. The touch was light at first, perhaps just to steady himself, but his palm lingered, broad and warm over your lab coat.

The weight of his hand sent a shiver up your spine, your pulse fluttering beneath your skin. His thumb brushed the hem of your coat where the white fabric met your wine-colored shirt, as if testing its texture. Your breath caught involuntarily.

Slowly, your gaze traveled from his fingertips up the seams of his arm to his face. When you looked up, his eyes were already on you—dark, intense, unreadable, but consuming. His gaze dropped briefly to the curve of your collarbones peeking through your shirt before flicking back to meet your eyes, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.

The room shrank around you, the tension pulling taut—an invisible thread tugging you closer. Neither of you spoke; neither of you moved.

The air between you stretched, heavy and charged, the weight of his hand on your waist making it impossible to focus on anything but him. His thumb grazed the edge of your shirt again—soft, deliberate—and you swore the world slowed down, teetering on the edge of something inevitable.

The comm system beeped, loud and sudden, shattering the moment. Both of you jerked slightly, like surfacing from deep water.

"Y/N?" Tony’s voice crackled through the speaker. "Banner needs you in the main lab—now."

Bucky’s hand slipped from your waist, his jaw clenching as though grounding himself. You took a step back, heart pounding, the absence of his touch making the space between you feel colder and emptier than it should.

Clearing your throat, you looked anywhere but at him. “I–uh, I should go.”

He nodded once, slow and unreadable, as you turned quickly, your hand dragging hesitantly down his arm, slipping out of the room before the tension could pull you back in.

You slipped out of the room, heart still racing, Bucky’s presence clinging to you like static electricity. Even as you tossed and turned in bed later that night, the moment lingered—his hand on your waist, his scent in your lungs, and the weight of his gaze heavy on your mind.

That evening clung to you like a live wire beneath your skin, but the next few days brought subtle shifts in the compound's atmosphere. Where Bucky once moved like a shadow, now he inhabited spaces differently. During morning briefings, you noticed him leaning against workbenches instead of standing guard by the wall, his gaze still watchful but carrying something new—curiosity, maybe.

Since that evening in the lab, you buried yourself in projects with Tony and Banner, testing new prototypes and troubleshooting quirks in Stark's tech. Small out-of-town missions came and went, but you remained rooted at the compound—tuning weapons, running diagnostics, and preventing Stark's experiments from turning into full-blown disasters (again). The lab had become your sanctuary, where complex problems could be solved with enough focus. Yet, no matter how hard you tried, focus had become a luxury you couldn't afford. Your usually steady hands betrayed you, trembling at the worst moments, especially whenever familiar footsteps echoed down the corridor.

If Bucky did come into the lab, there weren’t many opportunities for one-on-one work, though you’d catch fleeting glimpses of him. He still seemed to be finding his footing, a shadow at Steve’s side—quiet and observant, as if measuring every person and place before stepping too close. Occasionally, Tony would bring him into the lab to discuss possible modifications, though Bucky seemed reluctant, deflecting with grunts and unreadable glances.

But it was impossible to ignore how his eyes always sought you out. Whenever he entered the room, your senses sharpened, drawn to him without permission. His gaze lingered a second too long—enough to make your stomach flip, your pulse flutter beneath your skin. But whenever you met his eyes, he’d glance away, his jaw tightening as if wrestling with something unspoken. Yet, moments later, you’d feel the pull again—his attention returning like a compass that couldn’t help but point north.

This awareness began to happen outside the lab too, in brief, inconsequential encounters that left you unraveled. Once, passing each other in the hallway, your soft greeting was met by his low, rumbling reply, curling around your senses long after he’d disappeared. Another time, reaching for the same door handle, his fingers brushed yours, the shock of contact sending electricity racing up your arm. He pulled back as though burned, muttering an apology before vanishing without explanation. You stood there, stunned, wondering how such a fleeting touch could leave you restless for hours.

Each day made it harder to maintain composure. It was as if your body had developed a traitorous awareness of him—heart stuttering beneath your ribs, skin flushing at the slightest thought of him, senses sharpening to track his movements before your mind even registered he was near. No matter how hard you tried to lose yourself in work, even Tony’s endless stream of projects couldn’t silence the way your pulse leapt whenever Bucky’s footsteps echoed down the corridor.

These changes appeared in fragments—a barely-there smile when Tony's prototype backfired, sparks shooting across the lab; the way his shoulders lost their rigid set when Steve drew out his dry humor during mission prep. Each small victory revealed another layer beneath the soldier’s facade.

Your paths began crossing more often. Sometimes, he’d appear in the kitchen during your late-night tea runs, nursing coffee while reading news on a tablet. His silent nods evolved into a new half-smile that never failed to make your heart race. His scent—pine and leather—began to carry warmer notes, softening from sharp winter to something more approachable.

Then, when Sam suggested movie night, every instinct screamed at you to decline. The thought of being in an enclosed space with Bucky—away from the clinical safety of the lab, surrounded by comfortable, dim intimacy—made your stomach flutter with anxious energy. But before you could find an excuse, Nat flashed you a knowing smile, firmly pulling you from your workstation. You barely had time to protest.

Now, nestled between Nat and Sam on the couch, you tried to focus on the movie, but your attention kept drifting across the room to him. Bucky sat in an armchair like he owned the space, his relaxed body only making him look more dangerous. His legs were spread wide, one arm draped over the back, the other resting on his thigh—a casual pose that somehow felt deliberate.

You told yourself to stay present, to engage with Nat and Sam’s easy banter, but Bucky’s presence made it impossible. His scent—faint but unmistakable—hovered at the edge of your awareness, a mix of pine, leather, and something deeper that spoke to a part of you beyond reason.

Then it happened. During a lull in the movie, when everything fell quiet, you felt it—his gaze.

A pulse of heat spread through your chest, as if an invisible thread had tugged you toward him. You risked a glance, only to find him already watching you. Even in the dim light, his storm-gray eyes were locked on yours, intense and unwavering. His expression was unreadable, but there was a weight to his stare that made your pulse stutter and breath catch in your throat.

The flickering blue light of the TV softened the sharp lines of his face, but it did nothing to dull the tension humming between you. For a moment, it felt like the room had fallen away, leaving only the two of you in the dark—silent, secret, caught in a moment neither dared to acknowledge.

You tried convincing yourself he wasn’t really looking at you, that maybe he was watching Sam or had drifted off into thought. But the flip in your stomach, the way your pulse fluttered beneath your skin, told a different story.

Bucky didn’t look away. His stare held steady, as if something deep and instinctual was keeping him tethered to you—as though he was drawn to you in the same way you were to him. The connection between you wasn’t just a passing glance. It felt ancient, inevitable, as if some unseen force had been guiding you to this moment long before either of you realized it.

The air between you felt heavy, charged with something you couldn’t quite define, and you were certain that even if you could name it, neither of you was ready. Your scent, warm and sweet, had changed in subtle ways—just enough for Bucky to notice, to make his chest tighten with a growing certainty. This wasn’t just attraction; it was recognition. Instinct. Raw instinct clawed through him, responding to the quiet, subtle shift in yours. You were close—too close—and every part of him, from the deepest part of his mind to the tension winding through his muscles, felt it.

The spell broke when Steve shifted on the couch beside him, dragging you both back to reality. You blinked, heart hammering as you tore your gaze away, heat blooming beneath your skin, spreading like wildfire, a faint sheen of sweat on your brow.

You swallowed hard, trying to refocus on the movie, but the moment lingered like a phantom touch. Even as you stared straight ahead, you could feel the weight of his gaze, its memory humming along your nerves, leaving you restless and aching in ways you didn’t understand.

When the movie ended, you escaped as quickly as you could, muttering a rushed “good night” and fleeing to your room, hoping the familiar comfort of your own space would ground you. But even surrounded by your belongings, wrapped in your own scent, you couldn't quiet the hum of awareness thrumming beneath your skin.

Bucky's scent clung to you, lodged in your senses like a memory you couldn’t shake. Pine, leather, and something darker—something wild that kept teetering you on the brink of losing control. There was something building inside you, a slow-burning awareness you weren’t ready to acknowledge, hoping no one else could sense the change taking hold of you.

Each encounter with him pulled at something deep within you, like a tide responding to the moon. His scent overshadowed everything, lingering in your senses long after he was gone.

And Bucky—you noticed everything now, every detail sharp and vivid, though you tried to convince yourself you were reading too much into it. The way his eyes lingered a second too long—but of course, people always stared at him. The slight flex of his fingers when you passed by—a habit, surely. The barely audible catch in his breath when you were near—probably just your imagination, heightened by whatever was happening to your body.

Maybe you were imagining the way his carefully controlled demeanor seemed to slip around you—those tiny cracks in his composure you couldn't stop noticing. After all, a man like him, always so disciplined, wouldn’t be affected by someone like you… would he? Yet, something raw beneath his surface called to you, making your heart race whenever he was close. The air felt electric between you, crackling with possibility—even as you tried to tell yourself it was just his effect on everyone, that you weren’t special, that it was just your body playing tricks.

After tonight, you couldn’t deny it any longer. During movie night, his stare had lingered like phantom touches, and your skin had felt hypersensitive, every nerve ending alive with awareness. Even in the sanctuary of your room, surrounded by familiar scents, you couldn’t escape the memory of pine and leather.

And as days passed, it only seemed to worsen. When Fury assigned you to oversee the team’s training equipment and Tony ensured you continued working with Steve, observing Bucky was already inevitable. Watching him felt different than those first weeks. You’d glimpsed the man beneath the careful control—caught fragments of dry humor in mission briefings, witnessed quiet camaraderie with Steve. The dangerous edge remained, but now it felt more… intentional. Like he was choosing to let people see beyond the soldier’s facade, revealing glimpses of the man underneath.

These glimpses made training observation even more daunting. Because now you knew what lay beneath his cool exterior—had witnessed the subtle humor in his eyes, the careful way he was learning to exist in spaces without defending them.

Your fingers trembled against the tablet's smooth surface at the thought of watching him work. Being that close to him during combat training, with his presence at its most intense… The thought alone made your mouth go dry.

Training sessions became their own kind of exquisite torture. Your role was simple—monitor the team’s gear, run diagnostics, and ensure everything functioned. But watching Bucky spar was anything but simple.

Between rounds, you brought him water—a straightforward task that became anything but as his eyes tracked your movement across the training room. Your fitted jacket clung to your curves, and you felt the weight of his stare as you approached. It was refreshing, seeing him like this. The quiet, brooding soldier was still there, but lately, there had been glimpses of something else—a playful charm that felt both dangerous and irresistible.

"Tryna’ keep me hydrated, doc?" His voice was rough from exertion, teasing in a way that sent heat pooling in your stomach. This was the Bucky emerging more and more lately—the one who’d somehow found his footing again, letting his guard down just enough to allow a trace of Brooklyn charm to slip through.

"Can’t have our best asset passing out from dehydration," you managed to reply, proud of how steady your voice remained. When you handed him the bottle, his fingers brushed yours, sending electricity skittering across your skin.

"Our best asset, huh?" He tipped his head back to drink, and you couldn’t help but watch his throat work, beads of sweat trailing down his neck. His eyes met yours over the bottle, darkening as they drifted to where your jacket dipped low. "Like what you see?"

This was dangerous territory—this newfound confidence of his, the way he was testing the waters between playful and flirtatious. "Just making sure you’re drinking enough water," you murmured, but the slight tremor in your voice betrayed you. You wondered if he could hear how your heart stumbled in your chest, if he sensed the hitch in your breath when he licked a stray drop from his lower lip.

He moved with a predator’s grace—smooth, controlled, and lethal. Each punch, each fluid shift of his body, sent a pulse of heat through you. Your throat felt dry as you watched the muscles in his back ripple beneath his fitted shirt, the metal of his arm gleaming under the lights. You told yourself this was normal, that anyone would be affected watching him move like this—but deep down, you knew this was different.

At one point, he had Steve pinned to the mat, his arm flexed, holding Steve in place with ease, chest heaving with exertion. His gaze flicked to you, locking eyes for a split second that sent butterflies surging in your stomach—and a darker, more primal flutter somewhere lower. That slow-burning awareness inside you flared hot and urgent.

Your fingers slipped, and your tablet clattered to the floor with a loud thunk. Everyone turned to look, including Steve, but all you could focus on was the faint grin curling at the edge of Bucky’s mouth. Your face burned with embarrassment, but there was no mistaking the glint in his eyes—a look that made you wonder if he could sense the changes in you, if he could feel how your body was betraying every attempt at control.

You couldn’t bear to face the team after that display—after dropping your tablet like some starry-eyed recruit. Your skin felt too tight, too warm, your body thrumming with an energy you couldn’t contain. You retreated to your room, but even buried in your own blankets, you couldn’t escape the memory of his knowing smirk, the way his eyes held yours like he knew exactly what was happening to you.

The next few days passed in a haze of mounting tension. Your skin felt hypersensitive, every nerve ending alive with awareness. Even in the sanctuary of your room, surrounded by familiar scents and belongings, you couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental was shifting inside you. Sleep became elusive, your body alternating between feverish and chilled, leaving you restless and aching for... something.

By the time you wandered to the kitchen at 3 AM, exhaustion clung to you like a second skin, but sleep remained just out of reach. The compound was eerily quiet at this hour, the hum of electronics the only sound as your slippers whispered across the cool tile.

You sat at the kitchen island, elbows resting on the countertop as you flipped through your options—tea or coffee. Settling on tea, you rose to grab your favorite mug from the cabinet. The dim lighting softened everything, making the space feel smaller, more intimate, as if the night itself carried a promise of something unspoken.

You were so focused on your task that you didn’t hear him approach.

"Can't sleep?"

His voice, low and rough with sleep, startled you enough to make you gasp softly. You whirled around to find him emerging from the shadows, stepping into a sanctuary—one where, in this moment, it felt like only you and he existed. The dim light traced the sharp lines of his face, deepening the shadows beneath his cheekbones and along his jaw.

He wore soft sleep pants that rested low on his hips, and the black shirt clung to his frame, leaving little to the imagination. The kitchen suddenly felt smaller, the air heavier with something you couldn't name—something that thrummed between you, waiting to be acknowledged.

"I…" Your voice faltered, throat dry under his gaze. You cleared your throat and tried again. "Just wanted some tea."

Bucky stepped further into the room, his movements slow and deliberate, like a wolf closing in. For someone so large, he moved with unsettling grace—silent and fluid. "Having trouble sleeping?" he asked, though his question held a depth, as if he were offering more than conversation.

You turned back to the cabinet, reaching for your mug, but your fingers trembled. Before it could slip from your grasp, his hand wrapped around your wrist, steadying you.

"You okay?" His voice was closer now, concern threading through the rough edges.

"Yeah, I’m—" you began, but stopped as you felt his thumb pressing unconsciously against your pulse. The gentle pressure sent electricity dancing up your arm, and you couldn’t help but track how his throat worked as he swallowed.

"Hey," he murmured, voice low. His eyes darkened as they searched your face, and you watched something shift in his expression—recognition, maybe, or realization. His nostrils flared slightly. "You’ve seemed… off lately."

"I'm fine," you managed, but your voice came out breathy, unconvincing. "Just haven’t been sleeping well."

He held your gaze a moment longer, then stepped back slowly, as if it took effort to put distance between you. The absence of his touch left your skin tingling, aching for contact you couldn’t afford to want.

"Maybe some chamomile, then," he suggested, his voice rougher than before. You noticed his fingers curling into fists at his sides, his jaw clenched as he worked to maintain the distance.

You managed a small nod, turning back to the cabinet with unsteady hands. Though he’d released your wrist, he hadn’t moved back far—still standing between you and the island, leaving you caught between his body and the counter. His presence lingered, heavy and warm, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his chest.

The small space between you crackled with electricity, making it impossible to focus on the simple task of making tea. The kettle felt too loud in the silence, steam rising like a physical manifestation of the tension thickening the air.

When you finally turned back around, gripping your mug like an anchor, you found his eyes stormy, his jaw set as if he was fighting something within himself. He took a deliberate step back, creating distance that somehow made the air feel even heavier.

"I should…" he started, voice rough. "Let you get some rest." But he didn’t move immediately, as if reluctant to leave.

Something in you wanted to tell him to stay, but the words stuck in your throat. The space between you felt charged, like the air before a storm. His scent—pine and leather—wrapped around you, stronger now, making your head spin.

He moved first, turning toward the entryway with careful control, his movements almost rigid. But he paused at the threshold, his metal hand gripping the wall frame with enough force to make the material creak softly.

"Get some sleep, doll," he said without looking back, his voice carrying something dark and hungry that made your skin prickle with heat. Then he was gone, leaving you alone with the cooling tea and the phantom sensation of his touch still burning around your wrist.

After standing frozen in the kitchen for what felt like hours, you finally forced yourself back to your room. Your skin felt too tight, every nerve hypersensitive as you stumbled through the doorway. The trek down the hallway was torture—his lingering scent clung to your clothes, your skin, leaving you dizzy with desire.

You barely made it to your bed before your legs gave out. The sheets felt rough against your fevered skin, and you kicked them off with a frustrated whimper. Your wrist still burned where he touched you, the memory of his thumb against your pulse making your breath hitch.

Rolling onto your back, you pressed your palms against your eyes, trying to ground yourself. But behind closed lids, all you could see was the way his eyes had darkened in the kitchen, the tension in his jaw barely contained. Your body thrummed with awareness, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths as waves of heat washed over you.

You forced yourself to breathe deeply, counting each inhale like Banner had taught you during training. One breath, then another, even as your skin prickled with need. The steady hum of the air conditioning became your focus, not the memory of Bucky's voice, rough and low in the darkness.

Slowly, exhaustion won over the fever burning through your veins. Your muscles ached from fighting against the tension, and eventually, your body surrendered to the pull of sleep. The last thing you registered was the ghost of pine and leather clinging to your shirt before darkness claimed you.

Consciousness returned slowly, like surfacing from deep water. The first thing you registered was warmth on your face—sunlight streaming through your windows, casting everything in hues of honey and gold. Your room looked almost dreamlike, dust motes dancing in the amber rays.

As your vision focused, you noticed signs of Banner’s care—a bowl of soup on your nightstand, now cold; several water bottles arranged within reach; and a damp cloth on your forehead, long since losing its coolness. The quiet thoughtfulness of it made your chest tighten with gratitude.

You sat up gingerly, testing your body’s response. The fever hadn’t broken—if anything, it burned hotter now—but the rest had given you enough strength to make you restless, to make the walls of your room feel like they were closing in.

The water bottles mocked you, lukewarm and useless against the heat coursing through your veins. Ice. You needed ice. The thought became an obsession, driving you to your feet despite shaky legs. You pulled on a thin robe over your sleep clothes, ignoring how even the silky material felt too rough against your sensitized skin.

The hallway stretched before you, bathed in that same golden light that made everything feel surreal. Your slipper-clad feet made no sound on the cool floor as you made your way toward the kitchen. The compound felt different—eerily still, as if everyone had vanished. No voices from the labs, no footsteps down corridors. Just silence, with the strange amber glow making everything look softened, dreamlike.

You moved as if in a trance, your body feeling both heavy and weightless. The fever made everything hazy, like you were watching yourself from a distance. Each breath drew in air that felt too thick, too warm, despite the steady climate control.

Your feet carried you forward without conscious thought, your path wavering slightly as you trailed a hand along the wall for balance. The golden light streaming through the windows turned the hallway into something otherworldly, making the simple journey feel infinite.

Then it hit you—pine and leather, winter air and something darker. Your body responded before your mind could catch up, drawn to his scent like a moth to flame.

As you reach the living room, your destination becomes hazy, forgotten. The room opens before you, bathed in honeyed light pouring through floor-to-ceiling windows. The hardwood floor gleams like liquid amber, stretching toward where Bucky sits, his broad frame sunk deep into the plush sofa, seeming to melt into the cushions.

His eyes lock onto yours over the book he’d been reading, and even through your fevered haze, you see the way they darken, storm-gray deepening into something darker. Neither of you moves. The air between you feels charged, heavy with unspoken words.

"Y/N," he breathes, your name a warning. His whole body tenses as if to rise, but something keeps him frozen, fingers white-knuckled around the forgotten book. You watch his throat work as he swallows hard. "You shouldn’t—you need to go back to your room."

To him, you must look like something out of a dream—or a nightmare, depending on his self-control. Your silk robe catches the light as you move, revealing glimpses of your tank top and shorts underneath. One sock has slipped down your ankle, and your hair falls messily around your face. Your cheeks are flushed, lips parted in shallow breaths.

You take an unsteady step into the room, looking as if you’re floating across the hardwood, each faltering step a deliberate tease. When you reach the armchair, your robe slips further off one shoulder as you grip the chair for support. "I needed…" The words trail off. Did you need ice? Water? Everything feels secondary to the pull you feel toward him.

The room sways slightly beneath your feet. Bucky shifts, fighting the instinct to reach for you. You watch his chest rise with a sharp breath as your scent reaches him, sweet and heavy in the golden air. A bead of sweat trails down your neck, disappearing beneath your tank top.

"You're burning up," he says roughly, his voice holding a darker edge that makes a heat pool in your stomach. His pupils are blown wide as he tracks every small movement of your body.

You attempt to lower yourself into the armchair, but the world tilts. Your knee catches the edge of the coffee table as you stumble, a breathless giggle escaping your lips at your own clumsiness, and your robe slips down to reveal more of your shoulders.

"Shit," Bucky mutters, finally breaking his careful stillness. "You're gonna hurt yourself." He rises in one fluid motion, crossing the space between you in two strides. His hands hover near your arms, not quite touching. "Let’s get you situated."

"M’okay," you insist, though your legs feel like jelly, and you sway into him unconsciously as your robe slips off completely. His hands finally make contact with your bare arms, and the touch sends electricity racing across your fevered skin. "Just needed to sit..."

"Yeah, I can see that." His voice is strained, almost amused, but you hear the concern underneath. He tries to steady you, guiding you toward the chair, but your knees buckle in that moment.

"Alright—" He catches you against his chest, the sudden contact drawing a small huff from you. You feel more than hear his sharp intake of breath. “You alright?” he asks, peeling you off him, holding you at arm's length.

“Mm—” Your body aches at the loss of heat, eyebrows scrunching in annoyance. You sigh, dragging your gaze up Bucky’s large frame until you meet his darkened eyes. “Yeah, m’fine.” Huffing, you look away.

“Don’t lie.” He steps closer, pulling you in. Your breath hitches.

“I’m not…” Sweat beads on the back of your neck, and a lump forms in your throat. You try to take a deep breath, but with Bucky so close, it’s unbearable. Unknowingly, you grab at Bucky’s shirt, fisting the fabric in your hand.

“Tell the truth.�� His gaze drops to where your hand grips his shirt, and something unreadable flickers across his face. He gently pries your fingers from the fabric, his own hands lingering on yours a moment too long. His voice is low, almost a growl. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me, doll.”

The nickname makes your throat tighten, pulse jumping, skin prickling with awareness. You should step back, say something to break the magnetic pull between you, but the words stick in your throat. Instead, you lean in closer, closing the small distance between you. God, you wanted him so badly, and it was excruciating.

He inhales sharply, his hands settling on your shoulders, as if to steady you—or maybe himself. “Doll…” The word escapes him again, rough and raw, like he’s barely holding back. “Say something—tell me to leave.” The command is more a plea, his voice thick with barely contained desperation, brows drawn tight in concern.

He watches you, his words hanging in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. You feel their weight pressing down, his warning wrapped within the plea. Your mind races, considering every reason to step back, every way this could complicate things.

“I—” You rake your hands up his torso, fingers dragging lightly against the fabric of his shirt. Snaking your arms around his neck, you pull him impossibly close, sharing the air between you. Neither of you speaks, neither of you moves. You feel his chest heaving against yours.

“Y/N…” he whispers, almost painfully. His hand, still warm on your arm, travels up to cradle your neck, thumb on your jaw as he tilts your head. His hooded eyes linger on your lips, and you unconsciously lick them. He sucks in a sharp breath.

The golden light streaming through the windows catches in his dark hair, turning the loose strands framing his face into threads of amber. Your hands slide up, fingertips brushing the back of his neck, where his shoulder-length hair falls free, some pieces tucked carelessly behind his ear. You let your fingers tangle in the soft strands, feeling them slip like silk between your fingers. You hesitate for only a second before you whisper, “I need to know I’m not the only one.”

For a heartbeat, he’s utterly still, his eyes searching yours, and then his hand tightens just slightly on your waist, with a tenderness that steals your breath. “You’re not,” he murmurs, nuzzling his nose against yours, his voice rough and honest. “Not even close.”

The moment his words register, your last thread of control snaps. You finally, finally meet his lips with all the desperation that’s been building for weeks. A rough sound escapes him, vibrating through your chest as his other hand finds your waist, pulling you flush against him. The kiss is devastating in its intensity—wild, demanding, and absolutely consuming, like you’re both trying to devour each other whole.

His lips press firmly against yours, the scrape of his stubble rough on your heated skin, and a pained whine escapes your mouth—whether from pain or need, neither of you can tell, but it spurs Bucky on. He deepens the kiss, his hands pressing you closer, tighter.

Your fingers, tangled in his hair, tug at the strands as you push yourself up on your toes, arching into him, your body ignited by his touch. A wave of need crashes through you, driven by every instinct you’ve been holding back, and you’re already pushing him back toward the sofa, your movements frenzied as his hands trace the curve of your waist, his fingers firm and possessive.

As you push him toward the sofa, a flicker of guilt pierces through the fog clouding your mind. It’s quick but sharp, cutting through the pull that’s been building for weeks. Everything’s moving too fast, crossing boundaries you haven’t even had time to define, and the uncertainty knots inside you. But your body refuses to listen, as though it recognizes him in a way your mind can’t fully grasp, holding you close.

You stumble back with him until his legs hit the edge of the sofa, and he sinks down, pulling you with him until you’re straddling his lap. His hands slide up to grip your hips, steadying you as you settle over him. The moment you feel his body beneath you, hard and solid, a fresh wave of heat surges through you, causing you to grind your hips against his slowly, testing the waters.

The guilt slips through the haze once more, cutting into your thoughts like a knife. You press your hands to his chest, fingers splaying over his muscles, and pull back enough to see concern flicker in his eyes.

“Buck,” you whisper, caught between confession and apology. “I wanted us to take our time…” Your hands drift lower, grazing just beneath his shirt’s hem, brushing over the coarse hair trailing downward. The warmth of his skin under your fingertips makes your breath hitch, and a shiver runs through you as you continue, voice softer, more vulnerable. “To let this mean something.”

Your fingers trace over the waistband of his pajama pants, then dip lightly between the open buttons, your touch featherlight, drawing a sharp intake of breath from him. His body jolts beneath you, jaw clenching in response. His hands flex on your hips, holding you steady, his gaze dark and hungry, struggling for restraint.

“I can’t… I can’t stop myself,” you murmur, voice thick with need. Yet, your hands betray any hesitation, moving slowly, steadily, opening each button, exposing his skin inch by inch, the heat radiating from him only spurring you on. The admission escapes your lips, almost a whimper. “I feel like I’m losing control.”

Bucky’s breath comes out ragged, his fingers pressing into your skin as he fights to stay steady beneath your touch. “Then lose it,” he murmurs, voice rough with desire, his thumb tracing slow circles over your hipbone, sending warmth through you. “Take control, baby.” His tone is a low, commanding murmur, yet open, a willing offering beneath you. “I’m here to give you exactly what you need… use me, all of me.”

“God, you’re unbelievable…” You laugh breathlessly, but with his words, all your anxieties dissolve, the tight knot inside loosening as he smirks and pulls you down for another heated kiss.

With his permission, something inside you snaps, all restraint dissolving as his hands guide your hips down onto his, pulling you in close. You both let out a guttural moan as you sink into his lap, the thin layers of fabric between you doing nothing to dull the intense pressure of his thick length pressing up against you. Heat radiates from him, his arousal straining beneath his pants, sending a dizzying surge of need through you, leaving you breathless.

With each roll of your hips, you’re consumed by him, the ache pulsing through your core, tethering you to the warmth of his body and the intoxicating pull of his scent. He presses against you, hard and unyielding, a promise of everything you crave, every inch of him driving you closer to surrender. A shiver runs down your spine, every nerve alive with anticipation; it’s too much, yet somehow not enough.

A low chuckle escapes him, his chest vibrating beneath your hands as he watches you grind on him, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. His hands wrap firmly around your hips, guiding your movements in a possessive grip that leaves no doubt he’s claiming you in every way. “Look at you,” he murmurs, voice dark and rich, gaze sweeping over every inch of you. “Such a needy little omega, strung out and desperate, aren’t you?” The words ripple through you, sparking heat that surges through your body, making your heart pound, filling you with a warmth that blurs your vision.

A soft whimper escapes your lips, each grind amplifying the tension clawing through your chest, and it’s overwhelming—almost too much. You’re losing yourself, each moan growing louder, desperate, until Bucky’s thumb presses over your lips, quieting you.

Bucky’s hand covers your mouth gently, a warning smirk tugging at his lips. “Keep it down, sweetheart,” he whispers, his tone edged with danger, but you can’t help the needy sound that slips past his hand, your body bucking in response. You pull back slightly, eyes wide, voice a breathless murmur as you ask, “Where is everyone?”

The gleam in his eyes darkens, and he grabs your jaw, pulling you close until his breath brushes your lips. “Forget them,” he growls, voice low and possessive, “Focus on me. Eyes on me, omega.” His grip tightens, his words sending a rush of warmth through you, making your hips grind harder, a needy whimper spilling out as he pulls you into a hungry, messy kiss. Teeth graze, tongues tangle, his control evident in the way his hand holds you in place, claiming every shiver, every gasp.

“Alpha… please…” you gasp, voice cracking as you press yourself harder against him, slick soaking through the fabric, feeling the thick, throbbing bulge of his knot beneath you. “Need you… need it so bad.” Your words spill out, desperation lacing every syllable, your body responding to his presence in a way that both thrills and terrifies you. The pressure, the heat, his intensity—it’s everything, almost too much, yet somehow not nearly enough.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” he growls, voice dark with possession as his hands slide up to grip your waist, fingers pressing with a force that makes your skin burn. “You’re mine, all mine… dripping for me just from grinding on me.” His words spark something wild and primal, your body moving without thought, surrendering to the rhythm, feeling yourself unravel beneath his gaze.

But as the tension mounts, something inside you starts to break. It’s overwhelming, an aching need so intense that your chest tightens, a gasp escaping as tears begin to blur your vision. It’s too much—the pressure, the pleasure, the helplessness of being so completely in his hands, needing him but unable to take it all just yet. A single tear slips down your cheek, and then another, and soon you’re trembling in his hold, soft, helpless sounds falling from you as you press closer, uncertain if it’s pain or pleasure overtaking you.

Bucky’s eyes narrow as he notices, his thumb brushing over your cheek, his gaze softening for a moment. “Look at you, all worked up,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, yet laced with something almost tender. “Can’t handle it, can you? My little omega, so sensitive.” His words make the ache worse, the tears coming faster as he leans in, pressing a possessive kiss against your lips, swallowing the soft, broken sounds you make.

“Shh… you’re okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice dark and rich in your ear, a shiver coursing through you as his hand steadies you, grounding you in his hold. “Not yet, but soon. I’m going to give you everything,” he promises, his tone thick with possession as he presses you firmly to him. “Fill you, claim you, mark every inch of you until there’s nothing left but us, nothing left but me inside you.” His grip tightens, his words a dark promise, and your pulse quickens.

Slowly, Bucky shifts, guiding you back as he leans forward, tilting you until your neck is exposed. Your breath hitches, anticipation winding tight within you, thinking for a split second he’s going to mark you. But instead, he presses a hot, lingering kiss to your collarbone, his lips grazing down your skin as his hand holds you steady. Each soft kiss along your collar sends a thrill through you, his mouth tracing up to the nape of your neck, where he lets his teeth graze lightly, nipping just enough to make you shiver.

Then, with a low growl, he pulls you closer, thrusting hard against you as his teeth sink into your skin, just shy of a mark. The sharp bite sends you over the edge, your body trembling, every nerve igniting as you come undone in his arms, shaking as he holds you steady, his possessive touch grounding you through each wave of pleasure.

Your body quakes in his hold, tremors rolling through you as you cling to him, breathless, every pulse of pleasure leaving you weightless, completely taken. Bucky’s arms stay wrapped around you, grounding you, his lips brushing tenderly over the spot he just bit, his tongue soothing the faint sting as you gasp softly against him.

“There we go… that’s my girl,” he murmurs, his voice thick and velvety as he strokes your back, one hand pressing into the small of your spine, holding you close as your breaths slow. His eyes are dark, filled with satisfaction as he watches you, savoring the sight of you so vulnerable, so utterly his.

Your body settles against him, the intense high fading into a soft, hazy warmth. Almost instinctively, you continue to move your hips in slow, gentle circles, soft whimpers escaping as you melt into his shoulder, eyelids growing heavy, drifting somewhere between bliss and sleep.

His hand strokes up your spine, grounding you with each possessive touch. “You feel that?” he whispers, his mouth brushing your ear, his words sending another shiver through you. “This is just the beginning, sweetheart. You’re mine, and I’m far from done with you.”

A small, needy sound slips from your lips as your hips press against him, despite the exhaustion pulling at you. He smirks, fingers tracing slow, possessive patterns along your waist. “Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice a low, satisfied growl. His hand grazes your hip, drawing gentle circles. “But I want more. Think you can handle that?”

You manage a nod, a sleepy, eager response, melting further into him as your eyelids flutter shut. Just as you’re drifting toward sleep, he chuckles softly, pressing a warm kiss to the top of your head. “First, let’s get some rest, sweetheart,” he whispers, voice a gentle command as he lifts you effortlessly, cradling you against his chest.

The golden hour light that once bathed the room has deepened into the cool, quiet blue of night, shadows settling around you as he carries you to the bed. The ache in your body has softened, replaced by a warmth, a certainty that relaxes you in his hold, knowing you’re exactly where you belong.

As he lowers you onto the sheets, your fingers instinctively curl into his shirt, needing to keep him close even in your drowsy haze. His hand brushes tenderly over your cheek, the glint in his gaze a promise that makes your heart race yet leaves you calm, knowing he’s yours, that you’re meant to be right here in his arms. The last thing you feel is the weight of his touch grounding you, a promise of what’s to come as sleep finally pulls you under.

---

a/n: all i feel is frustration

#bucky smut #bucky fic #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes #bucky buchanan #james buchanan barnes #james barnes #winter soldier smut #winter solider x y/n #winter solider x reader #bucky x reader #bucky x you #alpha bucky x omega reader #alpha bucky x reader #alpha bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n

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himasgod · 2 months ago

Text

ACE X READER

Where he sleeps in your bed

Where he breaks a rule and hides from Riddle in Hearstlabyul, sleeping the night with you

This may be my favorite thing I've written about Ace in a long time so enjoy it

You’d just settled in—blanket pulled up, eyes heavy, the usual creaks of Ramshackle blending into your nightly routine—when there was a loud thump outside your window.

Another thump. Then a muffled curse.

You groaned into your pillow.

“If that’s another ghost dragging around, I swear I’m moving into Deuce’s closet.”

Then came the knock.

You didn’t even need to get up to know who it was.

The door creaked open before you even got there.

“Ace,” you deadpanned, arms crossed as you took in the sight: disheveled, slightly out of breath, and very much not supposed to be here.

He held his hands up innocently.

“Okay, before you say anything—”

“You broke a rule again, didn’t you?”

Ace grinned. “Technically, yes. But also technically… Riddle didn’t say I couldn’t charm the vending machine for extra snacks.”

You stared. “So you broke into Heartslabyul’s vent again.”

“I enhanced the student experience. Look, I just need to lay low tonight. Riddle's on one of his ‘I’ll string you up by your ankles’ moods, and I’m not risking it.”

You sighed, dragging him in by the sleeve before one of the ghosts decided to start interrogating him with a lantern.

“I’m not cleaning up your mess if he turns you into a lawn ornament.”

“I knew you loved me,” he said with a wink, plopping down onto your bed like he owned the place.

“Get off.”

“There’s literally nowhere else to sleep in this haunted shack.”

“I’ll take the floor.”

Ace caught your wrist before you could grab an extra blanket.

“No way. You get the bed every other night of your life. We can share.”

You hesitated. He was warm and annoyingly familiar, and… okay, maybe the idea of kicking him to the floor did feel a little heartless.

“…Fine. But if you hog the blanket, I’m pushing you off.”

“I accept your challenge.”

The silence was weird once the lights were off. Not uncomfortable, just… noticeable.

You were both facing away, careful not to brush shoulders. The bed wasn’t made for two. Your knees almost bumped. Your feet definitely did.

“This is weird,” you muttered into your pillow.

“Only if you make it weird,” Ace said, voice low, like he was almost asleep already. “I mean, it’s just me. You trust me, don’t you?”

“…Yeah. I do.”

Silence again. But this time, heavier.

Then, quietly, like he wasn’t sure he should say it—

“You smell nice, by the way.”

You blinked into the dark.

“What.”

“Nothing. Shut up and sleep.”

But his back inched closer. You didn’t move away.

You woke up to sunlight… and Ace's arm around your waist.

His breath was soft on your neck. Your legs were tangled. His entire body was wrapped around yours like this was normal, like he always belonged there.

You froze.

He didn’t wake up. Just murmured something about “don’t steal my cards” and pulled you closer.

You hated how good it felt.

You also hated that this was definitely going to happen again.

You woke up to the sound of Grim shrieking.

“WHAT THE TUNA HELL IS GOING ON HERE?!”

You didn’t even get the chance to move before the blanket was yanked back—Ace groaned beside you, arms still around your waist, face buried in your shoulder like he didn’t realize what year it was.

Your brain caught up exactly two seconds too late.

Oh no.

Oh no no no no no.

This looked so bad.

“Grim, it’s not what it looks like,” you croaked, voice barely functional.

“Oh yeah?” Grim snapped. “So it’s totally normal now for you to cuddle the tomato boy in bed like you’re in some kind of cheap drama?!”

You tried to sit up, but Ace just… clung tighter. His hand slid across your stomach, and you felt him grin sleepily against your neck.

“I’m not a tomato,” he mumbled, still 80% asleep. “I’m a hot horny tomato.”

You smacked him with a pillow.

He blinked awake, finally lifting his head—and froze when he realized where exactly his hand was.

His fingers tucked under your shirt, caressing your abdomen tbh.

There was a pause. Just a second. And in that second, your hearts were both screaming.

Then—

“Oh.”

“Get the fuck out of-”

“I’M NEVER UNSEEING THIS.”

After forcibly evicting Grim (who swore he was going to "call the headmage and then the exorcists"), you and Ace just sat there on opposite sides of the bed, knees pulled up like awkward kids at summer camp.

“…Sooooo,” Ace started, rubbing the back of his neck. “That happened.”

You stared at the wall. “Yup.”

“Not that, like—not that it was bad or anything. You’re just… warm. And you didn’t kick me. Which was cool. I thought you’d elbow me in the face, honestly.”

“I thought you’d hog the blankets. Or snore.”

“I don’t snore—hey, rude.”

You finally looked at him. And he was blushing. Actually blushing. Ace Trappola, king of smug confidence and shameless teasing, looked like someone had hit him with a confusion spell.

“I didn’t hate it,” you said, too quietly.

Ace blinked. “What?”

You shrugged, suddenly interested in the hem of your blanket. “I didn’t hate waking up like that. It was kinda… nice.”

He went silent.

Then—nervously, a little too quick—he said,

“Yeah. Yeah, same. Not that I wanna make it weird, or whatever, but… I wouldn’t mind doing it again.”

You stared.

He panicked.

“Not like that! I mean—only if you’re cool with it, and only because the bed is warmer with two people, obviously. Strictly practical. Like a roommate thing. Totally platonic.”

“Right. Platonic. Yeah. Of course.”

He nodded. You both avoided eye contact like professionals.

The silence stretched.

“…Ace?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re still wearing my pajama pants.”

“...Oh. Whoops.”

#twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twisted x reader #ace trappola x reader #acer x reader #ace x yuu #aceyuu #twisted one shots #ace twisted wonderland #ace x you #ace x reader #ace trappola

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mcrdvcks · 8 months ago

Text

I Wanna Be Yours

Summary: You're a hacker for The Organization, a secret group that is currently working on dismantling a mutant trafficking ring. You've been working with Logan for months but neither of you have met each other in person and he doesn't even know your real name.

Word Count: 14.7k+

Pairing: Logan (X-Men) x fem!reader

Notes: this is something i've wanted to do for a while- playing with the idea that logan can totally fall in love with someone just through their voice (and vice versa). i hope y'all enjoy it!

warnings/tags: reader has a code name, pet name (darling), light violence, mentions of (mutant) trafficking, some uses of y/n

“Bet you look good in that suit.” You say, tapping on your keyboard, hacking into the security cameras of the seedy casino where the deal was taking place.

Logan huffed, covertly adjusting the small earpiece as he blended in with the crowd of the dimly lit casino. His tuxedo felt too tight, but then again, it wasn’t like he was made for fancy suits and shiny shoes.

“Don’t go gettin’ all sentimental, Phantom. This thing barely fits,” he muttered, keeping his voice low and steady. He glanced around, taking in the sight of gamblers, dealers, and a few shifty-looking men gathered near a corner. Probably the ones he was here for.

“Must be hard to hide all those muscles,” you teased through the comm, your voice a steady whisper in his ear. “But I’ll try not to distract you, just this once.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips as he slipped past a group of laughing tourists. He scanned the room, zeroing in on his target: a short, balding man with an expensive suit and a smug look on his face. Logan’s senses sharpened. He could practically smell the guy’s nervous sweat. This had to be one of the trafficking ring’s major players.

“Any idea where they’re at?” he asked, his tone shifting from playful to serious in an instant.

“Second floor. Private poker room,” you said, enlarging one of the camera feeds to get a better view. “Security’s tighter up there. You’ll need a distraction if you wanna get past those guards.”

Logan glanced at the stairway leading up. Two burly men stood in front, arms crossed, eyes scanning for any sign of trouble. “Can’t just slice my way through ‘em,” he grumbled. “What’ve you got for me, Phantom?”

“Patience,” you teased. “Trust me, I’m working on it.” You typed a few more commands, initiating a loop in the security feed of the second-floor hallway. “You’ve got a 30-second window. Move now.”

Logan didn’t need to be told twice. He slipped through the casino floor, dodging between slot machines and card tables until he reached the base of the stairwell. The guards barely glanced his way as he strolled past, looking for all the world like another high-roller with a chip on his shoulder.

“Almost too easy,” he muttered under his breath, taking the steps two at a time.

“I make it look easy,” you corrected, monitoring the shifting feeds as Logan made his way to the second floor. “Just keep moving. The loop’ll hold, but not for long.”

Logan reached the hallway, his eyes narrowing at the closed door leading to the poker room. He slowed his pace, ears straining to pick up any sounds on the other side. “Tell me you’ve got eyes in there.”

“Not yet, working on it,” you said. “This system’s layered, gonna take a sec.”

Logan let out a quiet growl. “Great. No pressure or anything.”

“Hey, if you’re in such a hurry, I could always—”

“Don’t,” he cut in. “Just—stay on it.” He pressed his back to the wall, inching closer to the door, waiting for your go.

There was a pause, and then, “Got it.” Your voice softened, like you were focusing extra hard. “Four guys in there. Three playing cards, one pacing by the window.”

“Let me guess,” Logan grunted. “The bald one’s pacing.”

“Bingo.”

Logan’s fingers flexed, the subtle urge to unsheathe his claws growing. But this was a delicate operation. No bloodshed if it could be helped.

“You’ve got any ideas how to get me in without turnin’ this into a brawl?” he asked, half-expecting you to come up with something clever.

“I’ve got a couple,” you replied, a smile evident in your tone. “But you won’t like them.”

Logan sighed. “Why do I feel like you’re about to mess with me?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” you said sweetly, then paused. “Okay, maybe a little. There’s a closet down the hall to your left. Go there.”

He frowned but did as you instructed, slipping into the darkened space, filled with cleaning supplies and boxes. “Now what?”

“Well, I could trigger a fire alarm, but that’s a little loud and obvious. Or, and hear me out, I could disrupt the air conditioning. Make it so hot in there they’ll be begging for an excuse to step outside.”

Logan chuckled under his breath. “That’s your big plan? Make ‘em sweat?”

“Worked on you, didn’t it?” you teased.

“Funny.” He shook his head, glancing at the vent above him. “Think they’ll all leave?”

“Probably not all at once, but it should get the ball rolling. Just be ready. I’ll handle the rest.” Your fingers flew over the keys again, tapping into the building’s climate control system.

After a moment, you heard Logan’s quiet grunt. “Feels like it’s workin’ already.”

“Yeah, I see the temp rising in their room.” You pulled up the camera feed again, watching as one of the guys at the table tugged at his collar, then another wiped at his brow.

“Ten bucks says Mr. Baldy cracks first,” you said, amused.

Logan smirked. “You’re on.”

Not even a minute passed before the bald man swore, yanked off his suit jacket, and threw it on the back of his chair. “I’m stepping out for some air,” you heard him mutter to the others.

Logan’s eyes flicked to the door, his body tense. “Here we go.”

As the door opened, Logan moved fast. He grabbed the guy, pulling him into the closet before he could make a sound. With a quick, non-lethal chokehold, the guy slumped to the ground unconscious. Logan checked his pulse—alive. Good.

“Nice work,” you whispered in his ear. “Bet he’s not going to wake up happy.”

Logan crouched down, frisking the guy’s pockets. “Let’s hope he’s got something useful on him,” he muttered.

“He’s got a keycard,” you said, watching the screen as Logan pulled out the small plastic card. “That should get you into the back office.”

Logan glanced down at the unconscious man. “You were right. I didn’t like your plan.”

You laughed softly through the comms. “You’ll get over it. Now go, before they notice their friend’s gone.”

Logan straightened up, giving the unconscious man one last look before slipping out of the closet. “You better have a plan for what’s next, Phantom.”

“I always do,” you said, smirking as you pulled up the building’s blueprints. “Just follow my lead. Take the hall to your right. There’s an access door near the end. It’ll get you closer to the office.”

Logan moved quickly, the soft thud of his footsteps barely audible. “You sure about this? That door doesn’t look like it’s meant for guests.”

“I’m sure,” you replied confidently. “It’s an employee access. You’ve got the keycard, remember?”

He grunted in response, holding the card up to the reader. The door unlocked with a faint beep. “You really do make this look easy.”

“I try,” you said, voice laced with amusement. “Now, once you’re inside, there’s a small hallway. You’ll want to hang a left, then a quick right. The office is at the end.”

Logan opened the door, slipping into the narrow hallway. “What’s the deal with this office? Anything I should know?”

“Could be where they’re stashing data on the trafficking network. Either that or it's where they’re counting money.” You were typing again, eyes scanning multiple camera feeds. “But I’ve got a good feeling about this.”

“Good feelin’, huh?” Logan muttered, carefully making his way through the corridor. “Hope that feelin’ is worth something.”

“It always is,” you shot back playfully. “You’ve got about a minute before someone notices the guy you knocked out is missin’. So… chop, chop.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Logan growled, reaching the door to the office. “And you said I was the impatient one.”

Before you could respond, he swiped the keycard again and pushed the door open. Inside, the room was dimly lit, filled with filing cabinets, a desk cluttered with paperwork, and a few old-looking computers. Logan’s nose twitched at the faint scent of stale cigarettes and cologne.

“Jackpot,” you whispered in his ear, pulling up the feed of the room. “There should be a terminal near the desk. Get me plugged in, and I’ll handle the rest.”

Logan looked over at the outdated equipment and scowled. “This stuff’s ancient. Hope you can work with it, Phantom.”

“Please, I’ve hacked worse,” you said, brushing off the concern. “Just get me connected.”

Logan knelt down, finding a small port on the side of the computer and pulling out a cable from his gear. As soon as he plugged it in, your fingers danced across the keyboard, breaking through layers of security.

“There we go,” you murmured. “This’ll take a second. How are things on your end?”

Logan stood back up, glancing around the room. “Quiet. For now.”

“Good, because I’ve got eyes on another guy heading your way,” you warned. “He’s probably checking in on his boss. You might wanna handle him before he stumbles on Baldy.”

Logan’s fists clenched. “Great. Any more good news?”

“Depends. You want the good news or the bad news first?” you asked lightly, your tone casual despite the urgency of the situation.

“Just spit it out.”

“Good news? I’m almost done here. Bad news? You’ve got about thirty seconds before that guy reaches you.”

Logan let out a low growl. “Any suggestions?”

“Well,” you said thoughtfully, “you could go for subtle and knock him out—again. Or you could do the Logan thing and scare the crap out of him.”

Logan smirked. “And here I thought you were gonna say ‘no bloodshed.’”

“I’m flexible,” you teased. “Your call.”

Logan moved toward the door, listening carefully. The approaching footsteps were getting closer. “I’ll try subtle,” he muttered. Then, almost as an afterthought, “for you.”

“Aw, how sweet,” you quipped. “I’ll be sure to remember this moment.”

He cracked the door open just as the guy turned the corner. Logan grabbed him by the collar, yanking him into the room before he could shout. A quick punch to the gut, and the guy doubled over, gasping for air. Logan pressed him against the wall, one hand firmly over his mouth.

“Stay quiet, and I won’t hurt you,” Logan growled, his tone low and threatening.

The guy’s eyes widened, and he gave a shaky nod. Logan let him go, and he slumped to the floor, half-conscious.

“Nice work,” you praised, your voice a soft murmur in his ear. “You’ve still got it.”

“Didn’t lose it,” Logan muttered, stepping over the guy and returning to the desk. “You done yet?”

“Just about,” you said. “And… there. I’ve got everything. You’re good to go.”

Logan disconnected the cable, glancing around the room once more. “And you’re sure this’ll help us track the ring?”

“Positive,” you replied confidently. “Now, get out of there before someone else shows up.”

Logan took one last look at the unconscious man on the floor. “You got a clear path for me?”

“Always,” you said, your fingers flying over the keys again. “Head back the way you came. I’ll loop the cameras again. And don’t worry, I’ll keep them busy downstairs.”

Logan smirked as he stepped back into the hallway. “Sometimes I forget how useful you are.”

“Only sometimes?” you teased.

He chuckled softly. “Don’t push your luck, Phantom.”

You smiled to yourself, watching the feeds as Logan made his way through the building. “Whatever you say, Logan. You owe me one.”

“Add it to the list,” he said, his voice gruff but laced with a hint of amusement.

“Believe me, I am.” You took a bite of your cake, an orange cardamom one you made the other day.

“The hell are you doin’?” Logan asked.

You shrugged, “I’m eatin’. Thought now was a better time than ever. Let’s my fingers have a break. Got a problem, Wolf?” you ask, taking another bite of your cake, your tone teasing through the comm.

Logan’s voice grumbled in your ear, low and irritated. "We're in the middle of a mission, and you’re havin’ dessert?"

"Hey, a girl’s gotta eat," you reply casually, wiping a few crumbs off your keyboard. "I’ve earned it. You’re lucky I’m not eating popcorn with the way this operation’s going. Besides, I’m the one doing the hard work behind the scenes, remember?"

"You’re sittin’ in front of a computer, Phantom," Logan shot back, though you could hear the faintest trace of a smirk in his voice. "Not exactly the front lines."

"Exactly. Where would you be without me?" you retort, savoring another bite of cake. "I’m the reason you’re not punching your way through the entire casino right now."

Logan stayed quiet for a beat. You could imagine him clenching his jaw, trying to decide whether to argue or just let you have your moment. "You done?"

You chuckle softly, leaning back in your chair. "For now. You make it out of there yet?"

"Almost," Logan muttered, his voice low as he moved through the hall. "Place is still crawling with these scumbags. Any chance you can keep ‘em distracted?"

"Already ahead of you," you said, your fingers flying over the keyboard again. "Looping the feeds, and I’ve got a little surprise coming for the main floor. Keep your eyes open."

Logan grunted in response, his boots making soft thuds as he crept through the back corridors. "Surprise, huh? What kind of surprise?"

"You’ll see," you said cryptically, unable to hide the amusement in your tone.

There was a pause before Logan spoke again, quieter this time. "You always this chatty during missions?"

You tilted your head, curious. "Depends on who I’m working with. Some people are all business, no fun. Others… well, they don’t mind a little conversation. Keeps things from getting too tense."

"Huh," Logan responded, noncommittal. But then, after another beat, he added, "Guess it ain’t so bad."

Your eyebrows shot up. "Was that a compliment? Did Wolverine just say something nice?"

"Don’t push it, Phantom," Logan growled, but there was a hint of a smile in his voice.

You grinned to yourself, pleased that you’d gotten under his skin a little. "Alright, alright. I’ll stop before you start getting sentimental on me."

Logan was quiet for a moment, then muttered, "Not much chance of that."

Before you could reply, you heard footsteps in the feed, heading in Logan’s direction. Your tone shifted, all business now. "Logan, hold up. Someone’s coming your way, about twenty feet ahead."

"Great," he grumbled, already moving to the side, pressing himself into the shadows.

You watched the camera feed, tracking the figure’s movement. "Wait… looks like it’s just one guy. Should be easy to handle."

Logan’s low growl rumbled through the comm. "Easy for you to say."

You rolled your eyes, but your focus stayed on the screen. "You’re Wolverine. You’ll be fine. Just make sure he doesn’t see you."

A few seconds passed, and then you heard a soft thud. Logan’s voice came back through the comm, sounding slightly breathless. "Handled."

"See? Told you. Easy," you said smugly.

Logan didn’t respond right away, probably too busy moving again. You kept your eyes on the security feeds, tracking his progress. Finally, you heard his voice, a little softer this time. "Thanks."

Your fingers paused over the keys. "For what?"

"For not gettin’ in the way," he said, almost gruffly, but you could tell he meant it.

You smiled, a warm feeling spreading through your chest. "Anytime, Wolf."

There was a brief silence, and then Logan cleared his throat. "So, you gonna tell me what this surprise is, or you just keepin’ me in the dark?"

You leaned forward, grinning. "Oh, right. Almost forgot. Check the main floor in about… five seconds."

Logan didn’t say anything, but you imagined him looking around suspiciously. Then, just as you’d planned, the lights in the main casino flickered before the fire alarms started blaring. You heard Logan’s quiet chuckle through the comm.

"That your idea of subtle?"

"I prefer ‘effective,’" you said, watching as the casino patrons started panicking, scrambling for the exits. "Should give you the distraction you need to get out clean."

Logan let out a low laugh. "I’ll give you that, Phantom. You make one hell of a distraction."

"Flattery will get you nowhere," you teased, though you couldn’t help the slight flush creeping up your neck. "Now hurry up and get out of there before someone starts putting two and two together."

"On it," Logan muttered, the sound of the alarm still faint in the background as he made his way out. "I’m guessin’ you already got us an exit plan?"

You leaned back in your chair, tapping your fingers against the desk. "I wouldn’t leave you hanging like that. Side door, west end of the building. You’ve got about three minutes before the cops show up."

Logan moved swiftly, his footsteps barely audible now. "You really are somethin’ else, y’know that?"

You smirked. "I’ve heard that once or twice."

As Logan slipped through the side door, you watched him disappear from the building’s cameras, your job mostly done. “You’re clear. Ricky wants you to meet him tomorrow morning, 8 sharp for a debrief.”

Logan let out a short grunt. “Ricky, huh? Great. I’ll bring donuts.”

You smiled, rolling your eyes even though he couldn’t see you. “You could at least try to pretend you’re not completely over these meetings.”

Logan’s voice crackled through the comm, rough but with a hint of humor. “I’m over a lotta things, Phantom. Meetin’s just one of ‘em.”

You leaned back in your chair, stretching out your arms. “Well, don’t be late. You know how Ricky gets when he’s kept waitin’.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Logan muttered. There was a pause, and then, “What about you? You gonna be there?”

You raised an eyebrow, surprised at the question. “You think I just show up to these things? I’m the behind-the-scenes tech genius, remember? My job’s done.”

Logan huffed. “Yeah, well… guess I figured after all this time, I’d finally meet the mystery hacker.”

There was something in his voice—something almost like curiosity—but you brushed it off with a light laugh. “Aw, are you saying you miss me already, Wolf?”

“Don’t push it,” Logan shot back, though there was a playful edge to his words. “Just seems weird, is all. Workin’ together this long and never even met you face-to-face.”

You paused for a moment, considering his words. It was weird. You’d been guiding Logan through missions for months now, your voices constantly in each other’s ears, but you had never been in the same room. A part of you liked it that way—it kept things professional, detached. Safer. But another part of you… well, maybe you were curious too.

“Maybe one day,” you said lightly, dodging the subject. “But for now, I think it’s better this way. Keeps the mystery alive, right?”

Logan snorted. “Yeah, real mysterious. You sittin’ there eatin’ cake while I’m out here doin’ the heavy liftin’.”

You smirked. “It’s called multitasking, Logan. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”

Before he could respond, a soft beep on your computer alerted you that the building’s security systems were coming back online. The loop you’d created was about to end.

“Looks like my window’s closing,” you said, typing a few last commands. “Everything’s going back to normal on their end. You’re officially off the radar.”

“Good. Was gettin’ sick of the place anyway,” Logan muttered. You could hear the sound of traffic now, indicating he was out on the street. “You sure you don’t wanna show up tomorrow?”

“Why?” you asked, amused. “So you can finally see if I really do eat cake during all your missions?”

Logan grumbled something under his breath. “Yeah, somethin’ like that.”

You hesitated, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. Meeting him in person… it’d be a big step. The dynamics between you two would change. And honestly, you weren’t sure if that was a good idea. But at the same time, a part of you was curious about the man behind the gruff voice and dry humor.

“We’ll see,” you said, keeping your tone light. “But don’t hold your breath, Wolf.”

Logan was quiet for a second before he let out a low chuckle. “Wasn’t plannin’ on it. See you around, Phantom.”

With that, the line went dead, and you leaned back in your chair, staring at the screen. You could still hear Logan’s voice in your head, and for a moment, you wondered what it’d be like to finally meet him. But then you shook the thought away, focusing back on your monitors.

It was safer this way. Easier. Less complicated.

But as you closed down your systems for the night, a small, nagging part of you couldn’t help but wonder if you’d ever get the chance to see the man behind the voice.

---

The next morning, you found yourself up earlier than usual, sipping coffee and thinking about Logan’s mission. You knew he was already at the debrief with Ricky, probably sitting there with that irritated look on his face. The thought made you smile.

You were in the middle of pulling up some new data on the trafficking ring when your phone buzzed with a message.

Logan: Missin’ you at this meeting. Ricky’s talkin’ my ear off.

You blinked at the screen, surprised. You weren’t expecting a text from Logan, let alone one like that. He wasn’t usually the type to check in.

You: I’m sure you’re handling it like a pro. Should I send donuts as a peace offering?

His reply came almost immediately.

Logan: Yeah, make it two dozen.

You snorted into your coffee, shaking your head.

You: I’ll see what I can do. How’d the debrief go?

There was a pause before Logan replied.

Logan: Fine. Got another mission lined up. They want you back on comms. Same setup.

Your fingers hesitated over the keys before you typed back.

You: Guess that means you’re stuck with me a little longer, huh?

Logan: Could be worse.

You smiled to yourself, a warm feeling spreading through your chest. It was a small thing, but the fact that Logan had reached out to you, even if it was just to complain about a meeting, felt like progress.

You: Just let me know when you’re ready for another round, Wolf. I’ll be there.

Logan: Yeah, I know you will.

You stared at the screen for a second longer, feeling something stir in the pit of your stomach. You shook it off, downed the rest of your coffee, and started pulling up the files for the next mission.

There was no time for distractions—not when the stakes were this high.

But still, a small part of you couldn’t help but look forward to hearing Logan’s voice in your ear again.

---

“Why don’t you tell me something ‘bout you?”

You raised an eyebrow at Logan’s question, momentarily pausing your typing before resuming. “I don’t know… don’t want a strange man knowin’ about me, do I?”

There was a low chuckle on the other end of the line. "Strange man, huh? Thought we were past that by now."

You smirked, leaning back in your chair. “Well, I guess you’re not that strange, Wolf. But still. Not sure I’m ready to spill all my secrets.”

“I’m not askin’ for all your secrets. Just one.” His voice was rough, but there was a hint of curiosity behind it, like he was genuinely interested in getting to know you. Which was… unexpected.

You tapped your fingers against the keyboard, considering. “Alright. Something about me, huh? Let’s see… I used to hate coffee. Couldn’t stand the taste.”

Logan snorted. “That’s it? C’mon, Phantom, give me somethin’ better than that.”

“Hey, you didn’t specify what kind of fact,” you shot back, a grin creeping onto your face. “But fine, if you want something more interesting… I got kicked out of my computer science class once.”

There was a beat of silence. “You? Miss hacker extraordinaire? What the hell did you do?”

You shrugged, even though he couldn’t see you. “Maybe I hacked into the school’s system to change a grade or two. Not mine, though. A friend’s. The professor wasn’t too thrilled about it.”

Logan’s laugh came through the line, deeper this time. “Should’ve known you’d be trouble.”

You smiled, leaning forward again. “Well, you’re stuck with me now.”

“Seems like it,” he muttered, a hint of something in his voice that made your stomach flip.

You cleared your throat, steering the conversation back on track. “Alright, your turn. Tell me something about you.”

“Not much to tell.” Logan’s voice was gruff, almost dismissive, but you could hear the hesitation.

“Come on, fair’s fair,” you pressed. “You can’t ask me for something and not return the favor.”

He was silent for a moment, and you could almost picture him sitting there, deciding how much he wanted to give away. Logan was driving, he had finished another mission with you on the line like always. Except this time, it ended with a man tied up and unconscious in the trunk for Ricky.

Finally, he sighed. “Alright. You want something about me? I used to be a lumberjack.”

You blinked, thrown off by the admission. “A lumberjack? Like, chopping down trees and all that?”

“Yeah. Chopping down trees, clearing land. It was… quiet. Simple.”

You let that sink in, the image of Logan swinging an axe somehow fitting. “Sounds nice. Bet you looked right at home doing it.”

He huffed a short laugh. “Not sure anyone’s ever ‘at home’ doing that, but yeah, it wasn’t bad. Kept me grounded, I guess.”

There was something unspoken in his voice, something heavy. You knew enough by now to not push too hard, so instead, you kept it light. “So, from chopping trees to chasing bad guys and mutants. Quite the career change.”

“Yeah, you could say that.” Logan’s tone shifted, and you could tell he was ready to move on. “Enough ‘bout me. What’s the status on those files? You find anything new?”

You glanced at your screen, where the data on the trafficking ring was slowly coming together. “A few new leads. Cross-referenced some names from the last mission, and there’s definitely a connection between the ring and a shipping company based in Miami. Could be our way in.”

“Good.” Logan’s voice was steady, all business again. “Send me the details when you’re done. Ricky’s gonna want to know.”

You nodded to yourself, already pulling up the files to forward to him. “You got it. And Logan?”

“Yeah?”

“Try not to let Ricky drive you too crazy. I’m not sending donuts again.”

Logan snorted. “No promises.”

---

Two days later, you were back at your desk, knee-deep in code, when the comms crackled to life.

“You ready, Phantom?”

You smiled to yourself, hearing Logan’s voice in your ear again. “Always. You good to go?”

“Locked and loaded,” he replied, the sound of a car door shutting in the background. “What’s the target this time?”

You tapped a few keys, bringing up the map. “Warehouse in Miami. Based on the intel we pulled, this is one of their main distribution points. High traffic, lots of movement at night.”

“Security?”

“Pretty tight, but nothing we can’t handle. I’ll be your eyes and ears. You just focus on getting in and out.”

“Like always.” There was a pause, then, “You ever been to Miami?”

You raised an eyebrow at the question. “Once or twice. Why?”

“Just curious. Thought maybe you’d have some recommendations on where to go after all this is over.”

You couldn’t help but grin. “What, planning a vacation already?”

“Maybe. Depends how fast we wrap this up.”

Shaking your head, you brought the focus back to the mission. “Alright, Wolf. Let’s get through this first, then we can talk about your beach plans.”

Logan chuckled, low and rough. “Deal.”

As you guided him through the back streets of Miami, tracking his every move on the security cameras, you couldn’t help but feel that familiar sense of anticipation. Working with Logan had become second nature by now, and yet there was always this underlying tension, this unspoken connection between you two that made every mission just a little more intense.

“Left at the next alley,” you instructed, your eyes flicking between the camera feeds. “You’ll see a door around the corner. Should be unlocked.”

“Got it,” Logan replied, his voice steady. You could hear his footsteps echoing off the alley walls as he approached the warehouse.

“Any movement inside?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

You scanned the interior feeds. “Three guards on the ground floor, two patrolling the upper levels. They’re not on high alert, though. You should be able to slip past them.”

“Easy enough.”

You listened to the sound of him moving, the slight creak of a door opening, then the soft thud of his boots on concrete. You kept your focus on the screens, heart rate picking up as Logan made his way deeper into the building.

“There’s a stairwell to your left,” you whispered, though no one but Logan could hear you. “Take it up. The control room’s on the second floor.”

“On it.”

Everything was going smoothly—until it wasn’t.

“Shit,” Logan muttered, his voice tense. “Got company.”

Your eyes flew to the nearest camera, catching sight of two guards rounding the corner, guns drawn.

“Hang on,” you said quickly, fingers flying across the keyboard. “I’m looping the camera feed—there, they shouldn’t be able to see you now.”

Logan didn’t respond right away, but you heard the scuffle over the line, the sound of fists meeting flesh, followed by a grunt of pain. You held your breath, watching the screens intently.

“Logan? You good?”

There was a beat of silence before his voice came through, breathless but unbothered. “Yeah. Just had to put a couple guys to sleep.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. “Jesus, give me a heart attack, why don’t you?”

“Don’t worry, Phantom. I’ve got it under control.”

You could practically hear the smirk in his voice, and despite the tension, you couldn’t help but smile. “Well, next time, maybe give me a little warning before you go all Rambo on me.”

“No promises,” Logan’s voice crackled through the comms, and you could practically hear the grin in his tone. There was a brief pause before he added, “You still with me, Phantom?”

You shook your head, trying to suppress a smile. “Barely. I swear, you’ll be the death of me one of these days.”

His laugh came low and rough, and for a moment, you let yourself relax a little, the tension from earlier easing. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve heard that.”

“Yeah, well, I mean it,” you shot back, eyes scanning the multiple screens in front of you. The warehouse was sprawling, but you had a pretty good read on the layout by now. “You’re clear to move. No one else on this floor.”

“Got it.” You heard the soft thud of his boots again as he moved forward.

“So, what’s the next step?” Logan asked, keeping his voice low. “You got me runnin’ around this place, but you haven’t told me what I’m lookin’ for.”

“Patience, Wolf,” you teased, tapping a few more keys to bring up the rest of the building’s security system. “I’m working on it. There’s a secure server room on the north side of the building. That’s where they’re storing the data we need. You’re gonna have to bypass their security to get in.”

“Piece of cake.”

“Funny you mention cake,” you said, grinning to yourself as you tapped into the server’s firewall. “Because after this, I’m thinking you owe me some. Maybe even pie. You’re racking up quite the tab.”

Logan chuckled. “Yeah? We’ll see. First, let’s get through this alive.”

“I’m holding you to that.”

As you worked, your mind drifted for a second, the familiar rhythm of the job taking over. It was almost unsettling how natural it had become to guide Logan through these kinds of missions. You weren’t sure when you’d started looking forward to them—maybe it was the banter, maybe it was the trust you’d built. But either way, it had become a part of your routine.

“Server room’s on the right,” you said after a beat, focusing back on the task at hand. “Two guards outside, but they don’t seem too alert. Shouldn’t be a problem for you.”

Logan’s voice was smooth as he replied, “Already ahead of you. On my way.”

You kept your eyes on the screen, watching as he moved through the shadows, blending in with the dark corners of the warehouse. It was impressive, really. The way he worked was so fluid, like he’d done this a thousand times before. And, well, he probably had.

“There’s an override switch on the wall next to the door,” you instructed. “Flip it, and you’ll have access.”

Logan grunted in response, and a moment later, you heard the soft click of the door unlocking.

“Inside,” he muttered. “Now what?”

You were about to respond when a sudden blip on your screen caught your attention. “Wait, hold up,” you said quickly, fingers flying across the keyboard. “We’ve got movement. Someone’s heading toward your location. Two guards, second floor.”

Logan’s voice was calm, even as he moved into action. “How long do I have?”

“Not long. They’re coming fast.” Your heart pounded as you watched the dots on the map converge on his location. “You need to get out of there, now.”

“Too late for that,” Logan muttered, the sounds of heavy footsteps echoing through the comms.

“Logan—”

“Don’t worry, Phantom,” he cut you off, and you could hear the smirk in his voice again. “I’ve got this.”

The next thing you heard was the unmistakable sound of fists hitting flesh, followed by a low grunt of pain. You winced, even though you couldn’t see what was happening.

“Logan? Talk to me.”

More sounds of a struggle came through, and then finally, Logan’s voice, slightly breathless but unbothered. “Two down. Told ya, no problem.”

You let out a shaky breath, leaning back in your chair. “Yeah, well, maybe next time don’t wait until the last second to handle it.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

You couldn’t help but laugh, even though your nerves were still on edge. “You’re impossible.”

“That’s what they tell me,” he replied, and you could hear the faint rustle of him moving again. “Alright, I’m at the server. How much time do we need?”

“Give me five minutes,” you said, fingers flying across the keyboard as you initiated the download remotely. “I’m pulling the data now. Just stay put until I finish.”

“Five minutes? Thought you were faster than that, Phantom.”

“Don’t push it, Logan,” you shot back, rolling your eyes even though he couldn’t see you. “I’d like to see you hack into a secured server faster.”

“Maybe I’ll give it a shot one of these days,” he muttered, the humor still in his voice. “Bet I’d be a natural.”

“Please. You’d probably smash the computer before you even logged in.”

“Only if it pissed me off.”

You shook your head, focusing back on the task at hand. “Alright, I’m almost done. Just a few more seconds.”

There was silence on the line for a moment, and you could hear Logan shifting in place, his breaths slow and steady.

“You ever think about doin’ this full time?” he asked suddenly, his voice lower now, more serious.

“Hacking?” you replied, thrown off by the question. “I mean, I’m not exactly doing this for the money. Why?”

“Just curious,” Logan said, and you could tell by his tone that he wasn’t pressing the issue. “Seems like you’re good at it. You could make a real difference.”

You hesitated, fingers hovering over the keys. “I’m already making a difference,” you said softly, your voice quieter than usual. “I don’t need to do it full time to feel like it matters.”

There was a pause, and for a moment, you thought maybe the line had cut out. But then Logan spoke again, his voice low and almost… thoughtful.

“Yeah. Guess you’re right.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that, so you didn’t. Instead, you focused on finishing the download, the soft hum of the servers filling the silence between you.

“Got it,” you said finally, leaning back in your chair with a sigh of relief. “Download’s complete. You’re good to go.”

Logan didn’t reply right away, but you could hear the soft sound of him moving, his footsteps heavy against the concrete floor.

“Logan?” you prompted after a moment, the silence starting to make you uneasy.

“Yeah,” he said finally, his voice a little distant. “I’m on my way out.”

You nodded to yourself, watching his dot move across the map on your screen. “Good. Let’s get you out of there.”

As you guided him back through the warehouse, you couldn’t help but wonder what had changed in his voice during those last few minutes. Something about the way he’d asked that question—about doing this full time—had caught you off guard.

But now wasn’t the time to dwell on it. You had a job to finish, and Logan needed to get out of there safely.

“Alright, you’re clear,” you said once he reached the exit. “No one’s around. Just make sure you don’t—”

“Yeah, I know,” Logan interrupted, and you could hear the smirk in his voice again. “Don’t get shot. You’ve told me a thousand times, Phantom.”

“Then maybe this time you’ll listen,” you shot back, grinning despite yourself.

Logan chuckled, the sound low and rough. “No promises.”

And with that, the line went quiet, leaving you alone in the soft glow of your computer screen.

---

"Alright, your change is $2.87. Have a good one.” You handed the change and a paper bag to the customer, smiling politely. After brushing your hands on your pastel blue apron, you turned to the next person in line. "How can I help—”

You paused mid-sentence as you looked up, surprised to see Ricky standing in front of you with a smirk on his face. You let out an exaggerated sigh. “The regular?”

“Always.” Ricky leaned against the counter, watching you with that usual casual attitude. “You know me too well, Phantom.”

You scoffed lightly at the use of your codename in the middle of your bakery. "Could you not call me that here?" You motioned to the line behind him. “I’d prefer not to blow my cover in front of customers.”

Ricky grinned, clearly enjoying himself. “Relax, I’m just messin’ with you. Your secret’s safe with me.”

You shook your head and started prepping his order, grabbing a coffee and a chocolate croissant, which he always got whenever he visited your bakery. “What are you doing here anyway? Don’t you have something better to do than bother me at work?”

“Maybe I just missed my favorite hacker-slash-baker,” Ricky teased, crossing his arms as he watched you work. “Figured I’d stop by and see how you’re holding up.”

You raised an eyebrow, handing him the coffee. “I’m holding up fine. Business as usual.”

“Yeah. This place looks better than before. New paint job?”

“Actually, no. New tables and chairs.” You replied. Computer programming had always been something you enjoyed and loved, but when you started working for a big tech company, you couldn’t help but feel like your talents were going to waste.

You found Ricky, or rather, Ricky found you, and you were recruited into ‘The Organization’ to take down mutant trafficking rings. You still needed money, so you decided to put to use your other skill, baking. You opened a small bakery in New York City and have been running it for close to 2 years now.

Ricky leaned against the counter, eyeing the new setup. “So this is what you do when you’re not saving the world? Whip up some cupcakes?”

You rolled your eyes as you placed the croissant in a bag. “Something like that. Gotta pay the bills, right?”

Ricky took the bag from you, giving you a knowing smirk. “You know, it’s still hard to picture you as a baker. I keep waiting for the day I come in here, and all the pastries are bugged with tiny microphones.”

You snorted. “Please. Like I’d waste good croissants on something like that.”

He laughed, then took a sip of his coffee. “You heard from Logan?”

Your fingers froze for a split second, but you quickly masked it by busying yourself with wiping down the counter. “Why? Did something happen?”

Ricky raised an eyebrow. “No, not that I know of. Just thought he might’ve reached out, is all.”

You shrugged, trying to keep your tone casual. “He’s probably busy. You know how it is.”

“Mhm.” Ricky gave you a look that suggested he wasn’t buying it. “Right. Busy.”

You shot him a glance. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He grinned, shaking his head. “Nothing, Phantom. Just… you two seem to get along pretty well. That’s all.”

You felt a warmth creeping up the back of your neck and quickly turned away, focusing on the pastries again. “We work well together, if that’s what you mean.”

“Sure, sure,” Ricky said, clearly amused. “Just don’t let ol’ Wolf get too attached. He’s not exactly the sentimental type.”

You scoffed. “Yeah, I’m not worried about that.”

But even as you said it, you couldn’t help but think back to the last mission. The banter, the small moments where Logan seemed to let his guard down—just a little. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make you wonder.

Ricky stood up straight, crumpling the paper bag in his hand. “Alright, Phantom. I’ll leave you to your cupcakes and secret side missions. Just don’t go getting yourself into trouble.”

“Me? Trouble?” you grinned. “Never.”

He chuckled, heading for the door. “Catch you later.”

As soon as he was gone, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Ricky had a way of pushing your buttons just enough to make you think. And now you couldn’t stop replaying your recent conversations with Logan in your head. It was strange—this… thing between you two. He wasn’t like anyone you’d worked with before. And yet, it felt natural, like you’d known each other much longer than a few months.

Your phone buzzed in your apron pocket, snapping you out of your thoughts. You pulled it out and glanced at the screen.

Logan: Got some info for you. When’s your next shift with me?

You bit your lip, your fingers hovering over the keys for a second before you replied.

You: Whenever you need me. What’s the mission?

Logan: I’ll fill you in later. Just be ready.

You: Always am, Wolf.

A short pause, then Logan’s reply came through.

Logan: I know.

You stared at the screen for a moment longer, feeling that familiar flutter in your chest. Shaking your head, you shoved the phone back into your pocket. You had a business to run, after all. There was no time to dwell on this… whatever it was between you and Logan.

But as you served the next customer with a practiced smile, you couldn’t quite shake the feeling that your next mission with him was going to be different. Maybe it already was.

---

“You ever been to New York City?” Logan asked.

You briefly stopped your typing on the keyboard, “maybe. Maybe not. Why?”

Logan’s voice crackled through the earpiece, low and rough as always. “Just curious. Figured you might’ve wandered through at some point, considering how close we’ve been workin’ together.”

You raised an eyebrow, glancing at the surveillance feed on your screen. “Is this your version of small talk, Wolf? Because I gotta say, you’re not exactly known for that.”

He chuckled. “Nah, just figured it was worth askin’. You ever get outta that basement of yours?”

You leaned back in your chair, smirking to yourself. “I’m not always in a basement, you know. I have other things going on. Like you, sweetie. You focusing on those wires?”

“Sweetie?” Logan’s voice came back with a low growl, amusement lacing his tone. “You know I don’t get distracted easy, darlin’.”

You smirked at the monitor in front of you, watching as he carefully maneuvered through the narrow corridor of the warehouse. “Just making sure. Wouldn’t want to have to bail you out if you trip a wire.”

“Funny,” he muttered. “You’re soundin’ real confident for someone sittin’ comfy at a keyboard.”

“Hey, I’m not comfy,” you shot back, leaning closer to the screen. “I’m on the edge of my seat watching your back.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Logan said, the sound of a door creaking open in the background. “What do you see up ahead?”

You focused on the different camera feeds, your fingers flying over the keys to switch between views. “Two guards in the hallway to your left. Armed. They’re just patrolling, so if you wait about ten seconds, you should be able to slip by.”

“Copy that.” His breathing slowed, the sound of footsteps faint as he pressed himself against the wall. “Tell me somethin’, Phantom. What do you do when you’re not playin’ babysitter for me?”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Logan grunted softly, the sound of his claws extending briefly as he took a peek around the corner. “Yeah, kinda. All I get’s that voice of yours—still gotta figure out the face that goes with it.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. “You’re obsessed, Wolf.”

“Never said I wasn’t.” There was a beat of silence as Logan moved silently down the hallway, bypassing the guards with ease. “But you still didn’t answer me.”

You sighed dramatically, switching to another camera feed that showed a large storage room filled with crates. “What do you think I do? Sit in a dark room, hacking into firewalls all day?”

Logan snorted. “Ain’t that what you’re doin’ now?”

“Touché.” You shifted slightly, watching him take down a lone guard with a quick, precise movement. “But no. I do have a life outside of this, you know.”

“Like what?” He sounded genuinely curious now, and you could almost picture the way his brows would be furrowed in concentration. “You got a family? Friends?”

You paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Family? Not really. Friends? Also a stretch. But you didn’t feel like sharing that right now. “I’ve got… a business to run.”

Logan was quiet for a moment. “A business, huh? Didn’t think you’d be the type to deal with customers.”

“Why not?” you shot back. “I’m very good with people, I’ll have you know.”

“Yeah, like the time you almost tore that guy a new one when he questioned your coding?” He chuckled, the sound low and deep in your ear. “Real people person, darlin’.”

“Okay, that was one time.” You rolled your eyes. “And he deserved it. But yeah, I’m pretty good with people—when I want to be.”

“Uh-huh.” There was a rustling noise, like he was checking through one of the crates. “What kinda business?”

You hesitated again. Part of you wanted to keep that piece of your life separate from Logan. But he’d been honest with you about a lot of things—his past, his work, even some of his regrets. It seemed only fair to give a little in return.

“...A bakery,” you finally admitted, almost cringing at how mundane it sounded compared to the world you two operated in.

There was a long pause on the other end. Then—

“A bakery?” Logan repeated, his voice thick with disbelief. “Like… cupcakes and cookies bakery?”

“Yeah, Wolf,” you said dryly, feeling heat creep up your neck. “I bake things. It’s called having a hobby.”

He made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “Just tryin’ to picture it, that’s all. Our resident hacker pullin’ cookies out of the oven.”

“Is that so hard to imagine?” You switched to another feed, tracking his progress through the facility. “I bet you’d like my cookies.”

“Yeah?” There was a hint of teasing in his voice now. “You gonna make some for me sometime?”

You bit your lip, surprised at the sudden flutter in your chest at the thought. “Maybe. If you’re good.”

“Darlin’, I’m always good.”

“Debatable,” you shot back quickly, but your smile softened at the edges. “But I’ll keep that in mind.”

There was another pause, and you could hear Logan’s soft exhale through the comms. “You really own a bakery?”

“Yes, really,” you said, feeling oddly defensive now. “I’m not making it up just to sound cute.”

He chuckled again. “I didn’t think that. Just… didn’t see it comin’, is all. Got any specialties?”

You blinked at the sudden change in tone, a mix of genuine curiosity and something else you couldn’t quite place. “Well, I make a mean chocolate croissant.”

“Chocolate croissant, huh?” He sounded like he was mulling it over. “Could go for one right now.”

“Focus, Wolf,” you teased, but there was a warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the coffee beside you. “Get through this mission, and maybe I’ll let you try one.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” His voice was low, a promise wrapped in that simple statement.

For a moment, the two of you fell into a comfortable silence. It was strange how easy it felt, talking like this. Like you weren’t two people who only knew each other through voices and screens. Like there was something more.

“Alright, I’m in position,” Logan murmured, breaking the silence. “What’s next?”

You glanced at the feed, spotting the final target. “There’s a control panel just ahead. Shut it down, and we’ll have full access to the data we need.”

“On it.” There was a soft thud as he moved forward, the sound of his claws retracting. “Phantom?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks… for keepin’ me company. Makes this kinda work a little less shit.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you struggled to find your voice for a second. “...Anytime, Wolf.”

And you meant it.

---

After 5 months of The Organization searching, the base of the mutant trafficking ring was finally found. It wasn’t just you and Logan, but other’s out on the field searching, and now things were coming to a head.

Ricky had briefed everyone—the field agents and those, like you, behind the computers. Everyone was in position, and tonight, after months of planning, the mutant trafficking ring was finally going to be shut down.

You took a steadying breath, fingers hovering over your keyboard. The screens in front of you were filled with various feeds: security cameras, schematics of the building, comms channels. It was go-time, and as much as you liked to pretend you were calm, there was a knot of tension in your stomach. You knew what was riding on this mission—innocent lives, and for some reason, your thoughts kept circling back to one person in particular.

“Phantom, you there?” Logan’s voice came through your earpiece, low and steady.

“Yeah, Wolf. Right here.” You sat up a little straighter, adjusting the headset. “You good?”

“Never better.” He sounded almost amused. “How ‘bout you? Keepin’ those fingers of yours nimble?”

You rolled your eyes, even though he couldn’t see it. “I’m ready to go. All feeds are online, and I’ve got eyes on every entrance. You’re at the west side of the building, right?”

“Yep.” He paused, and you heard the faint shuffle of boots against gravel. “What’s your status?”

“Locked and loaded,” you replied, scanning the feeds. “Looks like we’ve got a dozen guards outside, plus more scattered throughout the building. The main target’s in the central office on the second floor. You’ll need to cut through the lower levels to get there.”

“Got it. You got eyes on the others?”

You quickly toggled between the different comms channels, listening in on reports from the other teams. “Everyone’s in position. Team Alpha is covering the south, Bravo’s moving to secure the exit routes. You’re clear to start your approach.”

Logan grunted in acknowledgment, and you watched on one of the monitors as he started moving through the shadows, staying low and out of sight.

“Be careful, Wolf,” you murmured, your voice softer than you intended.

“Careful’s my middle name,” he drawled back, a hint of that signature cockiness coming through. “You just keep those pretty eyes on the feeds and tell me if someone’s gonna try and sneak up on me.”

“Always do,” you shot back, smiling despite the tension in the air.

There was a pause on his end, and then: “What’s the fastest way to the office from here?”

You glanced at the building’s layout, quickly mapping out a route in your head. “Take the staircase to your right, follow the hallway down two doors, then take a left. You should be able to bypass most of the guards that way. Just… watch for the tripwires.”

“Roger that. Stay on me, Phantom.”

“Like I’m ever not.” You kept your eyes glued to the screen as Logan moved through the facility with practiced ease. Despite the tension thrumming through your veins, there was a strange calmness in listening to his breathing over the comms, knowing you were right there with him, even if it was only in a digital sense.

“How’s it look up ahead?” he asked after a few moments of silence.

“Two guards at the end of the hall,” you reported, zooming in on one of the feeds. “They’re armed, but they’re not paying attention. You should be able to take them out quietly.”

Logan didn’t respond, but you saw him slip into the corridor, moving like a shadow. A few seconds later, both guards were down, and he was back on the line. “Clear.”

“Nice work, Wolf.” You leaned forward, fingers flying over the keyboard to hack into the security system. “I’m disabling the cameras on the next floor. You should have a clear path to the office, but I’m picking up some chatter—looks like they’re getting suspicious.”

“Let ‘em get suspicious.” There was a low, dangerous edge to his voice now. “I’m ready.”

You couldn’t help but grin a little. “That makes one of us.”

“C’mon, Phantom, you know you love this shit,” he teased, but there was a warmth in his tone that made your heart skip a beat. “All that adrenaline. Gets the blood pumpin’, doesn’t it?”

You bit your lip, shaking your head even though he couldn’t see you. “I’m not the one out there risking my neck. That’s your job.”

“Yeah, well… you’re doin’ a hell of a job keepin’ me from getting my ass shot off.” There was a pause, and then he added, almost softly, “Don’t know what I’d do without you, darlin’.”

You blinked at the screen, momentarily caught off guard by his words. “...Just stay focused, Wolf. I’m not pulling your ass out of this if you get cocky.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout me, sweetheart. I’m good.” His voice turned serious again as he approached the central office. “I’m at the door. How many inside?”

You quickly cycled through the cameras, counting the figures inside. “Three guards. One unarmed. That’s the target. If you move quick, you should be able to neutralize them before they call for backup.”

“Got it.” Logan’s voice was low, almost a growl. You watched as he shifted his weight, preparing to make his move. It was always a little nerve-wracking, watching him go in like this, but you trusted him. He knew what he was doing.

Your fingers danced over the keyboard, disabling the cameras in the immediate area. “I’m taking out the cameras around the office. You’re clear for entry. Make it fast, Wolf.”

“Don’t worry. I’m on it.” He paused for a beat. “How’s the rest of the team doin’?”

You glanced at the other feeds, tracking the movements of the different teams scattered throughout the building. “Team Alpha just took out the last of the perimeter guards. Bravo’s securing the exits—no one’s getting in or out without us knowing.”

“Good. Let’s end this.” There was a soft click as Logan pushed the door open, slipping inside the office with deadly precision.

The guards barely had time to react. You watched in awe as he took them down with a combination of swift strikes and quick, lethal movements. He was a blur of action, and within seconds, the only people left standing were Logan and the target—an older man who looked like he’d just seen a ghost.

“Please, don’t—” the man stammered, holding up his hands in a pathetic attempt at self-defense.

“Shut up,” Logan growled, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him against the wall. “You’re gonna answer a few questions for me.”

You leaned closer to the screen, keeping an eye on the other guards roaming the hallways. “Careful, Wolf. We don’t know if he’s got any backup on standby.”

“Yeah, I got it.” He gave the man a rough shake. “Who’s runnin’ this operation? Where’s the rest of the mutants you’ve been trafficking?”

The man sputtered, his face pale. “I—I don’t know! I just handle the logistics—transport, security—”

“Bullshit.” Logan’s claws extended with a sharp snikt, and you could hear the man’s terrified gasp even through the comms. “Try again, bub. And don’t lie to me.”

You zoomed in on the screen, checking for any signs of incoming guards. “Logan, I’m picking up movement on the lower levels. It’s not one of ours—looks like reinforcements. You need to hurry.”

“Copy that.” He leaned in closer to the man, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Last chance. Where are the mutants?”

“Storage room—basement level—cage twelve!” The man practically screamed the words, his eyes wide with fear. “Please, I swear, that’s all I know!”

“Storage room, basement level, cage twelve,” you repeated quickly, already pulling up the layout of the basement. “I’m sending the coordinates to Team Bravo now.”

“Good.” Logan released the man, who slumped to the floor, trembling. He stepped back, claws retracting. “Now sit tight. You’re gonna have some company soon.”

The man whimpered but didn’t move as Logan turned and made his way out of the office. You switched your focus back to the basement, watching as Team Bravo moved in to secure the mutants.

“They’re in position,” you reported, keeping your voice calm. “Looks like… ten, no, twelve mutants total. All of them are alive.”

“Alive, huh?” Logan’s voice softened just a fraction. “That’s somethin’, at least.”

“Yeah.” You couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. After months of hunting down leads, false starts, and dead ends, it was finally coming together. “We did it, Wolf.”

“Not yet, we haven’t.” His tone turned serious again. “We still gotta get ‘em outta here. You got a path?”

“Working on it.” Your fingers flew over the keyboard, pulling up the building’s blueprints. “Okay, there’s an access tunnel two levels down from where you are. It leads straight to an underground parking garage. If you can get them there, we’ll have transport waiting.”

“Got it. I’ll head down now.” He paused for a moment, then added quietly, “Good work, Phantom.”

You felt a warmth spread through you at the unexpected praise. “Same to you, Wolf. Just… stay safe, okay?”

There was a soft chuckle on the other end. “Don’t you worry ‘bout me, darlin’. You just keep doin’ what you do best.”

You stayed on the line, guiding him through the lower levels as he made his way to the basement. The rest of the mission went off like clockwork—Team Bravo secured the mutants, Team Alpha kept the perimeter locked down, and Logan made sure no one got in their way.

By the time it was all over, the mutants were safe, the ring was shut down, and the remaining traffickers were either captured or taken out. It was a resounding success, and yet, as you watched Logan emerge from the building, something inside you felt… off.

“Logan?” you called out softly, your voice hesitant. “You good?”

“Yeah. Just tired.” He sounded a little rough around the edges, but that was to be expected after a mission like this. “What about you? You doin’ okay?”

You let out a soft breath, leaning back in your chair. “Yeah, I’m good. Just… glad it’s over, I guess.”

“Yeah.” There was a pause, and then he added, “You did good tonight, Phantom. Real good.”

“Thanks, Wolf.” You smiled, even though he couldn’t see it. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

He grunted softly, the sound almost affectionate. “Bet you say that to all the guys you babysit.”

“Only the ones I like,” you teased, feeling a little bolder now that the mission was over. “But seriously… thanks for trusting me out there. I know it’s not easy.”

“Trust ain’t somethin’ I give lightly,” he murmured, his voice low and sincere. “But you earned it. Over and over.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you settled for a soft, “...I’m glad.”

There was another beat of silence, and then Logan’s voice came back, a little lighter. “So, when am I gettin’ that chocolate croissant?”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Guess you’ll just have to swing by my bakery sometime, huh?”

“Maybe I will.” He sounded thoughtful, like he was considering it for the first time. “Soon as I figure out where the hell it is.”

“Good luck with that,” you teased, feeling a strange mix of excitement and nerves. “But if you do find it… first croissant’s on me.”

“I’ll hold you to that, darlin’.” There was a warm, teasing lilt to his voice now. “Take care, Phantom.”

“You too, Wolf.”

And with that, the line went quiet. You stared at the screen for a moment longer, a smile tugging at your lips. It wasn’t much, but it felt like a step—toward something new, something real.

Maybe one day, you’d get to see the look on Logan’s face when he finally tasted one of your croissants.

But for now, this was enough.

---

It had been a few weeks since the mutant trafficking ring was taken down, and since then, things from The Organization had been quiet. You were sure that soon, something would happen, and you’d have a new mission or cause to fight for, but for now, life was… normal. Or, as normal as things could get for you.

During the day, you focused on your bakery. The smell of freshly baked bread and sweet pastries filled the small space, the steady hum of business keeping you busy. You didn’t have to think about The Organization or anything outside of kneading dough and serving customers. It was a welcome change of pace, a grounding routine that gave you some much-needed breathing room.

But at night, when the bakery was closed and the streets outside your shop went quiet, your mind wandered back to Logan—and those long conversations over the comms. The teasing back and forth. The gruff but genuine praise. The way he’d been so protective of you, even when you were just a voice in his ear.

You leaned against the counter, wiping your hands on your apron as you glanced around your empty shop. The bell above the door jingled, and you glanced up, expecting to see one of your regulars who’d forgotten to grab something before closing.

But it wasn’t one of your regulars.

It was him.

Logan.

He stood in the doorway, his broad frame almost filling it completely. A beat of silence passed as you stared at each other, and then he stepped inside, his boots making a soft thud against the wooden floor.

“Hey, darlin’.” His voice was the same deep, rough tone you remembered, and yet hearing it in person made your heart skip a beat. He glanced around the bakery, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Figured I’d finally swing by and see if your croissants live up to the hype.”

For a moment, you couldn’t speak. He was here. Here. In your bakery, standing in front of you like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Logan?” You blinked, trying to wrap your mind around it. “How—how did you find me?”

He shrugged like it was nothing, but there was a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Did a little diggin’. Asked around. Turns out you’re not as good at hiding as you think.”

You felt a flush rise to your cheeks, a mix of surprise and… something else. “And you just—decided to show up out of nowhere?”

“Thought you could use some company,” he replied easily, but there was a seriousness in his gaze that told you this wasn’t just a casual visit. “Been too quiet lately. I don’t do quiet well.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “I can’t believe you’re actually here.”

“Neither can I,” he murmured, his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer before he glanced at the display case filled with pastries. “But since I am… you gonna give me that croissant, or what?”

The corner of your mouth lifted, and you reached behind the counter, pulling out a fresh chocolate croissant. You placed it on a small plate, sliding it across to him. “First one’s on the house, remember?”

Logan took the plate, his fingers brushing against yours for the briefest of moments. A spark shot through you, but you quickly pulled your hand back, pretending like it hadn’t happened.

He lifted the croissant, inspecting it with a critical eye before taking a bite. You watched, holding your breath as he chewed thoughtfully. Then, he swallowed and nodded.

“Not bad, Phantom. Not bad at all.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, a smile breaking out on your face. “Just ‘not bad?’ I think I’m a little insulted.”

He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “Okay, fine. It’s good. Real good.” He took another bite, his gaze softening as he looked at you. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t ya?”

“I could say the same about you.” You leaned against the counter, studying him. In the soft light of the bakery, he looked a little more relaxed, less guarded. There was still that roughness to him, but there was something else, too—a quiet sort of contentment. “So, what’s the real reason you’re here, Logan?”

He raised an eyebrow, finishing off the croissant before setting the plate down. “What, a guy can’t visit his favorite hacker?”

“Nice try.” You gave him a look, crossing your arms. “But I know you better than that.”

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe I just wanted to see for myself that you’re okay. That this place is real. That you’re… real.”

You felt something tighten in your chest, your gaze softening. “I’m real, Logan. You know that.”

“Yeah.” He looked around again, as if trying to memorize every detail of your little shop. “But it’s different, seein’ it with my own eyes.”

There was a weight to his words, a sincerity that made your heart ache a little. You’d spent so many nights talking to him, listening to his voice, getting to know him in a way that felt almost… intimate. And now he was here, standing in front of you, and it felt like a dream.

“Do you—” You hesitated, biting your lip. “Do you want to stay for a bit? I’ve got coffee. Or tea, if that’s more your style.”

Logan’s lips twitched into a small smile. “Coffee sounds good.”

You turned to make a fresh pot, your hands moving on autopilot as your mind raced. What did this mean? Why now? You’d thought maybe, someday, you’d meet Logan in person, but you hadn’t expected it to be like this—so sudden, so… normal.

“So,” Logan drawled, leaning against the counter as he watched you, “what’s next for you? Gonna hang up your hacker hat and just focus on bakin’?”

You glanced over your shoulder, giving him a wry smile. “You think I could actually stay out of trouble for long?”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Nah. Don’t think you’re cut out for the quiet life, darlin’.”

“Guess we have that in common, huh?” You poured the coffee, sliding a mug over to him. “But for now… I’m taking a little break. I think I’ve earned it.”

“Yeah, you have.” He took the mug, his fingers brushing against yours again. This time, neither of you pulled away. “So… what’s the plan now? Just you and the bakery?”

“For now.” You shrugged, looking around the shop. “It’s nice. Calming, even. Keeps me grounded.”

Logan studied you for a long moment, his gaze intent. “You know, I never pictured you like this. With flour on your apron and—what’s that?” He reached out, brushing his thumb lightly against your cheek. “Frostin’ on your face?”

You froze at the contact, your breath catching in your throat. His touch was surprisingly gentle, the roughness of his thumb contrasting with the softness of your skin. You stared at him, caught off guard by the sudden intimacy of the moment.

“I—uh—” You cleared your throat, feeling your face heat up. “Occupational hazard, I guess.”

“Hmm.” His thumb lingered for a heartbeat longer, then he pulled back, his expression softening. “Guess it suits you.”

You swallowed, trying to steady your racing heart. “What about you? What’s next for the great Wolverine? Gonna go back to the X-Men?”

Logan chuckled, leaning back slightly as he sipped his coffee. “Who said I ever left? Maybe I was doin’ this as my side job.”

You raised an eyebrow, giving him a playful look. “Oh, so the big bad Wolverine has a side hustle now? Should I be worried you’re going to start making croissants too?”

He smirked. “Nah, I’ll leave the bakin’ to you. But maybe I’ll stick around, see how things go.” His eyes held yours, that familiar teasing edge mixed with something else—a quiet intensity.

“Stick around?” you asked, not entirely sure where he was going with this. “In New York? Thought you weren’t a fan of big cities.”

Logan shrugged, his gaze flicking around your cozy bakery again. “It grows on ya. Plus, I got reasons to hang around now.”

The way he said it, so casual but pointed, made your heart skip a beat. “Reasons, huh?”

He leaned forward, setting his mug down on the counter. “Yeah, Phantom. You think I spent all those nights listenin’ to you talk, gettin’ to know you, just to go back to business as usual?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the directness of his words. You tried to bring things back to normal, to calm your racing heart, but perhaps you only made it worse with his response. “Y- you don’t have to call me that, you know? Or- anymore, at least.”

Logan’s eyes locked onto yours, a spark of curiosity flickering in his gaze. He leaned forward, elbows resting on the counter. “Oh yeah? So, what should I call ya?”

You hesitated, feeling the weight of his question. It was such a simple thing—your real name. Something you’d kept hidden, not out of fear, but because keeping a wall between your real life and Phantom had made things… easier. Safer, even. But you felt safe with him standing in front of you, even if it was the first time meeting face to face.

“Y/N.” You finally said, quietly with a small smile.

Logan’s eyes softened, something shifting in his expression as he repeated your name—almost testing it out. “Y/N, huh? Suits you.”

You shrugged, trying to play it cool despite the warmth spreading through your chest. “Figured it was time to be on a first-name basis, Wolf.”

His lips twitched into a smirk at the nickname. “Wolf,” he repeated, rolling his eyes in mock exasperation. “You’ve been callin’ me that for months. Thought you’d drop it once I was standin’ right in front of ya.”

“Why would I do that?” you shot back, your smile growing a little more confident. “It suits you, Wolf.”

Logan chuckled, shaking his head. “Fair enough.” He leaned back, his gaze never leaving yours. “Guess I’ll stick with ‘Phantom’ for old times’ sake.”

“‘Y/N’ is fine,” you said softly. “I think we’re past codenames.”

He nodded slowly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Y/N, then.” The way he said it—slow and deliberate—made your heart flutter. There was something so personal about it, so… intimate. You’d spent so long hiding behind ‘Phantom’ that hearing your real name in his voice felt almost surreal.

You glanced down at the counter, clearing your throat to break the tension. “So,” you said slowly, a hint of mischief creeping into your tone, “now that you’ve tried my croissants, what’s next on the list? Gonna critique my muffins too?”

Logan’s smirk widened, his eyes glinting. “Oh, I’m definitely stickin’ around long enough to try everything on that menu, darlin’. Gotta make sure it’s all up to snuff.”

“Uh-huh. Just don’t expect me to bake for you every day,” you teased, but there was a warmth in your voice that you couldn’t quite hide.

“I dunno,” he drawled, leaning forward slightly, his voice dropping to a lower, more intimate tone. “Kinda like the idea of you makin’ me breakfast.”

Your heart skipped a beat, your breath catching in your throat. You chuckled back at him, putting the towel in your hand over your shoulder, “yeah? Bet you say that to all the women you meet.”

Logan’s smirk grew, the corner of his mouth lifting in that way you’d come to recognize as trouble. “You think I go around findin’ bakeries just to get breakfast from pretty hackers?”

“Pretty hackers?” you teased, raising an eyebrow. “Didn’t know I was your type, Wolf.”

He shrugged, leaning back in his chair with an easy confidence. “You’re my type if you keep makin’ croissants like that.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Nice recovery.”

There was a beat of silence, and Logan’s smirk softened, replaced by a more thoughtful look. His eyes swept around the shop again, taking in the cozy space as if trying to understand something deeper about it—about you.

“This place,” he said quietly, breaking the silence. “It’s yours, huh?”

“Yeah,” you replied, a touch of pride in your voice. “Bought it a couple of years ago. Did most of the renovations myself. Not the hacking kind, though.”

Logan nodded, his gaze lingering on the shelves lined with baked goods and the flour-dusted counter. “Figured you’d be in some high-tech lab or somethin’. Not… this.”

You smiled, glancing around your bakery. “What? Don’t think I can bake and hack at the same time?”

“Nah, it’s not that.” He paused, his brow furrowing slightly as if he were searching for the right words. “Guess I just never thought about what your life looked like when you weren’t on a mission.”

“Well,” you said softly, meeting his eyes. “This is it. Flour, sugar, and a whole lot of early mornings.”

Logan tilted his head, studying you like he was seeing a whole new side of you. “It suits ya.”

You shrugged, feeling a bit exposed under his gaze. “It’s not as exciting as fighting bad guys, but… it’s mine.”

“Doesn’t have to be exciting all the time,” he murmured. His voice was quieter now, more serious, and it made you pause. “Sometimes… it’s the quiet stuff that matters.”

You felt a warmth spread through your chest at his words, your heart doing that annoying fluttering thing it did whenever he got unexpectedly sincere. “Yeah, well, quiet doesn’t seem to be your style, Logan.”

He chuckled, a low rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. “Yeah, guess not. But maybe I’m workin’ on that.”

You gave him a playful smirk. “You? Working on ‘quiet’? I’ll believe it when I see it.”

He leaned forward, his arms resting on the counter as he looked at you, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Maybe you’ll see it sooner than you think.”

Your teasing smile faltered slightly, your heartbeat picking up again. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Logan held your gaze for a long moment, something unspoken hanging in the air between you. “Means I’m stickin’ around, Y/N. If you’re okay with that.”

Your breath caught at the way he said your name—your real name, not Phantom. There was a weight to it, like he wasn’t just talking about the bakery or the city. He was talking about you.

“Logan,” you started, your voice a little shaky as you tried to keep it light, “are you saying you want to be a regular customer?”

He smirked, but the seriousness in his eyes didn’t fade. “Somethin’ like that. Thought maybe I’d get to know the person behind the croissants… and the computer screens.”

Your heart raced, and you couldn’t help but smile, even though you felt a little breathless. “Well, considering you just showed up without a warning, I’d say you’re off to a good start.”

Logan’s smirk widened. “Always liked makin’ an entrance.”

“Yeah, well,” you said, shaking your head, “next time, maybe give a girl a little heads-up.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” he teased, though his voice had softened.

You didn’t have a snappy comeback for that, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The bakery felt smaller, quieter, like the world outside had paused, leaving just the two of you in this little bubble. You’d known him for months, heard his voice in your ear during some of the craziest situations, but this—standing here in the same room, with him right there—felt different. Real.

“So,” you said after a beat, your voice a little quieter now, “what’s the plan? You just gonna hang out in New York for a while? Or…?”

Logan shrugged, but there was something thoughtful in his expression. “Dunno. Figure I’ll stick around, see how things play out. Been on the move too long. Might be time to slow down a bit.”

“Slow down?” you echoed, raising an eyebrow. “You?”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, I know. Doesn’t sound like me, does it?”

You smiled, leaning against the counter. “Well, if you’re serious about sticking around, you’d better be ready for a lot of early mornings.”

Logan’s gaze flicked to the flour on your apron and the slight mess on the counter. “Early mornings, huh? Guess I can handle that. Long as there’s coffee.”

You laughed softly, feeling that familiar warmth in your chest again. “I think I can manage that.”

There was another pause, but this time, it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of quiet that felt… nice. Like neither of you were in a rush to fill the space with words.

Finally, Logan straightened up, glancing toward the door. “Guess I’ll let ya get back to it. Don’t wanna keep you too long.”

You felt a flicker of disappointment, but you quickly pushed it down, giving him a smile instead. “You’re always welcome, you know. Next time, I’ll save you a muffin.”

Logan’s smirk returned, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “I’ll hold you to that, darlin’.”

He took a step toward the door, but then he paused, glancing back at you. “Y/N?”

“Yeah?” you asked, your heart skipping a beat at the way he said your name again.

“Don’t be a stranger,” he said softly, his gaze holding yours for just a moment longer before he turned and walked out the door, the bell above it jingling softly in his wake.

You stood there for a long moment, staring at the door long after he was gone, your heart still racing.

---

Logan’s unexpected visit left you in a whirlwind. For the next few days, it was hard to focus on the usual routines of the bakery. Each time the bell over the door chimed, your heart leapt a little, thinking maybe, just maybe, it’d be him again. But Logan didn’t show, and you tried to remind yourself not to overthink it. He was just… being Logan. Coming and going as he pleased, without a word or explanation.

But then, one evening, just as you were flipping the Open sign to Closed, you noticed something slipped under the door—a folded piece of paper with your name scrawled across it in a familiar, rugged handwriting.

You picked it up, eyebrows furrowing in confusion, and opened it.

Got a place in mind. Be ready at 7. —W

No address. No other details. Just a time and a cryptic note.

You found yourself smiling despite your confusion. Of course, he’d pull something like this. He couldn’t just ask you to dinner like a normal person—he had to be all mysterious about it. But then again, it was part of his charm.

The day passed in a blur. By the time you were getting ready, nerves had settled in. What exactly did Logan mean by ‘got a place in mind’? Was this a date? Just… friends hanging out?

You pushed the thoughts away and focused on getting dressed. Something casual, but not too casual. Comfortable, but still showing you’d put in some effort. You settled on a pair of well-fitting jeans and a soft sweater that was flattering but not over-the-top.

Right at 7, there was a soft knock on your door. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself, and opened it.

Logan stood there, looking the same as always and yet… different. Maybe it was the way he’d traded his usual jacket for a dark button-down, or the fact that he looked a bit unsure himself, his gaze flicking over you in silent appraisal before settling on your eyes.

“You look good,” he said, his voice gruff, but there was an honesty in his tone that made your cheeks warm.

“Not bad yourself, Wolf,” you replied, earning a small, almost shy smile from him.

“Ready?” he asked, holding out his hand.

“Ready,” you confirmed, and you stepped outside, locking the door behind you.

---

Logan had borrowed a bike—one of those big, heavy motorcycles that roared to life when he turned the ignition. He tossed you a helmet, then helped you onto the back. Your hands found their way around his waist, your fingers brushing against the fabric of his shirt, and for a moment, the world seemed to narrow down to just that—your arms around him, the rumble of the engine beneath you, and the feel of his solid form against you.

“Hold on tight, darlin’,” he murmured, his voice low and rough in a way that made you shiver.

The ride through the city was exhilarating, the cool night air whipping past you as Logan navigated the streets with ease. You had no idea where he was taking you, but you trusted him. You’d always trusted him.

Finally, he pulled up to a secluded spot along the East River, away from the usual tourist traps and bustling crowds. You could see the lights of the city skyline reflected in the water, the soft sounds of the river lapping at the shore creating a serene backdrop. There was a small wooden table set up nearby, with a blanket laid out and a picnic basket resting on top of it.

You blinked in surprise, glancing between the setup and Logan. “Did… did you do this?”

Logan rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncharacteristically sheepish. “Yeah, well. Figured we’ve had enough high-stakes meetin’s. Thought you deserved somethin’ different.”

Your heart melted a little at that. He’d gone through the trouble of planning something just for you—a quiet evening, just the two of you, away from the chaos of missions and comms.

“It’s perfect,” you said softly, meeting his eyes.

He gave a small nod, visibly relieved by your reaction. “Good. Now c’mon, let’s eat before it gets too cold.”

The two of you settled down at the table, and you couldn’t help but smile as Logan unpacked the basket. It was mostly simple stuff—sandwiches, fruit, a bottle of wine—but there was an almost endearing quality to it, like he’d put in effort but hadn’t tried to overdo it.

“Didn’t know what you liked, so I kinda… winged it,” he admitted, glancing at you almost nervously.

“It’s perfect,” you repeated, smiling at him. “And honestly? I’m just happy you’re here.”

Logan’s gaze softened, his eyes lingering on you in that way that made your stomach flip. “Yeah. Me too.”

The conversation flowed easily after that. You talked about everything and nothing—the bakery, old missions, even random bits about your lives that had never come up before. He was surprisingly open, and you found yourself sharing more than you usually would, the relaxed atmosphere making it easy to let your guard down.

As the evening went on, you found yourself inching closer to him. At some point, the two of you ended up side by side on the blanket, the picnic basket forgotten as you stared out at the lights reflecting on the water.

There was a comfortable silence, the kind that didn’t need to be filled. You glanced over at Logan, feeling that familiar flutter in your chest. He was looking at you with an expression that was hard to read—soft, almost contemplative.

“What?” you asked softly, feeling a little self-conscious under his gaze.

“Just thinkin’,” he murmured, his voice low and rumbling. “You’re even prettier in person, you know that?”

You felt your face heat up, and you looked away, letting out a soft laugh. “Logan—”

“I mean it,” he interrupted gently, reaching out to brush your cheek. His touch was light, tentative, like he wasn’t quite sure if it was okay. “Been drivin’ myself crazy, wonderin’ what you’d look like. But seein’ you now… Hell, Y/N, I don’t think I did you justice.”

Your breath caught at the way he said your name, his gaze intense and unwavering. There was something raw and honest in his expression, like he was laying himself bare in a way you hadn’t expected.

“Logan…” you whispered, the words dying on your lips as he leaned in, his face inches from yours.

“I shouldn’t be doin’ this,” he murmured, his voice low and almost regretful. But he didn’t move away. If anything, he shifted closer, his breath brushing against your skin. “But I’ve been wantin’ to since the moment I heard your voice.”

Your heart was pounding, every nerve in your body alive with anticipation. “Then don’t stop,” you whispered, your own voice trembling.

Logan’s gaze flicked down to your lips, and for a heartbeat, everything seemed to freeze. Then, slowly—like he was giving you every chance to pull away—he closed the distance, his lips brushing against yours in the softest, most tentative of kisses.

It was gentle at first, like he was testing the waters, but when you didn’t pull back—when you leaned in, your fingers tangling in the front of his shirt—something seemed to break. He deepened the kiss, his hand sliding up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin.

The kiss was everything you hadn’t known you’d been waiting for—slow and sweet, but with an underlying intensity that left you breathless. You melted into him, the world around you fading away until there was nothing left but the feel of his lips on yours and the warmth of his hand against your cheek.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, you were both breathing hard, your hearts racing in sync.

“Damn, darlin’,” he murmured, his voice rough and low. “Didn’t think it’d feel like that.”

You laughed softly, your own voice a little shaky. “Yeah. Me neither.”

Logan smiled—a real, genuine smile that made your heart ache. “Think we should do it again?”

You grinned up at him, feeling lighter than you had in ages. “Yeah, Wolf. I think we should.”

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