#and the pots are in a two pack so....

[snakewife]

senshi is hearing the absolute worst pickup lines ever uttered at the local pubs

[alliswyattonthewesternfront]

roast post

[learnandturn]

I was punched and pepper sprayed by cops that my university administration set on student protesters yesterday. Including once where a cop ripped my mask off my face, grabbed my jaw, and sprayed pepper sprayed straight into my mouth. The university sent out an alert in the middle of our protest canceling classes for the rest of the day, only citing “adverse conditions”. After protesters dispersed under threat of even more violence and three buses of riot police from all over the state with rubber bullets and bully sticks parked in front of one our school’s famous landmarks. I staggered over to a couple of friends who were watching on the sidelines. They gave me water and an apple and held a bag of ice on my very pepper spray irritated face. As they were walking me back to my dorm we ran into one of their roommates. She had taken cancelled classes as an opportunity to get crumbl cookie with her friends. Standing in front of her, happy in a floral blouse with her box of cookies, in my pepper spray and water soaked tshirt, keffiyeh sadly hanging off my shoulder, holding an ice pack to my mouth, felt like a slap in the face.

After putting my pepper spray soaked clothes, shoes, and keffiyeh in a plastic bag and taking an extraordinarily painful shower, a friend and I went for dinner just off campus. There we had a pot of green tea and ramen to soothe pepper sprayed throats. We got ice cream after (shared a cup with chocolate and raspberry pomegranate with strawberry pieces on top, it was very good). From our spot outside the ice cream place we watched a steady stream of groups of sorority girls in matching jeans shorts and blue bikini tops walking back to their apartments after some apparently raucous parties. The cognitive dissonance was insane. I really felt a little like I was going crazy.

Even this morning, waking up to the smeared sharpie of the National Lawyer’s Guild’s phone number on my arm, a black and blue chest from where a grown man straight up clocked me while I was held up by two other protesters in a wall, and a still sore throat and eyes from the pepper spray, life goes on like normal. I still have final papers to write and a math exam to review for.

I’m not sure I really have a point. But, this feeling only makes me want to fight harder for a free Palestine. So, fuck Israel for being an apartheid state and all of their crimes over the last 76 years. Fuck university administration for not disclosing their level of investment in Israel. Fuck university administration for not divesting from this genocide. Fuck Joe Biden for actively supporting this genocide. And fuck the police.

[bispacecadet]

I think I just committed a crime of morality against the concept of hot pot

[eraserbread]

there's nothing your husband, nanami, loves more than watching you cook.

he enjoys the way you get into it, crinkling your brow as you multitask from nursing your sauce to peeling your vegetables. he just loves everything you love, including your stupid, smutty tv shows and perpetually sad music.

if you carved a hole in his chest, you'd probably just see... you. every part that encaptures your soul.

tonight, you're cooking for him again wearing a matching pajama set you know he loves. you're wearing it as he slugs back in from work, frustration brewing and rising above his head like a spell. his shoulders are so heavy that it's palpable. you drop the knife in your hands.

"oh, kento." you purr, approaching him with your arms outstretched. in a single move, he drops his glasses and loosens his tie, ready for you to dote on fully. "I'm sorry you had a bad day."

"you're making something good?" he puts on a millisecond smile for you, closing his big hands across your back. the air around you smells like home, and you feel like it. soft to the touch and packed full of comfort and ease. it's why nanami married you -- there's no pain or adversity within these four walls. that's only a work thing.

"your favorite, f-

he chuckles, cutting you off from the tangent he knows you'll take him on. "I don't see you laid out on that stove."

"-ken!" you slap both hands across the bottom of his pretty face, flustered and blushing red. you knew he has a mind to say something risque, but it always surprises you when he does. he's still not the easiest person to read. "jus- just sit down and I'll finish up."

"mm, okay. take your time." nanami has to peel himself away from you, and it takes all of his might. on the upside, he can watch your back as you fuss around in the kitchen. silently, you check the pot of rice, noting the remaining cooking time, stir and lower the flame on your meat and head back to continue cutting on your board. nanami studies all of it. he truly loves you so much.

so, he can't help the fact that the beautiful meal you'd been doting over got a bit too crispy.

your nanami just had to taste you for himself, already two fingers deep into your aching cunt, he leans down between your thighs to lap at your sweetness. he could die between these thighs -- make a home in the cushioned, comforting skin and stay forever.

he needed your pheromones in a cologne -- your taste on the back of his tongue forever, because you were so delelectible. you're always insanely fucking pretty when you're mewling his name; lovely, scattered renditions only you can call him tumbling out.

he's dragging the thickness of his tongue between your folds, focusing the tip against your swollen clit. he has you right where he wants you, knowing its not enough to make you cum immediately, but just enough to send you over the edge.

you're sliding back on the counter, its slickness from your body and nanami's spit not making it very suitable to eat off of. neither of you care, because it's just so sweet to be in this shared presence.

it's so lewd to hear your husband's fingers fucking you over the sound of your dinner sizzling and burning. but, that's just exactly what you signed up for when you agreed to become

mrs. nanami kento

[yanderedrabbles]

Yandere Neighbour - Noncon

With your electricity out and your devices dead, you have no choice but to turn to your neighbour for help. He's more than willing to welcome you into his home. Really, you're lucky he's such a nice guy.

Tags: male yandere x gender neutral reader, noncon, somno, just the tip anal, daddy kink but only if you squint, 3.3k words

Living in the middle of nowhere had its perks. Privacy. Untouched nature. Peace and quiet.

But after the third day with no electricity, those perks were starting to look pretty damn weak. Your fridge was sitting in an ever expanding puddle. Almost all your devices were dead. And if you had to take one more cold shower you were going to cry.

It was when you were digging through your drawer looking for desperately needed batteries that you found your neighbour's number. He'd offered it to you a little while after you moved in, and while you two were on friendly terms, you'd never actually spoken for longer than a few minutes. You sighed, looked at the 10% left on your phone and decided that desperate times called for desperate measures.

You: hey, it's me. I still haven't got any power. Do you mind if I come over to charge some stuff?

He replied almost instantly.

Unknown: aww that sucks

Unknown: come on over. I've got hot stew and a generator

Unknown: and you can take a hot shower too if you want

Score. And to think you found him intimidating at first. Just goes to show that you can't judge on appearances. You packed a change of clothes, your devices and the last tub of ice cream that wasn't totally melted. You'd find some way to properly pay him back but a tub of chocolate fudge double cream wasn't a bad way to start.

He was waiting on his porch when you pulled up. A bear of a man in a flannel and blue jeans, a five o' clock shadow darkening his jaw.

"Howdy neighbour," he drawled, opening your door for you while you grabbed your stuff. "Regretting leaving the city yet?"

You huffed a laugh. "You do NOT want to know the answer to that."

His cabin was much larger than yours, a two storey behemoth with wide windows and exposed beams. It had a rustic charm - like some natural park Air BnB where they charged a weeks pay for just one night. A little too big for just one man. Didn't he get lonely?

"I brought some ice cream and chocolate to say thank you. And also because it miiight have been melting."

He opened the door for you and ushered you through with a hand on your lower back.

"Hell, I'll never say no to something sweet."

There was a fire burning in the fireplace and a stack of logs in a crate next to it. He was so much better suited to this life than you were. He locked the door behind you and slipped the keys into his pocket.

"Old habit," he explained with an easy grin.

"Why don't you get settled? I'll plug your stuff in."

You handed over your tech with a relieved sigh.

"Thank you. Really. I'm so behind on work already and I haven't heard anything back from the power company."

"I wouldn't hold my breath," he said. "Once ended up going a week straight with not even a light bulb flickering."

You winced. "It gets that bad?"

"Yep. Especially in winter. Gets dangerous then too."

He tilted his head at you, concerned. "You need to get yourself better sorted before it starts snowing. I hate to think of you stuck out there when the blizzards start rolling in."

God, could you be any more of a city slicker? You rubbed your neck, embarrassed.

"Thanks. I've been here a few months now and I guess I just didn't realise how serious things can get."

"It's all good. But if I'm honest, I get worried thinking about you out there all alone. Plenty of drifters end up passing through. Not a good place to be alone, not for a little thing like yourself."

Little? You wanted to feel indignant, but looking at his bulk, you reckoned that most folk probably seemed little to him.

He lead you to the fireplace and poured you a mug of coffee from the pot that was waiting for you. He jerked his head at the hunting rifle on display above the mantle.

"I can teach you to shoot, if you've got some free time."

You took a sip of the coffee, internally debating with yourself. You could see the sense in your offer but you weren't a big fan of guns. Hell, just being around them was nerve wrecking enough. Maybe -

You looked down at your mug in surprise.

"This is some really good stuff."

The coffee was strong, bitter in the best sort of way. You could catch a hint of chocolate in it too. Just sweet enough to make your toes curl.

" 'Course. Only the best for my guest. Help yourself to another cup. I'll just put your stuff on charge and be right back."

You finished your drink in a few sips and happily poured a second serving. Hot coffee... man, you didn't think three days without it would be so tough. Usually, you were pretty sensitive to caffeine. But by the time your neighbour came back, your head was tilted back and you were half asleep.

You tried to shake yourself out of it but he just laughed and pushed you back down.

"You probably haven't had a good sleep since the power went out. Just rest. We can talk once you wake up."

"I'm sorry..."

"It's fine." His hand was still on your shoulder, thumb rubbing small circles into your neck. "It's just fine with me."

You drifted off after that. Into a deep sleep without any dreams. Waking up was like slogging through molasses.

"Finally up sleepy head?"

It was dark outside and your neighbour was on one knee in front of the fire place, coaxing fresh wood to catch.

You sat up slowly. Your muscles ached and there was a strange, salty taste on your tongue.

"My heads killing me..."

He stood, poker still in his hand. "You must be starving then. I've already got some food on the stove. You'll feel better after you eat."

You didn't feel hungry at all. If anything, you felt almost hangover.

"Thanks," you managed. "I'm sorry to be such a bother."

He waved you away. "I don't mind a bit."

He came back with a bowl of steaming hot chow and stood with his arms crossed on the back of your couch while you ate.

"It's real late. I reckon you should stay over. I don't want you driving on dirt when it's so dark."

"Oh, it's fine. I've already put you out so much."

"Don't be silly. I insist."

You shivered without meaning to. That almost growl, low and bordering on menacing. It was so familiar, so...

"Just like that. Look at you, half asleep and still desperate for my cock."

"You like the taste? Yeah, I bet you fucking do."

"Ain't just gonna use your mouth next time."

You squeezed your eyes shut. Where the hell was this coming from? Were you remembering some sick dream from this afternoon?

"You okay there neighbour?"

You nodded. "Just my head."

Maybe he was right. Driving when you were so disorientated was just asking for trouble.

"If you really don't mind... I'll be happy to sleep over."

He laughed, a deep, rumbling thing. "I'll make the guest room up special, just for you."

"Could I use your shower too?"

"I offered didn't I? Come on, I'll show you where it is."

He took you to the master bedroom and jerked his thumb at the en-suite.

"Hot water is the most reliable in there. Door doesn't close that well though, so don't mind it. I'll be downstairs when you're done."

You brushed your teeth carefully. You lips felt sore, bruised in a way you couldn't explain.

You waited until you heard his footsteps going down the stairs before you stripped off your clothes. You stood under the hot water for a good few minutes, luxuriating in the feeling. The bathroom was thick with steam when you finally got to scrubbing yourself. The door was open just a crack and the bedroom beyond was dark. You forgot all about it until you heard the creak of the hinges.

You whirled to face the door, your hands coming up to cover yourself. The steam was too thick to see through. You called his name.

Nothing.

You stepped out with suds still on your thighs and pushed the door open. The room beyond was empty.

You sighed. God, you were being paranoid. Your neighbour was a great guy. It was unfair of you to treat him like a peeping tom when he'd gone out of his way to make you comfortable. It must have been just an errant draught.

You stepped back into the shower and rinsed yourself off. But no matter what you told yourself, you still kept an eye on the door.

When you went to change into your fresh clothes, you spent at least five minutes hunting for your underwear. Did you drop it somewhere? Oh, please say your undies weren't just sitting in the middle of his hallway. That would be beyond embarrassing.

Eventually you gave up and just decided to go without them. Not comfortable at all but still better than walking around in a towel to look for them. And much better than calling your neighbour in to help. Wouldn't that be fun? 'Hey neighbour that I don't know that well, you haven't seen my intimates lying around, have you?' Yeah, you'd never again get invited over after something like that.

When you were dressed, you found him already on his way up the hall. He was carrying a glass of water and some pills.

"Thought you might still have a headache, so I brought you some painkillers."

You paused, nervous but not sure why.

"Thanks." His hands dwarfed yours when he handed them over. You didn't recognise the name of on the pills, but they looked harmless. You tossed them back and gagged at the bitter aftertaste.

"They pack a punch, so tell me when you start to get drowsy."

"Aye aye captain."

You followed him to the guest room. It was at the very back on the second story, quieter than the rest of the house. A huge glass wall gave you a view of the forest disappearing into the darkness. You could see the ghost of your reflection in the glass, your neighbour a hulking, shapeless mass at your shoulder.

He took a seat in an armchair across form the bed and stretched out his legs. You perched on the edge of the mattress, still feeling a bit like an intruder.

"How long have you been staying out here?” you asked.

He smiled at you, teeth glinting almost wolf-like. "Got you curious?"

"A little. Folk in town say they hardly see you. I don't know... I'm just wondering if you ever get lonely."

He was quiet and you cursed yourself for being so nosy. You hurried to fill the silence.

"It's just that I get a bit lonely out here too. 'Specially when it's so quiet. And I guess I was wondering if it's the same for you."

He smiled at you, rueful. "At times. Used to be worse, but I've got a new interest to keep me occupied nowadays."

"Oh yeah? What?"

"Bird watching."

"Really? What do you look for?"

The way the room was lit up, you couldn't see his eyes. They fell into shadow and you only had his lips to read his emotions by. He smirked, slow and almost mocking.

"Just one bird I look out for. Flighty little thing. Tends to get caught by predators a lot. You’d probably recognise it."

The polite thing to do would be to ask what it was called. You didn't. Some part of whispered that you wouldn't like the answer.

You must have been quiet a little too long because he took it as his cue to leave. He stood, a mountain of muscle, his eyes not quite as nice as they seemed that afternoon. A trick of the light, surely. He wouldn't hurt a fly.

"You rest up. Got a busy day tomorrow."

"G'night."

He was gone before you thought to ask what he meant. And you were passed out on your pillows before you realised it. He was right. The pills sure did pack one hell of a punch.

You were aware of a shadow at the end of your bed. You weren't fully awake, and your limbs were slow and heavy with more than just sleep.

"Who..."

The shadow reached down and one warm paw circled your ankle.

"Just me little bird."

You knew that voice. It was the voice that brought you warm food and invited you in from the cold. You could trust it. Could go back to sleep and not worry about anything.

'No,' some part of you hissed, 'He's not as safe as you think.'

"Cold..."

The shadow laughed and it was the laugh of the fox finding the rabbit's den. Nasty. Hungry.

"Cold huh? Don't worry baby. I'll warm you right up."

He yanked your ankle towards him and your whole body slid down the bed. You were too drowsy to stop it.

"Knew you were gonna be mine the second I saw you," he cooed, hands running up your thighs.

His fingers slipped under your waistband, nails scraping your hip bones.

"Dumb little thing from the city. Doesn't even realise I've tripped all their breakers. That's why you don't have power baby. It's all me."

His fingers were as big as the rest of him. Thick, meaty. Skin rough from working outdoors. You whined when his fingertips scraped the edges of your hole.

"No underwear. You needy slut. That's practically a written and signed invitation to fuck you."

He pulled your pants down to your ankles and pushed your knees up to your stomach. And you were too out of it to stop him. Limp and pliable as a fuck doll.

Your tight ass was exposed to the cold air, entirely at the mercy of whatever he wanted to do.

"Cute." He circled his thumb around the rim, almost pushing in but not quite. "Wanted to be in this ass since you first showed up at my door all those months ago. Lookin' up at me all sweet. Fuck, it's enough to drive a man to desperation."

He lowered his head and you could feel his warm breath washing over your thighs.

He dragged his tongue across your hole. Some part of you must have been more awake than the rest, because your whole body jerked away from him.

"None of that," he cooed, hands digging into your thighs and dragging you back. "I haven't even gotten started yet."

He licked you again, deeper this time. The flexed tip of his tongue pushing at your entrance, and to your dull horror, actually slipping in. He moaned and you could feel the vibrations all through your crotch.

He pulled out and spat, rubbed it in with his fingers. One of them pushed in until the second joint, curling into your walls so rough that you gasped.

"Please..."

"Please what?" he mocked. "Please fuck my tight little ass? Please cum inside me? Use your words little bird."

"Please...stop..."

That made him laugh again, made him shove his finger in all the way to the knuckle. Twisting so cruelly as he pulled out and jerked back in.

"Stop? Stop? After all the work it took to get you here? No way baby. I'm not slowing down and I'm sure as fuck not stopping."

You heard the sound of his belt unbuckling, followed by a sharp intake of breath when he nudged his leaking head against your hole.

"You’re not going to remember this. And I'm not going to leave any evidence."

He pushed your legs tighter against your chest.

"So as much as I want to fuck you rotten, you're gonna have to be happy with just the tip."

He'd done a good job loosening and lubing you, but it still burned like a hot poker when he forced his way in. He groaned, almost in pain.

"You're fucking choking me. God, do you want my cum so bad?"

You could feel when the tip was in. That tiny difference in thickness between his head and shaft was oh so noticeable when your ass was clenching and fluttering around it. It was the smallest mercy, but mercy nonetheless.

He was panting from the effort of getting it in, the effort of holding back. The size difference between you almost perverse. Like a draft stallion trying to mount a pony. In every way, he was just too fucking big.

He spat in his hand and brought it to his cock, ran his palm up and down his shaft with sickly wet strokes. The combination of his palm and your squeezing ass was fucking delicious.

He had great stamina but fuck if it didn't feel like you were milking him.

He let go long enough to smack your ass. It almost finished him. You clenched around him so hard it felt like his tip was getting fucking crushed.

"Shiiiit, you're the best hole I've ever had. Can't wait 'til I can go all the way."

You whined, pitiful as snared prey. There were words there, though they were too slurred to make out. Something about Daddy and please and stop. He ignored you.

He pushed in a little deeper and watched your face scrunching up. So helpless, so fucking caught. That was what did it. The knowledge that he could do this to you at any point and you'd be helpless to stop it.

He came inside you, snarling through clenched teeth, his fingers digging into your thigh hard enough to bruise. You'd notice the marks in the morning and chalk it up to just being clumsy. But he'd know. He'd see the bruises peeking out from the hem of your shorts and his cock would twitch just a little at the memory of leaving them.

His cock pulsed. Shot strings of spunk deep inside you. You could feel it. Hot, too hot. Gross. Make it stop. Get it out.

He pulled out with a wet pop. His cum drooled down and he took a minute to work it back into you with his finger. Your hole was gaping just a little and it made his balls pulse. If he had the time...

"A real fucking mess. And on my good sheets too. You're a terrible guest."

He mopped up whatever cum remained with a balled up piece of martial that he pulled from his pocket. Even in you stupor, you recognised it as your missing underwear.

"Terrible guest, but the perks of having you around are pretty fucking sweet."

He dropped your knees back to the mattress, pulled your pants back into place and roughly yanked the duvet over you. He grabbed your jaw and smiled at the lost, drowsy look in your half open eyes.

"Got a big day tomorrow. Gonna wake up and find your whole house was flooded. Ruined. Gonna have nowhere to stay but with me."

He sounded smug. It made your guts twist.

Outside, the night grew quiet. A predator was hunting and most prey knew better than to catch its attention.

"I made sure of it. All your family and friends in the city are away from home. There's no one around to help you out..."

He tightened his grip just enough to watch the fear start dancing in your eyes.

"No one...except me."

He let you go and smiled that same warm, comforting smile from that afternoon.

"Dumb little thing. Got no clue how your water mains work, do you? Got no idea how easy they are to sabotage."

He tutted. "Got me so damn busy. I'm gonna have to run to your place, fuck shit up and be back here before you wake up for real."

He traced his index finger over your lips and left behind a sticky coating of spunk. You'd wake up tasting salt again, with no memory of why.

"But it's fine. I forgive you. After today we'll have plenty of time together. Rest of our lives in fact. So just sleep tight and forget what you think you've dreamed."

There are perks to living in the middle nowhere. Privacy. Untouched nature. Peace and quiet.

There are perks, but unfortunately for you, your neighbour isn't one of them.

[highvern]

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…

taglist: @tomodachiii @cvpidyunho @miniseokminnies @ddaengpotate @arycutie

@gaebestie @primoppang @gyuguys @mine-gyu @doremifasire

@missminhoe @toplinehyunjin @crvs4vldtn @sliceofwoozi

@writingbarnes @dokyeomkyeom @christinewithluv @minwonfairy @wobblewobble822

@futuristicenemychaos @seungkw1 @horanghaezone @jespecially @scoupsjin

@isabellah29 @luvseungcheol @crisle19 @iamawkwardandshy @lukeys-giggle

@aaa-sia @tinkerbell460 @gyuhao365 @ourkivee  @bokk-minnie

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@melonacco @lllucere @wwjagabeee @syluslittlecrows @yourbimbohope

@whrryuu @wonrangwoo @xchaenx @champagnenoona

[timmydraker]

I don’t really like seeing Tim as the ‘won’t eat unless he has to and even then it’s Bat Burger and a granola bar’ kind of person.

This boy was raised RICH, he has got to have the palate of literal gold. I’m talking saffron and almas caviar plated on six thousand dollar plates and two hundred year old dining tables.

That and the fact he’s a nerd, meaning he probably studied what foods are best for weight gain, muscle gain and generally anything good for the body and being physically active.

This boy probably has meal prep that requires two whole fridges filled to the max and walk in pantry with aisles in it.

He doesn’t do Mac and cheese but he does do macaroni, cheese, broccoli, bacon, egg, basil, chives and other herbs I’m not smart enough to name. He probably makes a whole pot of it, stores some away for later, and still finishes it within a few days.

Now if he can’t cook he’s got money for that, he can pay his own personal cook or give his long ass list of dishes and requirements to Alfred who would either agree whole heartedly or be annoyed at how specific this boy needs his mushrooms cooked for ‘ultimate nutritional value’.

He doesn’t do the little servings of the food for dinner, but you can bet he has a dozen or so a day as snacks on top of packet chips, previously mentioned granola bars, and fruit salad from the cafeteria at WE or DI.

He’s still short af, even compared to the female Robin he will always be the shortest by a hair in my mind. He’s also somewhat lean, but he’s a vigilante and uses a Bo on the nightly, so he’s packed with muscle and you can’t have muscle if you don’t have fat to burn off.

This dude can demolish a twenty ounce steak in five minutes if you give him the time.

Leave him without food for twenty four hours and he will complain he can feel his stomach eating itself.

It’s hydrating this man is horrible with, because all he drinks is tea and calls water ‘an option’.

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

as I said, i’m starving, so can I get a double entree? with matty and frankie? maybe them learning how to share…or some fun in the kitchen ;)

a/n: ooooohhhh... okay... yeah. i can work with this 😏

word count: 1285

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

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“Uhh…” your feet came to a stop as your eyes swiftly flickered between the two men suddenly before you, “what is this?”

Stirring a simmering pot on the stove, Frank barely lifted his gaze when you entered your home, only to discover both him and Matthew standing in the middle of your kitchen.

“Lasagna with three different types of cheese,” Frank murmured in a low rumble, as if such a gesture was normal for you to come home to.

“No, I mean,” you nearly sounded out of breath as you waved a hand to dismiss his words, “you’re cooking… the both of you… together…” you pointed out before your brows furrowed further, “what happened to ‘either he goes or I do’?” you quoted the gruff man stirring the pot.

Your wide eyes landed upon Matt, his burly arm stretched high above his head as he reached into a cupboard, his fingertips kissing the edges of the stacked baking dishes before he found one in the right size and lowered down to the counter.

“Oh, that was what he said, wasn’t it?” Matt smirked before slipping to your side and leaning in to steal a brief peck from your stunned lips. As he tilted back, his palm not straying from the small of your back where it had settled, he then twisted his head in the direction of the other man, “god, you’re so dramatic, Frank,” he teased with a smile.

“I’m dramatic? Don’t fucking make me break this truce already, altar boy,” Frank swiftly shot back as he finally cast a glance over his shoulder. 

“Truce?” you echoed, your head swivelling between them both, “what are you talking about?”

“Well,” Frank exhaled, before he ominously shared, “we hashed some things out.”

“You–…” breath scarcely filled up your lungs as you imagined the worst, “why are you making it sound like you two beat each other to a pulp?” your glare continued to flicker between their stoic expressions, and as they ceased to change, your eyes promptly widened, “oh my god, you did!” you shoved at Matt’s chest as your words spewed forth, “seriously?” you took a step further back from them both, “you guys can’t even have a simple conversation without breaking someone’s nose?”

“No one broke anything, we’re fine,” Matt uttered calmly and held up both of his hands.

“Mhm,” you hummed as your eyes narrowed, still highly doubtful as you knew the pair of them way too well, “no, please, continue,” you muttered heatedly before crossing your arms, “you were saying how you couldn’t be mature about our little predicament.”

Sucking in a breath, Frank leaned back against the counter by the stove, “we did talk.”

“Eventually,” Matt cocked his head.

“…and?” your glare darted between them both as they ceased to go on, “come on, I’m on pins and needles here. I already told you guys that I won’t choose between you. I care about you both, and if any of you has a problem with that, then you know where the door is.”

Shifting his weight, Matt then murmured, “yeah, well, as good as we are at budding heads, there was one thing that we were able to agree on.”

“And what was that?” you said with a sigh.

And with his stare upon you never wavering a second, Frank then uttered, “you,” sending a trickle down your spine as a sharp breath promptly filled up your lungs.

“We care about you, a lot,” Matt went on, “so much in fact that we have agreed to be all in, both of us.”

Utterly stunned, you blinked, “really?”

“Don’t you see us standing here in your kitchen, cooking you dinner, all civil?” Frank gestured as his dark brows briefly furrowed.

“I mean, yeah,” your eyes drifted and averted to your feet, “but we all know you’ll probably be back at it before the leftovers are even packed away…”

“Well,” Frank cocked his head, “Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

And as your gaze drifted back to settle upon Frank, Matthew’s voice then found your ears, “…maybe you could give us a hand…”

“A hand?” you looked to him as a smile gently twisted your lips.

“That’s right,” Frank hummed, “teach us how to do this.”

“Uh…” a faint giggle couldn’t help but burst from your lungs, “I guess I could give it a shot….”

“Yeah?” Matt’s face lit up like the sky on New Year's Eve. Rushing to you, he swiftly wrapped you up in his arms as your chuckling kept on affirming their proposition. As his lips once again found your own, his embrace tightened before he lifted you a few inches off the ground, clutching you close as he kissed you fiercely.

Meanwhile, Frank slowly set down the long spoon in his grasp as he let a smile twitch at the corner of his lip. Patiently waiting, he leaned back against the counter, one of his hands briefly dipping down to snatch up a sliver of cheese on the cutting board to nibble on as he stared at the way that Matthew kissed you as if the pair of you were the only two people in the entire world.

Though as soon as your feet once again met the floor and Matt’s lips faded from your own, you barely managed to blink your eyes back open before Frank had grabbed your jaw and twisted your features for your lips to come crashing against his zealous kiss, even though the other man was still only a few inches from you both.

And when one of Frank’s palms eventually began to migrate away from your cheek, drifting down your frame before it found a handful of your ass, a purr tickled in your throat and vibrated against his hungry lips. His touch dug into your softness so boldly that you swore you felt the tingles shoot straight to your clit, making it buzz as he kneaded your bottom. Greedily bringing you impossibly close to his frame, you felt the palpable tent in his pants that was already poking your belly and making your core throb even harder.

However, as he then scooped you up off the ground and tangled your legs around his hips, a squeal promptly escaped you, “wait! We can’t!” you tilted away from his lips and shot a glance towards the stove, “you’ll burn the food!”

“Oh,” a smirk dazzled on Matt’s features, “I think between the three of us, we can make sure that doesn’t happen,” he uttered before clearing a spot on the counter behind you.

“But–,” you tried as Frank plopped you down upon the kitchen table.

Raising a finger up to your lips, Frank muttered, “it’ll be fine, just trust us,” he stole a brief peck before splayed both of his broad palms across your thighs, “but, you know, even so, dinner still won’t be done in at least another hour,” he slowly sank down to his knees before you, “problem is, I’m already starving…” his stare held your own captive as his touch began to gather up the fabric of your dress, “aren’t you hungry as well, Red?”

“Fucking famished…” Matt exhaled as he too kneeled, pressing a soft kiss to your left knee as he came to settle on the floor.

“What do you say, sweetheart?” Frank smiled as he blinked up at you, his fingers now clutching your skirts high enough to reveal your soaked panties, “you think you got a little entrée for us to enjoy?”

“Well…” your teeth briefly captured your bottom lip as your heart continued to hammer in your chest, “only if you share…” you breathed before you parted your legs for the both of them.

© 2025 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[tarotsoul]

Ghost in the Wind — Part One

SUMMARY: All your life, your presence had been nothing more than a faint kiss of a breeze—nothing impactful, nothing worth noticing. So why did it hurt so much when that remained the case after moving to Prythian?

WARNINGS: a bit of angst, feelings of self-hatred and worthlessness, brief mentions of sexual assault

WORD COUNT: 3.8k

Series Masterlist

“No.”

There was no room for argument in Nesta’s tone, no room for anything other than agreement or else she’d reign the Hells on all of them. Her mate be damned, she would not leave the mortal lands without you. Not again.

“If we take her,” Cassian gritted his teeth, “I am inviting her husband to wage war on our kind if he so chooses.”

Nesta bared her teeth. “Rafe is nothing but a coward and a sorry excuse of a man. What kind of war could he wage? If she stays, then so do I.”

Cassian blanched at his mate, his teeth grinding. They were only supposed to have stopped through for no more than a week, to ensure things in the mortal lands were restoring to somewhat of the normalcy they once had before the war.

He blinked at Nesta, noting the way she bore her feet into the solid ground, as if planting herself there like a tree weaving its roots into the soil. He knew the love she had for her cousin, her only friend, as she’d once told him. The guilt she’d felt when she first left the village, left you, hadn’t eased in the slightest.

Perhaps this was the reason she insisted on joining Cassian on this third-grade mission. He cast a quick glance over her shoulder to the small stone house you were occupying, and closed his eyes to ground his breathing.

“We can’t just bring her back without consulting Rhys first.”

Nesta rolled her eyes. “Screw Rhys. I’ll deal with him myself if I have to. She is my family, Cassian. My friend. Every night, he beats her and abuses her and takes from her what she will not willingly give. She is coming back with us.”

Cassian took another grounding breath, the iron will in Nesta’s eyes granting not even a fraction of negotiation. There was too much going on right now, too much to sift through to rebuild their city and legions.

But Nesta was right, and despite not knowing you, he couldn’t stomach the idea of leaving a vulnerable soul with a monster who took and abused like Rafe did. Especially not when he saw the pain on his mate's eyes for her cousin.

“Ten minutes. Tell her to pack necessities only. We will need to leave within the hour if we wish to be gone before her husband returns.”

Nesta didn’t cast him a second glance as she turned and sprinted into your home. You scrambled back from the window, heat painting your cheeks that you’d been caught watching them, straining your ears for a sliver of their conversation, to no avail.

She said nothing of your snooping, only grabbed your hand and dragged you to your sleeping chambers. “Pack only what you need. You’re coming back with us.”

You blinked, lungs seizing the air you tried to breathe. Leaving? For the Fae lands?

“Ness,” you tried, but she held up a slender hand to cut you off.

“Don’t. I made the mistake of leaving you behind before. I won’t do it again.” She couldn’t look at you. Not at the bruises marring your skin, or the split lip you’d earned yourself two nights ago for leaving an unwashed pot in the sink.

So you didn’t think twice about the consequences of being caught fleeing. You didn’t think twice at all as you stuffed minimal clothing into a satchel along with a photo of your beloved mother and the worn journal you kept hidden beneath the mattress.

Nesta allowed you a moment to compose yourself as she returned to her mate just outside your home. Home. As if you could ever have truly referred to it as that. This was not a home. You hadn’t had a home since your mother passed ten years ago. Since you married Rafe and your whole world fell apart.

You had prayed. Prayed to whatever out there that would listen. Hoped and hoped that one day your salvation would arrive, that you’d be finally spared from the misery you’d been subjected to for so long. From the pain and terror and loneliness.

You hadn’t realised you were absentmindedly twisting the iron band on your ring finger until the small stone in the centre scratched at your skin. That Gods damned ring that bound you to the monster you called your husband. That iron cage that kept you as his possession instead of his love.

Yet the fear… the fear at the idea of removing it sat far too heavy in your chest. The fear of him finding you, punishing you. But he wouldn’t find you, you knew that. Rafe would never dream of crossing that veil into the Fae lands. And even if he did, you were sure he’d be eaten alive within the first breath he took in that world.

When you met Nesta and Cassian outside, they both had a satchel of their own on their shoulders; stuffed to the brim of bread and cheese and skins of water they’d raided from the kitchen.

The General nodded at you once as you approached. You wondered if you’d done anything to offend him, or perhaps he found this—you—to be an unnecessary burden to him and his day.

“Thank you,” you managed to utter, and both he and Nesta felt the pure relief and gratitude in your voice.

Cassian’s resolve softened, a sympathetic gleam in his eye and he hated himself for a moment for even considering leaving you here alone.

“It’ll take us half a day to reach the wall,” Nesta began, unmoving from Cassian’s side. “When we pass, Azriel will meet us at the border in Spring. Cassian cannot fly the both of us.”

You couldn’t help the apology that slithered up your throat. “I don’t mean to be a burden—“

But it was Cassian who growled in response, “You are not. You are family, and we don’t leave family behind.”

You walked for hours, legs sore and tired and throbbing from the stamina you lacked. But you didn’t want to stop, to ask for a break. They were kind enough to have brought you, you needn’t add any more time onto their already long journey.

So you kept your mouth shut and willed your legs to move, one in front of the other. Hours passed and you could feel that familiar panic rise in your stomach. Nightfall was approaching, which meant Rafe would surely be home by now…

You didn’t want to allow yourself to think of that. Of what he was doing after finding the home empty with nothing but your wedding band on the dresser, the only proof you ever even existed in that house.

It was Cassian who made the call to stop for a break, as though only now remembering how weak a mortal body was compared to a Fae’s—or in his case, an Illyrian.

Nesta had told you many things about her family in Prythian; the members of the Inner Circle, the beautiful city of Velaris and all the wonders it had to offer. Despite the relief you felt for leaving, the anxiety of entering the Fae lands was unmatched to anything you’d felt before.

You rested for only thirty minutes, the three of you eating your way through an entire satchel of food and two skins of water. Perhaps Nesta and Cassian were as tired as you were, though you figured not.

And by the time you reached the wall, night had surrounded you in complete darkness, nothing but a ripple in the air to suggest you had met the end of your homelands.

It was opaque for the most part, but the air seemed to glimmer and fold, as if you were looking magic dead in its face. You allowed your fingers to reach shakily for it, a fearful thought stopping you from making contact.

You turned to your cousin. “Will it hurt?”

She took your hand. “No, though when we pass through you’ll need to stay as close to Cassian and I as possible. Your scent—it’ll be a beacon to all sorts of creatures that roam freely within the Spring.”

Nesta shrugged off her jacket and handed it to you. “It’ll somewhat mask your scent. Just long enough until we meet with Azriel.”

You shoved your arms in the jacket as you put it on over your own and took Nesta’s hand again. Her eyes met yours, something akin to relief and sorrow flickering in her gaze. You didn’t want her pity. And it cleaved your heart into two knowing that you could never do anything to repay her for this, to express just how far your gratitude stretched.

Cassian and Nesta took three steps forward and as you followed, the air rippled around you…you breathed in the new life and second chance you’d been given.

But nothing could have prepared you for what awaited on the other side of the veil.

The first and only thing you saw were a set of sharp, gleaming white teeth before you were shoved to the ground with a hard thud, your head hitting against soft grass with a thump.

Snarls and grunts and shrieks surrounded you, and in the time it took to regain your bearings, Cassian and Nesta were sheathing their daggers once more as the…thing that had attacked lay dead on a field of daisies.

With eerie calmness, you assessed the creature. It was huge, twice the size of Cassian and about four times the size of you. Dark black fur covered its body and ruby red eyes that lifelessly stared into your very soul.

For some strange, obscene reason, you couldn’t bring yourself to look away. Not as you breathed in the fresh soil beneath your feet. It felt as though your world had been turned on his axis, as if only now could you see clearly.

Then you heard it, a distant swooshing in the wind. You angled your neck toward the noise, eyes not needing to squint in the darkness as the stars illuminated the sky so beautifully.

Your brows furrowed, but you did not look away. “Something is coming.”

Both Nesta and Cassian followed your gaze then, stepping closer to your still body. The figure came closer, your initial thoughts of it being a large bird being dismissed as a pair of wings much like Cassian’s, only larger, flipped through the midnight air.

You smelt him before catching his face. Pine and wood and parchment. Mint. There was a hint of mint and something sweet like cinnamon as the glorious Illyrian landed swiftly onto the grass.

Azriel.

You remembered him, the Shadowsinger. Silver streaks of the moon casted across his brown skin as he approached swiftly, those dark and languid shadows moving across his form and snaking the earth until they halted at your feet—assessing.

“So glad you finally joined the party.” Cassian said in greeting, though Azriel paid no mind to the tone his brother offered.

Those shadows wrapped around your ankles softly, slinking your skin as they felt you out. You felt something then, a tug in the air that seemed to pull the shadows back to Azriel’s towering form.

That was when you looked at him, breath stolen from your lungs. He was beautiful. A warrior, that you could tell. Solid muscle covered every inch of him, dark black hair that sat messily on his head and swept down his forehead and brows. Hazel eyes met yours, his lips parting—no doubt at the state of your bruised face.

He was beautiful when you’d seen him previously on his brief visit to speak with Lucien… but now, it was as though you were seeing him truly–with so much clarity in your gaze it almost blinded you. Everything about this land did. 

“There are more coming, so unless you want a fight, I suggest we leave.”

His tone held no room for argument, yet he spoke in an unrushed drawl, as if these creatures were the least of his concern. He was as large as Cassian, daggers strapped to his leathers, so you supposed they likely posed little to no threat to him and his skills.

“Can you winnow?” Nesta asked.

It wasn’t lost on you how overlooked you were, despite being the reason for his presence. But like most of your life, it came as no surprise to be somewhat invisible. Cast aside. Unnoticed.

Azriel shook his head. “We’ll need to fly to the border between Autumn and Winter, from there I can winnow us back to Velaris.”

Cassian nodded, reaching for Nesta. “We’ll go first, make sure the area is safe. Follow us in five minutes.”

Nesta looked at you, a silent conversation between you both.

You’ll be okay?

I’ll be fine. If you trust Azriel then so do I.

No other words were exchanged when Cassian hauled Nesta into his arms, spread his magnificent wings and shot to the skies. You watched until they were a mere dot beside the stars before returning your attention to the Shadowsinger who was already offering you his.

“It’s nice to see you again, Y/N.” He said politely.

You wondered if he’d remembered your name from your first and last encounter almost a year ago, or if when Cassian sent word for aid he’d reminded him of it.

Either way, you offered a timid smile. “You too, Azriel. I apologise for troubling you with this. All of you.”

He shook your apology off. “It’s no bother. Are you hurt anywhere?”

You knew he wasn’t referring to bruises and cuts you already adorned. It seemed as though stepping through that veil gave you more clarity, more understanding of silent thoughts and everything else around you.

You shook your head. “No.”

“Good.” He nodded, and those shadows threatened to reach for your ankles again.

Azriel didn’t pull them back this time, only took a tentative step closer. “I apologise, they’re no threat. Not to you.”

You nodded, gaze upon them as they slinked further up your body and wrapped softly around your arms. Azriel almost bristled at the way you remained so calm. He wondered how much about him and his family you knew. He supposed Nesta had told you much through letters and such.

You didn’t reply, couldn’t bring yourself. You knew how deadly the Inner Circle could be to their enemies. And yet these shadows touched you with more softness than your husband ever did. You didn’t let that thought show on your face.

“Everything feels different on this side of the wall,” you admitted, a little breathless.

Azriel remained looking at you. “Everything feels…clearer.”

You waved the shadows off your body gently, silently shooing them back to their master.

“I’ll need to fly you like Cassian did to Nesta,” he began. “Are you afraid of heights?”

You didn’t know the answer to that. But the thought of being held by him the same way Nesta was by Cassian… that thought scared you. And not because it was Azriel, but because of the sheer closeness and intimacy that was needed for it.

You swallowed it down. “No… I don’t think so.”

He nodded, taking another step closer with an outstretched hand. “You can close your eyes if you wish, and I’ll fly slowly, I swear.”

You heard it then, the pattering of paws on the grass, of claws digging into the soil and snarls of breath into the night. You looked to Azriel, eyes a little wilder than before. He nodded, as if he already knew what you were about to say.

He held out his hand further for you to take, and you took a hold of his marred skin, calloused under your softer palm but you didn’t balk, didn’t pull away as you got a clearer view of the scars that adorned him.

Azriel hoisted you into his arms, cradling you to his chest. “The take off will be harsh, make sure you hold on tight to me.”

And he wasn’t lying. Azriel bent his knees and shoved his full weight into the earth before you both shot into the starlit skies. You didn’t close your eyes, you wanted to see everything this world had to offer. A world that was always at your fingertips but never accessible until now.

The wind seemed to whisper to you, gently caressing your bruised skin and promising a better life. A new life. As though the elements welcomed you home. 

It was only moments of uphill force until Azriel evened out and began a steady speed through the clouds. His scent enveloped you, almost overbearing as it encompassed all of your senses.

You worried for a moment then. If his scent surrounded you this way, you wondered how badly yours did to him with such heightened senses. You tried to hold your breath for longer than usual, tried to steady your heartbeat, afraid he’d hear it.

“Are you okay?” He murmured against the shell of your ear. Because even though you tried to mask it, he could sense your every feeling, your every tremor and sigh and sob.

Tears streamed down your face as he flew you both north toward the border between Autumn and Winter.

“Thank you, Azriel.” And you thanked him and thanked him and thanked him. Until your voice grew hoarse from the sobs and you let yourself realise that you were finally free.

Finally safe. 

In the transitioning week of being escorted to the Night Court, you had hardly spoken to a soul. For the first two days, you appreciated the silence, the safety–basked in it, even. Nesta had shown you to your room in the House of Wind, an incredible home built into the walls of a large mountain that overlooked the city of Velaris. 

“Should you need anything,” Nesta had said softly, “ask the House, it listens.” 

And she had been right. The first night, you thought of a hot bubble bath and a gentle breeze had sifted through your sheer curtains, guiding you to your personal bathing chambers where a hot bath had been drawn, scents of calming lavender and jasmine coating you. 

You only saw Nesta twice after that, once when she brought you some of her favourite romance books and again, two days later when she told you Feyre and Elain sent their love and well wishes. 

She’d had the family's healer, Majda, check you over for any untreated injuries, and when she came up short she offered you a few tonics for the discomfort and encouraged you to rest before sending you back on your way.

You shouldn’t have expected more, shouldn’t have longed for more. You supposed Nesta had done her part enough–saving you from Rafe and bringing you here. And yet, despite the House tending to your needs and the souls of the romance novels…you felt just as alone as you had in the mortal lands. 

You hadn’t seen Azriel since either, nor Cassian. You didn’t have much right to ask after them, to thank them again. They had their own lives and roles to fill, you knew your rescue had been nothing more than another third-grade mission to them. 

By the fifth day, the realisation had begun to sink in. That you’d been moved from one lonely home into another. Perhaps that was the course your life was fated to take–alone, unnoticed, nothing more than a ghost in the wind, nothing worth acknowledging. 

You wrote your thoughts into your leather-bound journal, the only form of release you had for these dark emotions. Yet every time the pen lifted from the parchment, you felt heavier than you had before. 

You were yet to leave your bedroom, often sitting at the window seat that overlooked the lights of the city, wondering what life awaited down there. Wondered if you’d ever get the opportunity to explore it. Nesta had mentioned that the House was warded from winnowing, the only way out was to fly or descend the ten thousand stairs. 

But you couldn’t fly, and you wouldn’t make the steps down either. You weren’t a prisoner, you knew that. But Nesta had done her part, saving you, bringing you to her and Cassian’s home. You were not her responsibility, not anyones. 

Yet, you couldn’t help but feel trapped, restricted. Moved from one stone building and into another. Perhaps that was what finally made you venture out of your room, barefeet padding across the cool floors.

You followed the winding staircase to a lower level, noting the ornate furniture that decorated the large space. A crackling hearth caught your attention, so inviting and warm in front of a plush couch. The House seemed to beckon you to it, a gentle breeze against the backs of your bare legs and it made your short nightgown sway. 

Following it, you sat on the couch and a thick blanket materialised and draped itself over your legs at the same time a steaming mug of tea and a new romance novel appeared on the table beside you. 

You smiled softly, warmth spreading in your chest as you thanked the House. 

An hour or so had passed, not that you were for certain, but the House remained silent. Nothing but sips of your tea and flipping of pages could be heard along with the crackling of the hearth. 

For a moment, you felt at peace in your own company. Completely content for this time to sit and read and know you wouldn’t receive a beating or worse for it. You stretched out your back, stifling a yawn as a pair of soft footsteps greeted your ears. 

Your eyes widened, an unnecessary apology already on the tip of your tongue, though for what you weren’t sure. That had become the norm for you, apologising for your every breath. 

But it was not Rafe that stepped out of the shadows, of course not. It was Azriel, in all his glory, wings tucked neatly behind his back and you counted the seven blue siphons that adorned his leathers. 

“Azriel,” you breathed, a sheepish smile on your face. 

Finally, some company. Someone to acknowledge your presence and to perhaps converse with. You shuffled on the couch, making to put your book down but all Azriel did was give you a terse nod in greeting and a thin smile before walking down the hall and out of your sight. 

It shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did. You should be used to this by now. You were used to it. But you couldn’t control that tiny thread of hope in your chest that things could be different. That you could be accepted and wanted and noticed. 

For the eighth night in a row, you were left in the dark with nothing but the crippling loneliness and aching of your soul to keep you company. 

A/N: Thank you for reading!! This is the first instalment of this mini-series that I literally got the idea for two days ago lol. It'll be around 5/6 parts, smut will come and a few twists you won't expect!! Unfortunately I'm unable to get my old page back (rhysazriel), which means most of my previous writings have been lost but I'll likely repost the ones I have saved in my google docs in the late future (plug!az being one of them.)

If you enjoyed it, please consider giving it a like and reblog, your feedback is always appreciated!! <3

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Neighborly

mdni

Masterlist

Soap x reader x Ghost

Summary: You didn't know hate until Johnny MacTavish. (Or a really big build-up to cuddles and smut).

Warnings: Implied anxiety disorder/depressive disorder, self-isolation, language, incredibly shitty communication and social competence.

It was supposed to be a one-shot.

You didn’t know hate until Johnny MacTavish.

He bought the only house within half a mile, the one you expected to stay silent and empty ‘til death did you part. So, you had reason to dislike him from the start. But you were raised right, and you pushed down the snarling hermit in your soul to be a good, friendly neighbor.

The first meeting was fine, even if he was a boombox of a human being.

“Neighbor? Oh, aye! The hermit? Sorry. Heard about you when I toured the place last month.” His eye lands on the plate of cookies you’ve brought to welcome him. “Those all for me?”

You made small talk at the door, swapped names, and set the groundwork for a reliable, limited relationship as polite people who just happened to live in close proximity.

Then the first snow fell.

You spied him outside, shoveling the shared drive that led up the hill. He cleared it all, which was kind, if a little stupid. The weather system promised another two inches by midafternoon, so everything would be solid white again before sunset. Still, not your problem.

But. He was shirtless. Ripped as fuck and shirtless.

As the wind flung each shovelful of snow back in his face, the powdery flakes stuck and melted on steaming skin. Muscles flexed as he made a spectacle of himself, and your thoughts turned to strategy and available resources.

You wrapped your palms around your ugly, handmade mug and sighed, sipping hot chocolate and wishing you’d gotten a neighbor with at least two scoops of common sense.

When he didn’t appear with his shovel the next morning, you knew your foreboding prophecy had come to pass.

You brought out the stock pot, fished out packs of frozen produce harvested from your garden, and sacrificed your last bag of chicken breasts. The skeleton saved from an old rotisserie bird joined the ingredient army. Might as well go all-in. A man with that many muscles needed bone broth to recover.

Since you didn’t know if he was a picky eater, you minced the garlic and onions small, even when your eyes burned to the point you had to stop for a break. You let the aromatics brown, added celery, carrots, potatoes, and fistfuls of fresh herbs. The precious seasonings survived the winter under grow lights and protective sheeting on your dining room table.

You doubted your neighbor would appreciate this gift for everything it was, but whatever he did as an idiot neighbor would be leagues better than the presence of a rowdy ghost.

When the chicken was tender and the broth tasted like home, you poured it into individual portions and packed them in a canvas bag with a loaf of bread, a box of tea, a jar of local honey, and a thermometer. It wasn’t terribly heavy, but the cold froze your fingers through your gloves. Your hand was cramping by the time MacTavish answered the door, red-nosed, pale, and bleary-eyed.

He let you in, mumbling a scratchy-voiced welcome, and if you’d known what that conversation would incite, you would’ve let him waste away like the families you failed playing Oregon Trail.

“Eat one now and keep the rest in the fridge.” You stack the single-serve containers in the fridge as you speak, sure he won’t remember the minutiae of your instructions. The last you pop in his microwave. He’s staring at you with feverish eyes, confused and helpless like a sick dog left on the side of the road.

Everything comes out of the bag, lining his counter so he can see them – and hopefully remember he has them. The thermometer comes out last.

“If your fever is over 104 in the morning, call the doctor. I’ll drive you if you need me to.”

That glassy stare isn’t shifting. The man doesn’t even blink.

“Did you get all that?”

He clears his throat. The action and sound are both strangely slow in his exhausted state, and you’re determined not to feel bad for him.

“Aye.” Finally, he blinks. “Eat the soup. Watch for 104.”

Good enough.

“Okay.”

The microwave beeps, you pull out the soup, leaving him to fetch a spoon from wherever the hell he keeps them. You don’t wait for him to show you out. “Take care of yourself.”

He didn’t call for help, and you took your turn shoveling the drive with proper protection after the last wave of flurries passed.

The next time he saw you in passing – you were returning home and he was just leaving – he let you know your soup was delicious, that the bread was amazing, and the honey did wonders for his throat. He never returned your containers.

Ah, well. They were replaceable.

Then the next snow came, and the dumb bitch went shoveling shirtless again.

It wasn’t as much snow, and it didn’t take him half as long, but you steamed, glaring from the safety of your kitchen window. You refused to replace your meal prep supplies again. And local honey was expensive. The brat could freeze and die. Something about taking a horse to water and all that shit.

You drank your coffee black that morning, just to make a point to no one in particular.

The man didn’t know how to take care of himself, and he had no idea how to winter-proof his home.

His pipes froze. You brought buckets, old towels, bottled water, and the number of an excellent plumber. Then you explained why he should pay attention to the forecast and let faucets drip to keep the water moving. You told him to open the cabinets under sinks so heat could combat the chill along exterior walls.

His truck’s battery succumbed to the cold. You gave him a jump and escorted him to town to make sure he didn’t get himself stranded.

When he didn’t keep things stocked and tried to panic-shop before a big storm, discovering that small town shelves couldn’t meet demand, you shared staples from your pantry.

He didn’t have more than two cheap blankets in his living space, so when the holidays rolled around you gave him your latest assemblage of granny-squares. And a scarf.

He gave you burnt cookies – “Biscuits” – in return.

(And a half-empty bottle of whiskey.)

He never remembered to drag his trash down to the main road.

And gods help you if the power went out, because the man had no generator, very little in his pantry, and rarely more than a quarter tank of gas in his ride.

He was careless. Clueless. Nearly helpless.

What were you supposed to do? You couldn’t leave him to his fate. It was unneighborly and inhumane.

He made you angry. But you didn’t hate him until his friend moved in.

A few months into his residence, you went to Johnny’s door to ask if he needed anything from town before the next storm shadowed the forecast, and a stranger came to the door.

A hulking monster with a skull painted over his balaclava.

The doorway shrank around his broad shoulders, and he ducked when he stepped out. You weren’t sure if he entirely needed to, but you understood the urge – like an adult stepping out of a child’s playhouse. Scarred knuckles wrapped around the doorknob, and you knew his grip would swallow you whole by the way it engulfed the brass handle.

Animal instinct jarred you. Every hair from the base of your skull to the end of your spine stood on end as you tried to smell the air, listen to the wind, spot the predator’s intent before it was too late.

You didn’t have a problem with people balaclavas. You’d worn one the other day when you were shoveling the drive, but this looked less like protection and more like a threat.

Was he robbing your neighbor? Had a serial killer come to town? Oh, fuck.

You took a step back, reaching for your phone because you didn’t carry a weapon, especially not on a grocery run, and it was the closest thing you had to help.

“You the neighbor?”

He asked so casually, vaguely irritated, but relaxed. It wasn’t the voice of a man who’d just been caught committing a felony, and you took a second to look beyond the stranger’s mask (and size). There was a mug in his hand, and he wore a t-shirt with sweats. His socked feet lingered on the front step, just shy of the blue road salt and crisped ice. Not robbery gear. More like a… houseguest?

Your neighbor never had guests before.

It caught you so off guard your brain short circuited. He had always been a lone, helpless figure. Made sense he’d have friends, though. You couldn’t imagine he’d survive anywhere long without someone looking out for him.

You were still a little irritated that your neighbor had invited his own friend to his own house on his own property without informing you, but that was just the recluse inside snarling at a new face. Or half of one.

And – well – manners.

Holding out a mittened hand, you introduced yourself, adding, “I stopped to see if Johnny needed anyth-”

“No.” He shut you down so fast you reeled another step back. “Don’t need anything.”

He closed the door and that was that.

Sun glittered on the season’s collection of snow, a frozen fairyland that wouldn’t entirely melt until spring. Then there would be roads washed out, and mud, and you’d need to teach Johnny flash flood safety and…

It didn’t compute. Johnny was still home, so surely he’d pop out with an explanation.

You waited.

But he didn’t.

The absolute fuck?

Your spinning thoughts kept you trapped in your head for a solid minute, processing what had happened, what was implied, and what that meant for your neighborly relationship. Even when you managed to move, drive to town, and run your errands, the interaction prickled in your mind like a splinter.

You must’ve done something wrong.

Aged fluorescent lights strobed out of time with your cart’s shrieking wheels. You discovered your list wasn’t in your pocket. It waited at home, next to a pen to add Johnny’s requests. You’d already added things you doubted he’d think to ask for, and it would take time to pick apart your needs. The list wouldn’t have saved you, even if you’d remembered it.

Three bags of flour went into your cart. That was fine. They’d keep, and baking was a good way to combat cabin fever (it warmed the house as a bonus).

Two gallons of milk.

Wait.

No.

You put one back, self-conscious. A young mother with her baby stood just behind you, and an old woman was reviewing her coupons across the aisle. You refused to make eye contact, convinced you’d catch them watching. Did they see? Were they worried about your germs on the product you put back? Did they think you were too broke to buy what you needed? Maybe they thought you’d just broken up with your boyfriend or something.

You counted the squares in the linoleum as you marched away from the refrigerators’ humming. One less source of white noise. It didn’t help as much as you’d hoped. The real buzzing roared inside your skull.

Johnny was a pain in the ass, but at least he was friendly. He wasn’t considerate, but he always thanked you. His friend was a whole different beast. Unfriendly. With a spare set of teeth snarling at the world.

The stranger hadn’t even introduced himself. Was he staying long? Moving in? What was he to Johnny? That question alone would answer so many others.

Because you’d never seen him interact beyond basic business with the mechanic, you realized you had no idea of his sexual orientation. Was he gay? Bi? Pan?

His shirtless shoveling shenanigans annoyed you, yes, but you’d unconsciously granted him a little leeway, assuming it had to do with misguided masculine showmanship. The rooster strutting where the hen could see. The dumbass alpha male proving he was a good, strong provider who was also quite nice to look at.

Clearly you were wrong, and in retrospect, you couldn’t see him as anything but a narcistic dipshit in need of training wheels.

You’d thought, maybe, he even liked you. As a friend? A comrade against the cold? As something.

But you were just a stop-gap. Useful.

Convenient.

Until his real friend joined him.

You found your attention unraveling like a cheap sweater. No matter how hard to you dried to darn the holes, you couldn’t keep up with the loose thread undoing all your conscious measures. It was quickly becoming one of those days when you convinced yourself your therapist had lied about everything.

When you messed up, even in your head, everyone knew.

If they didn’t say otherwise, you were annoying everyone in the room. If they did say otherwise, they were just being polite.

You weren’t likeable, not loveable, and the minute you weren’t useful you should make yourself scarce. Otherwise, things would get awkward, and no one wanted that. You could be the adult. You could hack off a limb and smile about it.

It didn’t hurt, and even if it did, it shouldn’t, because you didn’t have a right to that feeling.

Alright. Fine.

You realized, just as you joined the line for the cashier, that you’d forgotten matches and sugar. They’d been on your list. But someone joined the line behind you, and unspoken social rules that probably didn’t exist shackled you in place. Too late. You’d look stupid. You’d bother someone. Oh well. You’d just have to make another trip. Soon. But not too soon. Now there were two sets of eyes watching you from the connecting drive, and you didn’t want to give them reason to gossip and laugh and assume…

Your pile of groceries looked too small on the conveyor belt. Roughly half what they’d been lately. Would the cashier notice? You were sure she did. The way she recited your total sounded disappointed. Was she counting on you buying more? Were you hurting the employees’ holiday bonus? Shit. Fuck.

The bags felt too heavy. Too light. You forgot your reusable sacks at home, and the plastic dug guilt and accusations into the crease of your palms. On top of everything else, you were killing the planet.

You drove home.

Along the river. Through the trees. Up the hills to your corrupted sanctuary.

At least you didn’t need to make a second trip to bring in all the shopping. Your haul landed on the counter, you threw the damned milk in the fridge, and you realized, as you opened the pantry, that you already had four bags of flour. Two all-purpose, two for bread. Because you’d planned to bake for two.

The flour hadn’t been on your list.

And there was no room for it.

Your lip wobbled, and you bit it ferociously, chewing it until the texture changed and bits of skin started peeling.

It wasn’t a problem. You liked being prepared. You’d dump it in one of the emergency storage totes you kept in the hall closet and be ready when something went wrong.

You did just that, popping open the plastic lid and layering the flour over dry lentils, black beans, and shelf-stable cartons of broth. You decided to add more baking supplies to the list. Even if the power went out you could use the wood-burning stove in the living room to make griddle cakes. Maybe even soda bread.

There. Yeah. That wasn’t so bad. A silver lining.

As you returned to the kitchen, brainstorming ways to atone for the plastic bags you’d used, the scent of coffee wafted down the hall. Which was strange. Because you hadn’t put the moka pot on. You rushed in, frowning.

The old drip machine you only used for company burbled in the corner, and the groceries sat precariously on the corner, shoved aside by the beast who’d wandered through your unlocked door.

A tall, mohawked figure groped, shoulder-deep, in your cabinets.

MacTavish.

The Scottish mumbling would’ve tipped you off even if you weren’t so familiar with his figure (and hair, and limited wardrobe).

Your angst tasted bitter as you swallowed it down. You needed space for the feelings popping like firecrackers in your chest.

Relief. Hope. Dread.

He was in your space without invitation, and with the morning you’d just had, you felt anything but comfortable. Either you’d jumped the gun, or he was bringing a delayed apology for his friend.

“Johnny? What are you doing here?”

He smiled over his shoulder as he pulled two cups down from the shelf. One with your college logo and your prized ugly mug.

“Hello, neighbor!” He cackled, laughing at his own joke. “Wanted to give you a heads up and have a chat. My friend’s come to stay with me.”

Friend? What flavor of friend?

“I know. We met this morning.”

“Aye. Real barrel o’ sunshine, isn’ he?”

“If you say so.”

You wanted to be nice. You wanted to be his friend, too. But you weren’t, and you’d worked so hard to be a good, reliable person he could depend on in a new town – you were drained.

“His name’s Ghost.”

Most people grew out of their edgelord status by their early twenties. Ghost –with his skull balaclava and gruff voice – seemed better fit for the emo table of a suburban high school cafeteria than the adult world.

Johnny kept prattling, making an introduction for someone who wasn’t even there. “Told him all about you! He was impressed. Smacked me over the head about the pipes and said we’d go into town for a generator before the next big snow.”

“Hard to predict the next big snow.”

“Aye. He said that, too.”

If Ghost could keep your insights out of his mouth, you would appreciate it. It felt like he was stealing something from you, and you found yourself shifting from foot to foot, arms crossed, waiting for something terrible to happen.

And it did.

Gesturing as he described his old buddy and new housemate, his elbows danced around your kitchen like battering rams. First, he struck a cabinet, which hurt him more than the wood. He laughed it off. Kept talking. You didn’t need to say a word. By that point, you probably couldn’t even if he left space to speak.

For the life of you, you couldn’t riddle out what his visit was for. It was exhausting. He never chattered so much when you brought food or showed him how to keep his home in one piece. Ghost must make him very happy. His joy made you anxious.

His arm wide, indicating the views he’d fallen for and not the practical considerations of living in the goddamn woods on a goddamn mountain, and you watched in slow motion as his forearm caught your ugly mug’s handle.

It spun, wobbling to the edge of the counter, and before you could move, it plummeted.

A bad day instantly became your worst in years.

It must’ve made a sound when it hit, but you didn’t hear it. Or didn’t remember it. You didn’t remember going to the floor after it, either.

Your mug was in pieces, and when you pulled them to safety, wrapped tight in your fist, the glazed edges cut deep. It was such an ugly little thing. Your ugly little thing. You’d made it in one of those sip-and-spin pottery classes with your pals before you stopped going to see people face-to-face.

The mug wasn’t a friend. It was all of your friends. It was the fun you, the one who went out and did things, and moved through life like a real, entire person.

It practically exploded when it hit the tile. Some pieces were bigger than others, but there were dozens of them. Glittering chips and flecks that you knew you’d be finding with your feet through the rest of the winter.

There was no fixing it. It hurt. You were bleeding. Red oozed up between your knuckles and snaked down your wrist.

“Oh, shite! Shite, shite, shite. Are you alright? Here, let me –”

You didn’t want him to touch it again. Didn’t want him to touch you and act like he gave a fuck. This was a big, ugly feeling bubbling up inside, and if he didn’t dislike you yet, he would when he saw all the tears and snot.

A pretty crier you were not.

And no one wanted to see that, or deal with it, or cope with someone else’s messy emotions.

“It’s fine. I’m okay.” You grit your teeth and smiled through them. “But I need to clean this up, and I still have groceries to put away. How about you get your friend settled and we can talk another time, okay?”

“Are you sure?” His attention was fixed on the blood. Bright red was such an alarming color. You could understand.

“Yeah. Just a little scratch. Promise. But I can’t play host and clean myself up.”

His neck went stiff, and his eyes flicked from your face to the floor. Several times. Like he was having an argument with himself. But in the end, he listened, nodded, and got back on his feet from where he’d knelt in front of you.

“If you insist. But we’re right over there if you need anything, aye?”

“I know.”

Finally, he left.

You got up and locked the door behind him. If you’d taken time to do that before you put away the groceries none of this would’ve happened. You would still have your mug and you wouldn’t be on the floor, crying and cradling the remains of something that mattered to you.

-----------------------

He kept coming over when he needed things. Usually after Ghost’s truck rumbled down the drive. Sometimes he wanted advice. Sometimes he needed help. Usually he took tools and supplies he should’ve bought for himself.

You put your curtains to good work. You couldn’t remember a time you drew them so often. If he knocked, you’d answer, but the curtains were a good deterrent. Not foolproof, but something that gave you a little more power over your privacy.

Long jaunts into town have become escapes from your own home. Better the eyes of strangers – fleetingly painful – than the paranoia of sitting under glass where your neighbors might read your habits and foibles by the way the lights turn on and off through the night, might judge your messy hair through the kitchen window as you wash the dishes. Might, might, might. There were terrible possibilities in all that potential.

They were always there. One ready to freeze you out, the other hanging on your apron strings like a teenager who just got his first place. The conflict rubbed over your nerves like a match on a boot heel. Too much, too fast, and you’d combust.

So you found a lot of reasons to go into town. You remembered how much you liked the library, the joy of a cinnamon roll someone else baked, and hot coffee that didn’t come with a side of flashbacks.

The forecast predicted heavy snow overnight, and you made a day of grocery shopping, collecting novels from the library, and avoiding your neighbor’s last-minute requests.

You barely noticed the teens rushing out of the parking lot as you left your final stop, canvas bag loaded with enough media to keep you entertained through the storm of the century. No windows were broken. No key marks scuffed the paint. If they committed any mischief, it was minor.

Gas theft didn’t cross your mind until your engine quietly gave out and your car rolled to a stop between Nowhere and Nothing.

Understanding dawned with grudging revulsion. Like looking at the toilet and realizing it wouldn’t flush.  

The little shits had siphoned your tank.

You smacked the steering wheel, cursing.

So much for the benefit of the doubt. You couldn’t escape. Everyone everywhere just wanted to use you.

But it was fine. Everything would be fine. You were always prepared in case someone fucked you over. Your wellbeing was your responsibility, after all.

Climbing out of the warm cabin, you headed to the back and pulled out the emergency gas can.

The red plastic was shockingly light. You didn’t realize until you’d already thrown your weight into the yank. Unbalanced, you tottered, and your heel skidded over ice.

The snow cushioned your fall, and you stared blankly into the white limned branches overhead as you tried to process the last five seconds. Things like this happened to idiots. They did not happen to you. Careful, cautious you with your backup plans and reserves.

You had simply made a mistake. Somewhere. Somehow. You’d find an explanation.

When you sat up, still in a state of shock, you examined the can, expecting signs of a mouse, or a crack, or…

An I.O.U. was taped to the back.

You knew the handwriting all too well.

That shitting little…

The snow arrived. Silence swallowed the mountain, and the gloaming snuffed the last of the sun’s warmth.

You sat alone on the side of the road, well aware that no one would come up this way for hours. Days maybe.

You had made a mistake.

You made your neighbor chicken soup.

Your nose burned, and you sniffed. Hot tears rolled down your face, burning as they went, and you wiped at them furiously. The wool of your mittens chafed your cheek. Your lip wobbled, and you hurled the empty can into the woods.

Fuck Johnny MacTavish.

Fuck Ghost.

Fuck your life.

[lijoue]

ITALIA WORLD MOD PACK

Hello hello,

I've been working hard to create something really good to share with you. This is my most ambitious release yet, so I hope it was worth the wait!

ITALIA is a custom cc 'game pack' that transforms Tartosa into a beautiful Italian-inspired destination! Tartosa is my favourite world in the game, but I feel like it never gets any love because everyone hates My Wedding Stories. I want to help you fall in love with the beauty of Tartosa! If you don't have My Wedding Stories, there's plenty of base-game friendly items for you as well. There is A LOT of stuff in this pack (around 125 items).

Download Link & More Details on Patreon (early Access)

CORE FEATURES

Tartosa world override with new world lighting, buildings, trees, streetlights, functional objects, marketstalls, and decor.

New food & drinks (gelato, pasta, pizza, wine, and coffee!)

New custom-tuned functional objects to elevate your gameplay.

NEW FUNCTIONAL OBJECTS (custom tuning)

Picnic Blanket | Sit, eat, gaze at the sky, and even bathe in the moonlight. *DLC interactions require their respective packs (Lovestruck, Life & Death)

Beach Bathroom | Using this outdoor bathroom costs 1§ and restores hygiene & bladder without the uncomfy public bathroom buffs.

Beach Bag | Works like a dresser to change outfit on-the-go.

Cooler Bag | Stock with drinks & snacks. Functions like a picnic basket on blankets and picnic tables. Helps keep food fresh and fixes the picnic basket inventory to store up to 99 food and drink items.

Stovetop Moka Pot | Brew a quick pot of espresso from the countertop or stovetop.

Souvenir Stand | Purchase from a curated selection of art & objects. Includes items that are difficult to obtain in-game, as well as cc from two of my favourite creators bbygyal 123andPierisim. CC items will only show up in the shop if you already have the files in your Mods folder, so please check out their work if you haven't already! Sims can also purchase wearable souvenir t-shirts and baseball caps.

Gelato Stand | Purchase gelato, ice cream, and drinks.

Beach Stand | Purchase beach stuff, drinks, snacks, and souvenirs.

Coffee Stand | Purchase coffee and snacks

Park Fountain | Toss a coin in the fountain and have a seat. The XL version spawns butterflies.

Drinking Fountain | Wash hands or grab a drink of water with the infinitely refillable water bottle.

Nectar Bottle | Pour a glass of nectar. Includes 7 new nectar drinks and new custom buffs. Also includes in-game nectars from Horse Ranch, Dine Out, Bistro etc.

Classic Pool Float | Please download my mod Better Pool Floats for optimal experience.

Restaurant | Call a waiter to serve a curated menu of food & drinks. Sims in a rush can also order to-go (without a waiter).

NEW FOOD & DRINKS 

Nectar: Vigna Bianco, Sparkling Luminoso Bianco, Sparkling Luminoso Rosé, Rosa D'Amorosa, Amanti del Rosso, The Devil's Nectar, Bianco Spritz

Gelato: Pistachio, Pesca, Fragola, Bacio, Fior di Latte, Vanille, Caffè, Limoncello

Pasta: Carbonara, Spicy Carbonara, Spaghetti Alle Vongole, Cacio e Pepe, Spaghetti Marinara, Shrimp Spaghetti Marinara, Spaghetti Aglio e Olio

Snacks: Margherita Pizza, White Funghi Pizza, Fruit & Cheese Charcuterie Board

Cooler Drinks: Bottled Water, Aranciata Soda, Lemon Soda, Mojito Soda, Barbet Light Wave, Barbet Wild Card, Barbet Love Bite

Espresso: Caffe Latte, Cappuccino, Italian Hot Chocolate, Mocha, Macchiato, Americano

Download Link & More Details on Patreon (early Access)

[stargirlygirl]

out your nose

zayne x fem!reader

summary: zayne's had a tough day at work, so you try to make him feel better (it doesn't go so well)

contains: nsfw, oral sex (m!receiving), his cum squirts out of your nose, zayne cleans you up, 2.6k words

You’re stirring tonight’s soup in a large pot over the stove when the front door clanks open. In walks Zayne, still clad in his white coat and wearing his usual stoic expression. After setting his things down, he creeps up behind you and encircles his muscular arms around your waist.

You raise a spoonful of soup to his lips, giggling, “Here, have a taste. Is it too salty or?” He slurps the hot soup, a little furrow in his brow as he concentrates on the flavour profile. Lowering the wooden spoon and continuing to swirl the orange, creamy mixture, you hum the song that’s been stuck in your head all day.

He finally murmurs, “It tastes good. Pumpkin?”

You nod, “And butternut squash.”

“Mhmm.” He pecks your cheek.

“What do you need me to do?” He asks. You chuckle as you set the spoon down on the bench.

Twirling around, you wrap your arms around his neck and grin, “Nothing. I’ve got it all under control, baby. Why don’t you go get changed and relax?” His lips pout ever so slightly, seemingly not satisfied with your answer.

Your boyfriend counters, “How about I set the table?”

You chortle softly, “Okay.” With one last kiss, he leaves you to handle dinner while grabbing out bowls and spoons. You continue humming mindlessly as you try the soup and conclude it’s finished. Observant as always, Zayne places the two bowls next to the stove.

“Let me,” he says quietly. You step out of the way as he hoists up the pot and fills the bowls with your soup. As he does so, you open the oven door and pull out the bread you baked earlier. Already sliced and warm, you transfer the loaf to a plate and set it down in the middle of the island bench. Zayne puts the half-full pot down with a clank on the stove before shuffling the bowls near the bread.

After adding the finishing touches, you two sit down and eat dinner together. He listens to you ramble about your day, chiming in with questions every so often, so you know that he’s still listening. But when you ask him about his day, he shrugs while taking a bite of your delicious spelt bread.

“Busy?” You ask. He nods, not offering up anything else even after he swallows. Must have been a tough day, you think.

Zayne helps you clean up once you’ve both finished. He washes the dishes while you pack away leftovers, and he dries plates as you dry cutlery.

Seeing the slump in his shoulders, you take the last plate from him and order, “Go sit on the couch, maybe put a movie on. I’ll finish up here.”

He stares at you blankly before retorting, “I appreciate your concern, dear. But I’m fine—”

“I wasn’t asking,” you cut him off. He sighs, holding your eyes for a few moments before backing down.

“Alright. I’ll brew tea,” he mumbles.

By the time you plop down on the sofa, he’s shed his tie and loosened the top buttons of his white dress shirt. You thank him as he hands you a steaming mug of tea.

Giving it a whiff, you say curiously, “Jasmine?” He nods. You curl into his side, his arm firm around your shoulders as some rom-com plays. Taking a sip of your tea, you sigh in pleasure.

“It’s just tea,” he grumbles.

You say it like it’s obvious, “Yeah, but you made it.” Zayne can’t fight the micro-smile that curls the corners of his lips.

Halfway through the movie, you’re restless. You’ve been sitting for too long, you finished your yummy beverage 20 minutes ago, and you’ve thought of the perfect way to cheer up your grumpy boyfriend.

Standing under the pretence of stretching, you lift your arms overhead. Your crop top rises, showing off your tummy. Zayne gazes back at the screen, trying to focus on the film as you tilt to the side, revealing even more of your belly.

He’s so weak for your tummy. He loves how soft it is, especially the little stretch marks painting your hip bones. One time, he called them tiger stripes, and you just stared at him blankly, both offended and flattered at the same time. He was worried you didn’t like that nickname for them, but you reassured him otherwise with soft kisses and murmurs.

“Oh, Zaynie,” you coo, finally resting your arms down by your sides as you stalk over to him. You stand in front of him, blocking his view of the tv.

He mumbles, “Yes, dear.” You lean forward, cupping his cheeks with your hands. His hazel eyes widen, staring at you like a scared kitten as you tilt his head from side to side.

Closing the distance between you, your lips seal over his. His hands grip your wrists and slide down your arms till they caress your back. He pulls you onto his lap, your shins against his thighs, and your ass on your heels as you smooch. You can taste your dinner wrapped up in jasmine on his tongue, but you don’t care.

You grip his collar, tugging him back to your lips after he dared to break your kiss.

Air is for the weak.

You remind him of that as you kiss him harder. You nip his bottom lip, making him shudder and moan. He grips the hem of your shirt, cool fingers digging into your flesh as you suck on his tongue.

Separating, a string of spit connects your lips. You smirk, the glimmering saliva snapping as you rest your forehead against Zayne’s. Heat simmers beneath your skin, your face slightly red as you pant. Your breath becomes his, and you notice the pink dotting his under eyes.

Letting go of his shirt, your hands slide to rest over his heart. He does the same, keeping one hand on your waist while his other hand comes to your heart. They beat in sync, rapidly.

You exhale, “Zayne, let me take care of you. Please.”

He murmurs, “What did you have in mind, darling?”

“I’ll show you,” you smirk. Your nimble fingers work at the rest of his buttons until his chest is bare. You yank his shirt off and discard it on the floor.

Feeling his sculpted chest beneath your palms, you whisper seductively, “Relax, I’ve got you.” He breathes out, his chest falling as he nuzzles your hairline with his nose. You gently pinch his nipples, making him groan in your ear.

Rolling the sensitive peaks between your fingers, you sloppily kiss a trail down his neck to his collarbone. You nip at his pale skin, his barely contained whimpers heading straight to your core.

Sliding your hands down lower, you unbuckle Zayne’s belt and work at the zipper of his trousers. His inhale catches, his heart stammering as your fingertips brush over his bulge. You giggle, gazing up at him with dreamy eyes as you stroke his hard cock through his boxers.

Pecking his jaw, you stand up and tug his dress pants and underwear down to his ankles (with his help, of course). He hisses at the cool air ghosting his erection as you lower yourself to your knees, sitting prettily between his legs.

You grab his length and take the tip between your lips. Drooling all over it, you pull back and coat his length in your saliva with your fingers. You lick the vein popping out on the underside, right up the head of his cock before sucking it back into your mouth. So hot and slippery, he moans and breathes heavily as you start bobbing your head. One of your hands cradle his spit-soaked balls while the other jerks the base of his cock.

Arousal pools in your panties, ruining them for sure as you push his cock to the back of your throat. Such elicits a guttural moan from your usually composed boyfriend. Your nose brushes his neatly trimmed pubes as you do your best not to gag on his cock.

Pulling off it, you stare up at him with swollen lips stretched into a sweet grin. He sighs as he pats your crown soothingly with his veiny hand.

Zayne tucks a loose lock of hair behind your ear, contradicting the dishevelled mess atop his head, strands falling in his eyes and distorting his vision. Tenderly gripping your nape, he guides you back to his dick. His tip prods at your lips as you giggle.

And when you draw him back into your mouth, your boyfriend groans, “Can I?” You moan around his length, your eyes urging him on. He slowly pushes your head down on his cock until his tip kisses your throat again. You feel his fingers twitch on the back of your neck, itching to fuck your face as he reminds himself to be a gentleman. He grabs the other side of your head with his free hand, easing you up and down on his dick.

Zayne’s precum dribbles all over your tongue. But he doesn’t give you the chance to swallow it as his balls hit your chin. The wet sucking noises blur out the movie still playing, and the warm lighting illuminates your beauty in this position. So submissive and eager to please. More pre spews into your mouth as your boyfriend attempts to not cum. But he’s fighting a losing battle.

As you gag around his hard length, tears swelling your eyes, he can’t hold it back anymore. His cum shoots in ropes down your throat, scolding hot and thick. You gag, hands squeezing his thighs as you choke on his cream.

And unfortunately, your lover doesn’t notice. He’s moaning so fucking loud, his eyes rolling to the back of his skull as his hips buck. Every whine you make only intensifies his orgasm, his fingers tightening in your hair.

His release burns your throat. It rises up the back of your nose, searing all of your nerves like molten metal.

At last, Zayne’s grasp loosens and you pull off his cock faster than ever before. Hunching over, you launch into a coughing fit as his cum drips out of your nostrils. You stare down at your cum covered hands with cloudy eyes, your tears and his seed trickling onto your palms.

Your boyfriend comes around, gazing down at you with that small knot in his brow, perplexed as to why you’re coughing.

“Honey,” he rasps. You rise to your feet, stumbling as you beeline for the box of tissues next to the tv. And of course, you drop the fucking box in your haste. Bending down, more semen runs down your philtrum and lips. You pluck out a few tissues and blow your nose.

“Love, what’s wrong?” Zayne asks, confused, as he hastily pulls up his pants and comes over to you. You turn around, not wanting him to see you like this, but he’s not having any of it. As you wipe your nose, he catches a glimpse of the off-white fluid soaking the tissue. He draws a sharp breath in, bright eyes flicking between your leaking nose and the tissue.

“Fuck,” he curses lowly. He grabs your shoulders as you enter the second round of your coughing fit.

Handing you fresh tissues, he instructs clinically, “Alright. Cough it up. Blow it out. Good girl. Keep going until it feels clear at the back of your throat.” You obey, coughing and blowing your nose until his cum dwindles. All that’s left behind is—

“It burns,” you mumble through tears.

Zayne rubs your back as he murmurs, “Yes, semen can irritate the mucus membranes. Your nose is also very sensitive. Having other fluids in your nose, such as semen, which is comparatively colder than the internal temperature of your nose, can cause discomfort and a burning sensation as the cells balance out the components of the substance.” You nod, feeling exhausted as you sniffle painfully.

Your boyfriend continues, “I’m going to make you a saline solution and flush out your nose. As I do so, why don’t you get in the shower? Do you want me to start it for you?” You nod again, poutily. He draws you into his arms and carries you to the bathroom.

Setting you down, he undresses you and gets the water running before leading you into the shower. It’s nice and toasty, the steam soothing your stuffy nose. He kisses your forehead lovingly before heading to the kitchen.

Returning with a squeeze bottle in hand, he positions you out of the water’s trajectory.

“Now, tilt your head to one side.” You follow his instruction, tilting your head. He gently cups your cheek as he raises the bottle to your nose.

“I’m going to squeeze the saline solution into one nostril, and it will drip out the other. Breathe through your mouth, alright?” You hum in agreement, closing your eyes as the long tip of the bottle prods at your upper nostril. The cold fluid slowly fills the space there, mildly uncomfortable as you feel it drizzle out the other side. You breathe steadily through your mouth, your heartbeat in your ears, until Zayne stops and pulls the bottle out.

He tilts your head to the other side while explaining, “Now, I’m going to repeat the same on the other side.”

As he squeezes the rest of the solution into your nose, he praises you, “You’re doing well. Just a little more.” Drawing the bottle out, he pecks your brow and hops out of the shower.

When he comes back, he’s as bare as you are. Embracing you, he rests his chin on the top of your head as you press your chest firmly against his.

He murmurs, “I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t realise you were uncomfortable.”

You mumble into his pec, “It’s okay. I’m okay.” Zayne pulls back and brushes your hair out of your face.

He shakes his head, “No, it’s not okay. You got hurt because of my negligence—”

“Zayne—”

“I’ll be more attentive to you next time. I promise, love.” He plants a firm kiss on your lips, containing the anger he holds toward himself right now. Your noses brush as he breaks the kiss.

His breath intermingles with yours as you sigh, “I feel much better now, thanks to you, doc.”

“I’m glad,” he mumbles. Zayne washes your body with precision, his movements controlled as he rinses the soap off your delicate skin. You insist on helping him wash, too, but he refuses.

You grab his jaw, forcing him to face you as you say sternly, “I know you feel guilty, but I love you.” He exhales, pecking your lips before rubbing body wash all over his toned arms.

“And besides,” you continue. “It’s kinda funny when you think about it.”

“Funny?” He grits out.

“That was anything but funny, dear.” You playfully shove him by the shoulder, but he doesn’t even budge.

“Oh, come on!” You whine. “Don’t be such a Negative Nancy. No harm, no foul, I’m fine.” Even as your boyfriend washes and dries your hair, soothes moisturiser and body oil into your skin, helps you into a fresh set of pjs, and tucks you into bed, he doesn’t relax. You can see the tightness between his shoulder blades, and his touches are so fleeting.

Patting the space next to you, you ask sweetly, “Sleep with me?” He shakes his head and kisses you tenderly, an unspoken apology as he switches the light off and closes the door behind him. You huff, confident that he’ll come around eventually, but still feeling deflated because you don’t get to sleep in his arms tonight.

more embarrassing/gone wrong sex moments:

sylus puts you in a nelson and ends up in hospital choking gone wrong with caleb xavier falls asleep while eating you out you get stuck in the sink as you and rafayel get it on

gone wrong m.list

[heartsiebyul]

╰─▸ ❝ Twisted Wonderland x reader!

Buy something for us?

☆.𓋼𓍊 𓆏 𓍊𓋼𓍊.☆.𓋼𓍊 𓆏 𓍊𓋼𓍊.☆.𓋼𓍊 𓆏 𓍊𓋼.

featuring — Overblot Boys : Riddle : Leona : Azul : Jamil : Vil : Idia : Malleus.

𓂃 𓈒𓏸𓂃 𓈒𓏸𓂃 𓈒𓏸𓂃 𓈒𓏸𓂃 𓈒𓏸𓂃 𓈒𓏸𓂃 𓈒𓏸𓂃 𓈒𓏸

ᥫ᭡ Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle was sitting at his desk, papers spread out, pen moving quickly as he jotted down the contents for the next agenda meeting. You stepped in quietly and said, “I’m hungry.” Without looking up, he reached for his wallet on the corner of the desk and handed it to you.

“Would you buy something for us, love? I’ll finish this faster so we can eat,” he said, gently patting your cheek with his free hand.

As soon as you left, he sat up straighter, his pen moving even faster. He kept glancing at the clock, silently counting down the minutes until your return. When you came back with a small bag of food, Riddle was already waiting by the garden table, a small smile on his face as he pulled out a chair for you.

ᥫ᭡ Leona Kingscholar

Leona was lounging in the common room, lying on the couch with one arm and papers scattered on the floor. You nudged his leg and muttered, “Hungry.” He didn’t even lift his head, just grabbed his wallet from the armrest and passed it to you.

“Buy something for us, I’ll finish this faster,” he said, tapping your head with a lazy hand.

Once you were gone, he sat up with a groan and started reviewing Spelldrive plays more seriously. He worked quicker than usual, mumbling to himself and sketching a new plan. By the time you returned with food, he was already waiting on the dorm balcony, arms crossed, pretending he hadn’t rushed just to sit with you.

ᥫ᭡ Azul Ashengrotto

Azul sat behind his office desk at the Mostro Lounge, flipping through a thick binder of papers. When you came in and quietly said, “I’m hungry,” he hummed in acknowledgment, not missing a beat as he passed you his wallet.

“Buy something for us, my pearl? I’ll finish this faster so we can eat,” he said, giving your chin a soft pat.

After you left, Azul adjusted his glasses and dove straight into work, stamping papers with sharp focus. The moment he saw you return with a bag of food, he pushed his chair back and smiled, already clearing the table so you could sit across from him.

ᥫ᭡ Jamil Viper

Jamil was moving around the kitchen, multitasking as he stirred two pots and chopped vegetables. You came in and said, “I’m hungry,” while leaning against the counter. Without pausing, he pulled his wallet from his apron and handed it to you.

“Buy something for us. I’ll finish this quickly,” he said, brushing your hair from your face before turning back to the stove.

Once you stepped out, his hands moved even faster. He finished prepping tomorrow’s meal, wiped down the counters, packed the food into tupperware for kalim, and checked the pantry stock. By the time you returned, he already had plates set and led you to Scarabia’s balcony with a smile, happy to eat something he didn’t have to make, especially with you.

ᥫ᭡ Vil Schoenheit

Vil was at his vanity, reviewing notes for his next shoot, surrounded by makeup samples and script pages. You walked in and said, “I’m hungry.” Without looking up from his notes, he passed his wallet over his shoulder to you.

“Buy something for us, darling? I’ll finish this faster,” he said, gently tapping your cheek with the back of his fingers.

After you left, Vil straightened up, finished reviewing his notes and editing scripts, and tidied up the desk. By the time you returned with food, he had lit a candle and set out two glasses of lemon water, already pulling out your chair like a true gentleman.

ᥫ᭡ Idia Shroud

Idia was hunched over his desk in a dark room, screens glowing blue around him as he typed away. You leaned on the back of his chair and mumbled, “Hungry.” Still focused, he reached into his hoodie pocket and handed you his wallet, brushing your fingers softly.

“Could you get something for us? I’ll finish this faster,” he said.

As soon as the door clicked shut, he sprang into overdrive, typing faster, closing programs, and organizing his workspace. When you came back, the lights were dim, the game already queued up, and a blanket was waiting for both of you to sit and eat while gaming.

ᥫ᭡ Malleus Draconia

Malleus was seated in his room, reading a letter from his grandmother alongside a stack of invitations. You walked over, leaned against his chair, and quietly said, “I’m hungry.” Without taking his eyes off the letter, he pulled his black wallet from his blazer and handed it to you.

“Would you buy something for us, my dear? I will finish soon,” he said, gently patting your head.

As you walked away, the air buzzed softly as he scanned through the letters with focused attention, replying to each one. When you returned, he was already waiting on the balcony, holding out his hand to invite you to sit beside him.

☆.𓋼𓍊 𓆏 𓍊𓋼𓍊.☆.𓋼𓍊 𓆏 𓍊𓋼𓍊.☆.𓋼𓍊 𓆏 𓍊𓋼.

[darkmatilda]

𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: your first solo, undercover mission unexpectedly spirals out of control when a real heist begins at the scene.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x newbaumember!femalereader, robbery, the reader becomes a hostage, is beaten by the attacker (quite severely), killing of hostages, shooting, inspired by s1e9 where spencer saves elle on a train (the plot is very similar but set in a different scenery), spencer's pov, the attackers are definitely not the gentle type, reader is wearing a skirt (her whole outfit is described), glasses reid propaganda

𝐚/𝐧: merry christmas guys <3 fasten your seatbealts and get ready for this rollercoaster.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 14.8 k

"Why do I get the feeling that neither of you is even half as stressed as I am? Actually, scratch that—neither of you is even one-tenth as stressed as me?”

The question left your lips accompanied by a kind of sigh, an attempt to expel the air poisoned with anxiety and replace it with something fresh, clean.

"Because we know you’re going to do brilliantly, sweetheart," Penelope replied without hesitation, sparing you only a fleeting glance as she momentarily tore her eyes away from her computer screen. One of many screens.

Her office was filled with an uncountable number of them, all glowing brightly and lighting up the small, dimly lit space, which was also packed with her colorful accessories—pom-pom-topped pencils and flowerless plants in tiny pots, most adorned with smiling faces or hearts.

"Or rather," Reid interjected, spinning in a circle on his swivel chair, "because we both doubt you’ll even be remotely useful out there." A white box of Chinese takeout rested on his lap.

You shot him a grimace.

"Next time you try to undermine my self-confidence, make sure I’m not holding anything sharp," you warned, pointing one of your chopsticks at him. Yes, less than an hour before your first solo assignment, you were all happily indulging in junk food from the closest restaurant to the office, ignoring the looming possibility of digestive regrets. "Or you’ll lose an eye."

"Aren’t you tired of trying to kill me yet? First, you gave me a concussion…"

"You didn’t get a concussion, Reid. Stop exaggerating…"

"And now, you’re openly admitting that you plan to cause me permanent damage by depriving me of my sense of sight—which, as it is," he said, tapping the frame of his glasses, "is already in less-than-stellar condition."

"You two are just adorable when you argue with each other like an old, bitter married couple," Penelope commented with a small smile on her pink-lipsticked lips.

You first looked at each other, then at her, eyebrows raised, and in a synchronized moment, you both let out a huff. Unfazed, she continued.

"But now we really need to get to work. The exhibit starts in an hour, and you should get there with him. Have you ever used that microphone? It’s the latest model we’re testing, gosh, I’m so excited…"

"You’re adorable when you act like a typical nerd," you shot back, mimicking her little smile and tone of voice.

"A nerd I proudly am! Just like this guy here," she nodded toward Reid, who pouted slightly, looking offended. "You’re surrounded by nerds, sweetheart. Soon enough, you’ll become one too."

"Dear God, forgive me my sins and watch over me…" you whispered, staring at the ceiling.

The mysterious he that Garcia mentioned was named Christopher Allen, and he was surprisingly young for a neurotechnology engineer. He worked on issues surrounding the human brain and developed devices designed to have a broad range of effects on it. But why were you supposed to go with him to some exhibit? Equipped with a spy microphone? And why was it stressing you out so much that for the past ten minutes, you had only been picking at your Chinese takeout instead of eating it?

Well, it's hard to decide where to start explaining from.

You were summoned before Hotch yesterday, who informed you that an opportunity had arisen for you to prove yourself in the field. Alone, undercover, for the first time in your—let’s be honest—tragically short career at the FBI. On top of that, this was meant to test all the new equipment your team had received, the kind that Penelope had been so enthusiastic about. You couldn’t shake the feeling that this was the main reason you’d been assigned this task. Someone had to check the effectiveness of the gear, and at the same time, you, the rookie, needed to gain more experience. Allen’s case was like killing two birds with one stone.

This scientist had worked with the FBI multiple times, and that’s why when danger started looming over him, he was quickly assigned protection. The threat came from threatening letters and even a direct attack at his own home, which fortunately didn’t end in tragedy. Allen was descending into paranoia and was afraid to even attend public events, even ones with full protection, like the tech exhibition—taking place in one of the modest local museums—designed to showcase the latest advancements in neurotechnology and more.

He was probably afraid that during the event, someone would simply rush at him with fists and try to murder him in front of dozens of random technology and brain enthusiasts. Or something like that. Your task was to pretend to be his assistant, never leaving his side and carefully observing the surroundings. And that was it. Nothing too demanding was expected of you, unless things started to go south. However, that seemed highly unlikely, as everyone made it clear to you.

Still, you couldn’t shake the fear—whether justified or not—that something would go wrong. And it would be your fault.

“Reid, clip the microphone on her,” Penelope interrupted your train of thought with the order. “You’ve never used one of these before, have you, sweetheart?”

You nodded in confirmation, watching as Reid set aside his box of Chinese takeout to take the tiny device from her.  He stopped a step in front of you, perched on the edge of one of the desks, his gaze shifting uncertainly between the small black microphone in his hand and you.

“Where… where can I…?” he asked, trailing off as he made a vague gesture with his hand, surprisingly loaded with awkwardness.

“Oh,” you let out a confused sigh, beginning to consider where it might be best to place it. The sleeve? Shouldn’t it be closer to your face to capture even your quietest whispers?

“Okay, I’ve got an idea,” you said, starting to unbutton your white shirt, revealing a significant portion of your neckline. “Here?” you asked.

“Yeah… I think so,” he replied hesitantly but didn’t move.

It wasn’t until a moment later that he swallowed and, with a slow, deliberate motion, reached for a section of your shirt near your cleavage. His actions were careful—almost excessively so—like his top priority was ensuring he didn’t accidentally brush against your skin.

The microphone’s clip was quite small, though, and attaching it to your clothing required him to take another step closer and lower his head near your chest.

Even as your breathing slowed, you couldn’t help but smile at the sight of Penelope shaking her head in amused disbelief. 

You preferred to look straight ahead rather than at his fingers, working with such careful focus, though you couldn’t help but let your gaze flicker to them repeatedly. Just for fractions of a second—it was difficult to pull your eyes away once they landed there.

Only when he finished, his hands dropping quickly to his sides as he stepped back, did you realize you’d been holding your breath for quite some time. You became acutely aware of how stifling Penelope’s little office was—how did she even manage in the summer?

"That's not all," the woman on the screen broke the silence, one you hadn't even realized had fallen. "There's also a transmitter you'll need to keep on you somewhere. Securely, so it doesn't fall out. Are you planning to go dressed like that?"

You glanced down at your outfit. A simple black skirt and white shirt—the first thing that came to mind then you learned you'd be posing as an assistant.

"Inappropriate?" you asked, searching for an answer first on Garcia's face, then on Reid's. The latter gave the barest shrug, barely even looking at you.

"You look amazing. Absolutely stunning, darling. I wish I could have an assistant like you," Penelope reassured you. "But in this economy, I can only dream about it. Anyway, my point is, you don't have any pockets. Where are you planning to keep the transmitter and your gun?"

"I was thinking of just tucking it into my skirt. At the back."

"I don’t think that’s the best idea," Reid interjected doubtfully. He hadn’t reclaimed his spot on the swivel chair and stood instead, arms crossed over his chest. The embarrassment you’d managed to put him in (quite adorable, really) was slowly dissipating, leaving only a faint blush on his cheeks. The corner of your mouth twitched when you noticed it. "I mean, it could fall out, or start sticking out, which could lead to questions like why an assistant is walking around with a gun..."

"Okay, I get it," you sighed. You could’ve thought this through a bit better. "Maybe I’ll have time to swing by home and grab, I don’t know, a blazer or something..."

"You won’t," Penelope declared after glancing at the time. "But you can always borrow my jacket."

You looked at the garment draped over the back of her chair—a bright pink leather jacket. You didn’t even bother responding; you simply stared at it, letting the expression on your face do the talking.

"Alright, I admit it, I didn’t think this proposal through. So, it looks like we’ll have to..." She trailed off, her gaze landing on Reid’s figure. Surprised by the attention, he pointed at himself.

You also directed your attention at him. He was wearing a simple brown blazer, which would go well with your unremarkable outfit.

"Take it off," you instructed.

He was silent for a moment, though there was no visible protest on his face—just doubt.

"It’s gonna be too big," he remarked, his hands gently grasping the edges of the jacket as if unsure whether to take it off.

"Apparently, oversized is coming back into fashion."

"Okay, fine," he sighed, removing the jacket. Underneath, he wore a shirt and a black vest, from which a matching tie peeked out. Initially, he seemed hesitant about the idea, but handed it to you with some urgency. "Here you go."

You sent him a brief, grateful smile.

"You’re saving my mission, Reid. I’ll mention you in the report. And I’ll frame your name with a little heart, drawn with one of Penelope’s glitter pens," you declared.

He returned the gesture, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly as he gave a small nod. You noticed his gaze was almost fixed on your face, as if some invisible force were forbidding him to look away, down or sideways.

You didn't think too much about what it meant, you didn't really have time. You put on the blazer, which was indeed a little too long, and hid the transmitter in the inside pocket. You placed the weapon at your hip, concealing it with your clothes. As you were about to leave, you said talk to you later because the two of them were going to communicate with you through the earpiece the entire time. They wished you good luck, and you were just about to leave the desk when Reid, suddenly as if unable to stop himself, said your name one last time.

You looked at him questioningly. Instead of responding, he made an uncertain gesture near his chest. Confused, you looked down.

For the entire time, half of the buttons on your shirt were still undone.

*

You had never met him in person, but you recognized his face from snippets of interviews that occasionally appeared online, or perhaps he had even been on the news a few times. He was in his thirties, give or take five years, hard to tell. His entire persona seemed to be built around the carefree nature of a young eccentric with a sharp mind and an unrestrained tongue, constantly refining his thoughts and conclusions, often controversial, causing an uproar among the public. Without a doubt, he was one of those people often called a genius. Which, not always, was a compliment.

Allen seemed deeply displeased by your presence. He looked… tired. His red hair contrasted with his very pale complexion, as if made of glass, and dark circles rimmed his eyes. He wasn’t shockingly tall, about your height, but with broad shoulders.

"The FBI was supposed to provide me with protection because some psycho is literally trying to kill me, and they send you?" he asked, bitterly, exchanging a brief handshake with you before getting into the car.

You both sat in the back, the driver at the wheel. You were supposed to arrive at the exhibition together. His reaction caught you off guard, his open anger sparking the same feeling in you.

"What's your problem?" you asked. His insulting tone irritated you the most, especially since he hadn’t even had the chance to get to know you.

For a moment, the man sat staring out the window. His body was tense, almost stiff, as if stressed. His elegant attire, with a shirt half-tucked into his pants and too many buttons undone, suggested that he usually dressed more casually.

He let out a heavy sigh, as if furious, then hastily wiped his face with his hand.

"Just..." he began coolly and cautiously, as if holding back some cruel words. "I get the feeling that everyone is downplaying the seriousness of this situation."

"We're all approaching this with the necessary commitment," you replied, though it wasn't entirely true. Allen had every right to fear for his life, but each of you honestly doubted anything would happen to him during this exhibition. If the threat had been real... Hotch probably wouldn't have sent you. "Believe me, we understand the gravity of the situation..."

"Really? Even the letters I've been getting? The content of them?"

You knew about the threats sent by an unknown sender, but you hadn't delved into what exactly they contained. Seeing you hesitate to answer, Allen scoffed.

"You're fucking great at your job, no doubt. So let me fill you in. They come every day. Every fucking day. And I read every single one of them. You know, I've even started seeing a pattern. First, they beg me. Then they threaten to fucking kill me. Smash my face into the ground, beat me to death with a metal rod, rip out my ribs, douse me in gasoline, and set me on fire..." He paused, dramatically scratching his chin. "Oh, almost forgot. They're going to peel the skin off my back. Then there's a day off. No letter comes. The next day, they apologize. I don’t know if this psycho has some extreme split personality or... or... I have no fucking idea. The cops said, get this, it's normal. 'Cause I’m a public figure."

"They brushed it off?" you asked, slightly shaken.

No matter how famous he was, threats were still threats.

He shrugged. He was trying to speak with a voice full of dismissive irony, but it wasn’t working. He stumbled, taking breaks to swallow. Though he had treated you like a complete jerk earlier, you were starting to understand.

“First off, until someone broke into my house and tried to drag me out of bed and take me…God knows where. Probably if I hadn’t had a dog…” he trailed off, glancing back out the window. You’d arrived at the museum, where the exhibition was to be held, but Allen hesitated to get out of the car. “This guy is nuts, whoever he is. I don’t know what to expect from him. He wants to kill me, kidnap me, torture me? Or maybe he’ll just settle for shooting me from a distance like I’m some goddamn Kennedy?”

“That doesn’t really sound like him,” you said in a calming tone. “He tried to kidnap you from your house, why would he suddenly attack you in a public place…”

“My fiancée is pregnant,” he suddenly blurted out.

You blinked, unsure how to respond to the sudden confession.

“Congratulations?”

“For her safety, I sent her very, very far away, somewhere she shouldn’t be in any danger,” he continued, completely ignoring your words. “And though her and the baby’s well-being is my top priority… I also need to take care of myself. I need to make it to their birth…and longer, of course. But that’s why I’m afraid to even go out to the damn store for milk, and that’s why I was so pissed off when I found out they assigned me a woman who, no offense, looks like she wouldn’t know how to hold a gun.”

You instinctively scoffed at his last comment, though it was hard to stay particularly mad at him, knowing everything he was going through. An awkward silence fell between you, heavy and laden, during which the two of you simply stared at each other. It hit you that you were responsible not only for his safety but also for ensuring that someone’s fiancé and future father would make it home.

“We should get going,” you said, nodding toward the museum. Still, you couldn’t help but feel a certain tension at the thought of leaving the car. You shook your head slightly, trying to dispel it. “And just so we’re clear, I do know how to handle a gun—more than you’d think. But for your sake, you better hope we don’t have to put that to the test.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed the corner of his mouth twitch.

"Well then, onward, assistant. Tell me, how much do you know about neurotechnology?"

Well, by the end of this day, you were definitely going to know a lot more. Together with Allen, you crossed the threshold of the museum. Its decor clashed with the theme of the exhibition, but apparently, they hadn’t managed to secure a better location. 

The interior layout was harmonious—rounded arches were supported by symmetrically arranged marble columns, and the dominant shades were gold and royal red.

Your destination was the exhibition hall, circular in shape, where mahogany tables served as display stations for various prototypes in the fields of medicine, neurobiology, and informatics. In other parts of the building, there were tall, arched windows, but this particular room had none. No natural light entered; all illumination was generated by lamps that, to their credit, mimicked the natural diffusion of sunlight quite effectively.

Among the displays were an interactive brain map and various projects still in development but aimed at assisting people with disabilities.

You observed all of this with interest while simultaneously listening to your companion’s impromptu lecture on the human brain (apparently, talking helped him calm down). At the same time, you were closely monitoring the crowd around you.

True multitasking.

The exhibition was open to everyone; no one was checking who entered the venue. Although you counted three security guards in the room—dressed in simple black suits and mostly tasked with ensuring that no one tried to steal anything—there was a subtle air of unease hanging in the atmosphere. If Allen’s suspicions were correct, the person intent on ending his life could be one of these faces. To your surprise, however, he suddenly seemed far less concerned about it than you were.

“You don’t have to follow me around like a shadow,” he said, leaning toward you to make himself heard over the murmur of surrounding conversations. A familiar face with a loud, bright red tie waved at him and began making their way over. “Just don’t take your eyes off me, no matter what. And keep an eye out for anyone suspicious—whatever that means to you. Hey, man!”

He greeted his acquaintance with a friendly handshake. Following his instructions, you took a small step back, deciding to take a short stroll among the exhibits. But after barely two steps, your finger went to the discreet earpiece hidden under your hair.

“Are you there, my lovely nerds?” you asked with a playful smile, knowing they couldn’t see it but imagining their reactions.

“At your service!” Garcia responded enthusiastically, and you could almost picture her saluting on the other end.

“And what about Mr. Smartass? Did he get bored and wander off to study the reproductive habits of ants?”

“I heard that!” he replied, summoned by his new nickname. “Such gratitude for letting you borrow my jacket.”

“Speaking of the jacket,” you continued, “I found a candy in the pocket. How thoughtful of you to leave me a little sweet treat.” You weren’t joking; there really was a candy inside. You inspected the wrapper and frowned. “Marzipan? Ugh. Do you have the taste buds of my grandma?”

"To what I know, I haven't had a taste bud transplant. Especially not from anyone's grandmother," he replied nonchalantly. "And as for those ants..."

"Sorry to interrupt, my darlings, but I have a few questions about the sound quality of these new microphones..."

True to her word, Garcia began asking you how well you could hear them and instructed you to lower your voice to a whisper and then raise it sharply. Some sort of test or whatever. You did it all patiently while staring at the red-haired mop at the station across from you. Allen seemed pretty relaxed now, probably realizing nothing was going to happen to him.

"Okay, now do the sound like a chicken. I mean the noise."

"What?"

"You know, cluck."

"Pen, is this really necessary?"

"Yes, sweetie. I need to check something else. Last thing, I swear. Scout’s honor."

You sighed, looking around at the people nearby. Few were paying attention to you, you were just one face in the crowd. God, for something like this, you could ask for a raise.

"Exactly, honey. Just louder," Garcia asked.

You rolled your eyes and tried again to make the chicken sound. An older couple glanced at you, their eyes wide with horror.

"Alright, enough," you muttered, embarrassed, into the earpiece, quickly moving to a different spot.

And then you heard the pair on the other side literally choking with laughter.

"I fucking hate you guys," you said. "I hate you. Especially you, Penelope. Give me Reid on the mic, from now on I'm only talking to him."

Another burst of laughter from the woman. You clenched your jaw. And as if that weren’t enough…

 "Did you want to hear me, little chick?" Reid asked politely.

“I should’ve gouged your eye out with a chopstick when I had the chance,” you hissed into the phone, a little too loudly, drawing a few curious glances. You were supposed to be watching for suspicious people, but it turned out you were acting the most suspicious of all…

“Did you catch what she said?” Reid addressed Penelope. “I only heard clucking.”

“Ha-ha,” you rolled your eyes.

For fifteen minutes, you had to endure such jokes. You seriously began to worry that they’d never get tired of it, but finally, after a quarter of an hour of psychological torture, they fell silent. You kept a sharp eye on your surroundings.

“By the way,” you began, still a bit offended by the chicken joke. “You guys should regret not being here to see these inventions. Perfect for you, nerds.”

“Well, actually, we can see them,” Reid’s voice came through the earpiece, sounding very clear, clearly taking the whole mic for himself. “Garcia grabbed footage from the cameras inside the room.”

“So you can see me? This whole time?”

 “Yep. And we saw that terrified couple who ran as far away from you as they could as soon as you started clucking like a chicken. Poor souls.”

You ignored the comment and began scanning the room for the cameras. When you found them, you scratched your forehead with your middle finger.

“Can you see this too?”

“I can see how much fun you’re having,” he scoffed. “Are you going to include that in your report?”

“Exactly. Right under your name, framed with a glittery little heart. Any other requests?” Not waiting for his response, you added, “By the way, how do I look in your jacket? Does it fit me well?”

"I think so. I mean, the blazer is incredibly well-tailored. And of good quality. It’s impossible for it to look bad on anyone." He paused for a moment, and his voice grew more serious. "How’s it going? Have you noticed anything suspicious? Still feeling stressed?"

"Not anymore," you admitted, speaking the truth. Even though the exhibition had just started and was supposed to last about another hour, you felt like you had passed some milestone where nothing could go wrong anymore. "But of course, I’m still keeping an eye out. I had a little chat with Allen…"

"I heard," Reid acknowledged. "Very interesting lecture on the human brain, I must admit."

You let out a small laugh.

"I talked to Allen earlier. Still in the car. After what he told me, I don’t think he's a paranoiac. The guy is just really worried about his safety. And not just his.”

A moment of silence fell on both sides.

"Speaking of Allen, he's heading your way," he informed you, likely watching the feed from the cameras. "I guess I'll hear from you later then. I mean, I’ll be hearing you the whole time, just not the other way around. Unless you want me to constantly broadcast about ant reproduction?"

"Sorry, Reid, but I’ll pass. Maybe some other time," you chuckled, noticing the engineer approaching. As he walked, he bumped into a man in the crowd and exchanged a quick apology. You used that moment to add something else, a bit impulsively. "And what about this? Do you see this?"

You pressed the inside of your hand to your lips before unfolding it, sending a kiss toward one of the cameras. Reid was silent as Allen drew closer.

"I see it," he finally admitted, quieter. You regretted not being able to see his expression, it was unusually hard for you to picture it at that particular moment. Was he smiling? "And I like it a lot more than what you showed me earlier."

You turned your back to the camera so he wouldn’t see you smile. It only hit you afterward that he probably saw it anyway, just from a different angle.

"I see you're enjoying the exhibition," Allen said, standing in front of you with his hands in his pockets. He had stopped pretending to be the classy guy and fully embraced his more laid-back side. "So, uh, sorry, but I think I'd rather head out now."

Worried, you discreetly glanced around.

"Did something happen? Did someone stare at you weirdly, do something...?"

He shook his head, a negative gesture.

"Nothing like that. I just saw what I needed to see. Check it off the list, I’m ready to leave..."

After his words, an absolute darkness fell.

Absolute darkness, in the truest sense of the word. The exhibition hall had no windows. When the lights went out, it felt as if someone had tied a cloth tightly over your eyes. Yet, like a fool, you kept looking around, as if moving your head could somehow tear through the blackness enveloping you, freeing you from the growing panic that was slowly flooding your senses.

“Garcia, what’s up with the cameras?” Reid’s voice sounded in your ear. He was confused, not yet frightened. He didn’t know what was happening yet. None of you did.

The people around you, of course, were also surprised by the sudden blackout. A few muffled gasps echoed, one or two squeals, a smattering of curses. But there were no screams, no one tearing at their throats or blindly bolting forward, trampling others in the process. That came later.

Exactly four seconds after the first gunshot rang out.

Before, the world seemed to freeze in place; everyone’s breaths were trapped in their lungs, unwilling to escape, even out of curiosity. Your body lunged forward as if trying to flee, but it quickly dawned on you that there was nowhere to run. Where had the shot come from? Who had fired it? Was someone hurt?

Something—or rather, someone’s hand—clamped painfully around your wrist. Instinctively, you tried to pull free, letting out a sound somewhere between a growl and a garbled cry.

“It’s me,” Allen choked out, his voice trembling. You couldn’t see his silhouette, but you knew the blood had drained from his face. “What the fuck... what the fuck is happen—”

The second shot rang out, closer and sharper than the first. Chaos erupted in the room. Screams, so hysterical they drowned out the voices coming through your earpiece, filled the air. Something struck you hard, sending you stumbling as pain radiated through your shoulder. It was an empty kind of pain—something you felt and yet didn’t. You realized it must have been one of the panicked people charging blindly through the dark.

“Here,” you commanded, your mind snapping briefly into clarity. In your mind’s eye, you pictured the layout of the room before the lights went out. The corner of the hall, the wooden table behind you, where one of the prototypes had been displayed.

You slipped under the table, dragging Allen with you. He groaned as his head hit the underside of the furniture.

You were so utterly disoriented that it felt as though your own name was echoing on a loop inside your head. It took you a moment to realize it wasn’t just your mind playing tricks—it was someone’s voice, growing more familiar with each passing second.

The third gunshot.

Allen choked on his breath, his hand still gripping your wrist so tightly you feared it might snap—yet you didn’t register it as pain, merely as a sensation. The two of you crouched beneath the table, facing each other, teetering on the edge of succumbing to the abyss of panic.

Reid spoke your name again, faintly, as though he were far too close to the microphone. As though leaning in would somehow make you hear him better—make you respond.

“I’m here,” you managed to stammer, the first thing that came to your mind.

"Thank God, I thought..." he sighed, suddenly stopping, as if realizing it wasn't yet time for relief. "Are you... are you hurt?"

"My arm."

You didn't know why those words escaped your lips. Maybe because, although your mind was too occupied with trying to figure out the situation to focus on something like pain, your body couldn’t ignore the fact that it felt it. Against your will, you let out a hiss and finally pulled your hand out of Allen's grip.

"You've been shot? We... we can't see anything, do you have anything to stop the bleeding, maybe use my jacket..."

"I don't know what's happening, we've completely lost access to the camera feed, someone must have turned them all off, just like the power... Reid, immediately notify Hotch, he needs to know something's wrong..."

On the other side, chaos erupted, comparable to the one surrounding you. Penelope was aggressively pressing the keyboard keys, Reid was rushing between a phone conversation with Hotch and throwing random phrases at you like stay where you are or how's your arm?

But was staying put the right decision? Wasn't it just waiting for the person responsible for starting this... massacre to come for you? On the other hand, how were you supposed to escape? In complete darkness? You had a weapon... but what good was it if you couldn't see anything? A sound of resigned sobbing escaped you.

And then, suddenly, right before your eyes, Allen’s red hair materialized, his fingers pressed into his skull as if he wanted to tear it apart himself. You both looked into each other's eyes. Visibility returned.

“We have light,” you said, though it didn’t loosen the grip on your chest.

“What?” Penelope sputtered, confused. “We still can’t see anything, the cameras are still…”

Allen let out a choked cry. You followed his gaze. Just before your hiding spot, a pair of leather shoes stopped.

“Get out,” commanded a male voice. You lifted your head. Above you stood a man with dark facial hair and a submachine gun, looking like an extension of his broad shoulder. You immediately noticed, besides the weapon, he was also carrying a black sports bag slung over his shoulder. Both of you were too disoriented and terrified to follow the order. “I said, fuckin’ get out and against the wall, I won’t repeat myself.”

Like animals herded into a pen, you followed his instructions to the designated spot. The entire crowd inside gathered against one of the blood-red walls of the room, some pressing their backs against it as if that embrace would ensure their safety...

“What’s going on there now?” Reid asked. “We still don’t have a feed... I can hear you breathing,” he blurted out unexpectedly.

You realized that your breath had indeed become heavy and loud. It dawned on you that you hadn’t gone through any extensive training on how to handle a situation like this; you were useless...

“Just...damn it, I know it’s easier for me to say, but try not to panic, okay? Whatever’s going on... panic will only make it worse. You need to focus, please. Can you do that? Breathe? Slowly, like I’m doing now?”

Your hands clenched around the fabric of his jacket, feeling it under your fingers. Closing your eyes, you could almost imagine him standing right in front of you, in this very building, speaking those words. It helped calm you down, at least enough for your mind to stay somewhat communicative...

“Good. Very...very good. Now, can you describe what’s happening over there?”

You knew that every piece of information you passed on would be worth its weight in gold. You tightened your grip on the fabric of Reid's jacket and began scanning your surroundings.

“One shooter. He’s herding us... all of us, against one of the walls and... stuffing prototypes into the bag, every one he can get his hands on,” you reported, describing everything you’d seen. “It looks like a robbery.”

“Just one?” Reid asked. “What were those shots? Someone... got hurt?”

You were about to deny it when your attention was drawn to a bloodstain spreading across the marble floor at the opposite corner of the room. Allen nudged you, pointing to something else—a body lying motionless.

“Guards. He... he killed all the guards,” you recognized them by their uniforms, the words barely escaping your throat. So, he hadn’t hesitated to kill, not one of those inexperienced types with any moral inhibitions. Trying to make sense of everything happening around you, you pressed your hand to your forehead. “But... but how could he see them in this darkness...”

“Night vision,” Allen interrupted suddenly, his previously hunched figure straightening as he realized it.

You found the man busy with the theft and controlling the area. He was quite solidly built, you could compare him to Derek. And, as the engineer had observed, around his neck hung a device for seeing in the dark.

“The police have arrived outside the museum, but they won’t go inside as long as you’re trapped with him. They don’t want anyone to get hurt,” Penelope informed you, then let out a soft, wheezing breath, as if she was trying to calm herself down. “Sweetheart, the whole team is on their way too. From now on, you’re our informant…”

“Is Christopher Allen among you?” A commanding voice suddenly cut through the sheet of panic blanketing the room, drawing everyone’s attention. It belonged to a truly imposing man with a shaved head and a forehead lined with wrinkles that seemed to stem more from exhaustion than age. But by far, the most significant detail about him was the submachine gun he held in his hands.

Two. There were two shooters.

Your focus shifted to the man standing right in front of you, as if delivering some kind of speech. At first, you didn’t even register what he’d asked. He repeated the question quickly and impatiently, and you froze. Not that you’d been particularly active before, but in that moment, all your bodily functions seemed to shut down completely. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at Allen—not even for a fleeting glance.

“Christopher Allen. Biotech engineer. He should be here,” the man continued, scanning the faces in front of him almost desperately, searching for the one he needed. He sounded almost... distraught? That broken expression, teetering on the edge of tears and madness, starkly contrasted with his militaristic physique.

Suddenly, his accomplice appeared, tugging at his arm.

“Jesus, give it a rest. We need to get out of here. The car’s waiting for us, remember?”

He shoved the smaller man with a force befitting his build, sending him staggering backward.

“I’m not leaving until I talk to him!” he declared with furious determination. “Christopher Allen…”

“You’ve gotta be shitting me…”

“Allen…”

His eyes scanned the surroundings until they landed on the two of you. You felt someone lightly wrap their fingers around your forearm, gripping it almost instinctively. It wasn’t a strong or painful hold, but rather one born of genuine fear, seeking protection. Protection that, from the start, had been your responsibility to provide. Yet now, standing face to face with two armed assailants, with lifeless bodies lying in pools of blood in the same room…you felt the crushing weight of an obligation you were physically incapable of fulfilling, creating a storm of chaos within your mind.

Allen must have been fooling himself into thinking he could blend into the crowd and remain unnoticed. Even as everyone’s gaze began to focus on him, urgently and with some unspoken hope, he stubbornly stood still. Or was he simply paralyzed by fear?

For the first time since he was called out, you looked at him. His eyes conveyed one thing: a simple message. It was him. The man who had been sending him threats, the one who had broken into his house. You furrowed your brows, this whole situation was becoming incomprehensible. He cared so much about kidnapping the engineer that he had organized the heist at the exhibition where he was supposed to be?

 “Come here. I need to talk to you, you… you need to do something for me.”

Once again, in your ears, you heard the description of the tortures that were mentioned in the letter.

"You have to do this," you said very softly, almost a whisper. "We can't let him get angry. Do you hear me?"

 It seemed like your words weren’t reaching him at all. You nervously glanced at the gunmen, hoping that the command you had given hadn’t raised any suspicion or made them think you were trying to outsmart them, deceive them in some way. Slowly, but with deep remorse, you loosened Allen’s grip on your forearm. His chest wasn’t rising, as if he weren’t breathing. But then his gaze shifted, not to you, but to the people around you, to the ones standing in fear, waiting for his reaction. Something in his face shifted, then he took a step forward.

“Slowly,” you instructed.

It seemed like the best solution. Unsub knew that the person he was looking for was among you, he had identified him without any difficulty. Allen couldn’t hide or escape, all that was left for him was to comply with the orders, for his own sake and for everyone else's. It was also important that he stalled for time. You hoped that as soon as your team arrived, they’d be able to come up with something. Maybe they were already there, working to make contact with the shooters and free you all, alive and unharmed.

At the same time, someone called your name.

"Report in."

It was Hotch. At the sound of his stoic voice, a fleeting wave of relief washed over you. You even parted your lips to answer when you realized the second gunman was staring at you. The room fell into absolute silence as Allen slowly approached them. You shouldn’t reveal that you were with the FBI or any other agency—that was a basic rule…

 "Listen to me carefully now," the unsub spat, placing one of his massive hands on Allen's shoulder, causing him to almost buckle under the forceful touch. Someone behind you let out a muffled cry. "You need to remove it from me, do you understand?"

"Shit," his partner muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. He was holding a bag with the stolen equipment, constantly glancing toward the exit. You wondered if he had anything to do with the threats sent to Allen. "Shit, we need to get the hell out of here before the cops completely block our escape. We don't have time for your fucking delusions!"

“Remove…?” the baffled engineer repeated, completely thrown off.

“The chip. The one inside me. Right here, on the back of my neck.” The man jabbed a finger at the spot. “Someone has to cut it out of me. You work with brains—you must know how to do it. He’s controlling me, watching my thoughts… I saw an interview with you once. I know you’re the only one who can do this…”

The man’s words devolved into a stream of incoherent rambling. Allen had no idea how to respond, and silence stretched on the other end of the phone. Meanwhile, the second gunman tried once again to persuade his partner to escape, but this only triggered an explosive burst of rage that made everyone around them shrink in fear.

“Shut up, or I’ll blow your head off too!” the man shouted. “I’ve waited too long for this. I don’t give a damn about all that crap you stole. I don’t care if they catch me. He’s going to cut out that chip!”

“What chip?” Allen finally managed to stammer. “I don’t understand…”

“The chip the government implanted in me to control me! That’s why no hospital will remove it—they’re all under government control! Only you can do it!”

“The unsub is delusional, that much is clear,” Reid’s voice suddenly crackled in your earpiece, catching you by surprise. He must have made it from Penelope’s office to the museum—where he joined Hotch and the rest of the team—at an impressive speed. “The reality he’s constructed is starting to blur with actual reality, which makes him extremely dangerous. Just from the tone of his speech, you can tell he’s emotionally unbalanced and on the brink of a breakdown. Unfortunately, this means his actions could be erratic and violent, with a strong tendency toward escalation.”

"What can I do?" you whispered as quietly as possible, taking advantage of the commotion in the center of the room.

"Are you there? Can you speak safely?" he asked, exhaling a breath of trapped air. "I mean... What you can do, first and foremost, is stay cautious. Don’t say or do anything that could provoke him further," he instructed, his tone turning focused and determined to provide you with as much guidance as possible. You nodded almost imperceptibly as you listened, as if he could see you. At some point, your fingers began nervously clutching the fabric of his blazer again, a small, unconscious tic.

"Don’t confront his delusions—or rather, don’t outright deny them. Try not to introduce any new elements either, to avoid deepening his paranoia, alright? That could put you in even greater danger..."

"Above all, try to redirect his anger away from Allen and the other hostages," Hotch cut in. "We’re working on a way to get inside. You just need to buy us some time."

Buy some time, it was easy for him to say, you thought with sudden frustration. What exactly could you do? It was incredibly hard to make any decisions when you were fully aware that their consequences could result in the death of an innocent person—or people.

Allen was still in front of the unsub, gripped tightly by the gun-wielding man, slightly shaking his head from side to side, clearly overwhelmed by the situation.

"But... but how am I supposed to get the chip out, do you really believe the government..."

"He doesn’t have the right tools," you interrupted, taking a step forward to draw the shooters’ attention to you. You raised your hands in a gesture of surrender as soon as you found yourself in the second man’s line of sight. You were scared of the direction Allen was heading in—after all, Reid had told you not to deny his delusions. Though you weren’t sure it was the right approach, you tried to make eye contact with the unsub. You had a feeling that he might only fully understand what you were trying to convey if you did.

Everyone was looking at you now. Nervously, you swallowed before speaking again.

"If you want him to remove the chip from your body... you’ll need at least a scalpel. Well, and if it was implanted by the government... that might not be enough?"

To your surprise, the second attacker spoke up.

"She's right, Erick, we don't have anything like that. Leave him, we need to get out of here... though fuck, it probably doesn't matter anymore, I wonder if the police have already caught our driver..."

You hoped that the team had heard this and started looking for suspicious vehicles in the area. Erick, or rather the unsub, began to stare intensely at you, analyzing what you'd said.

"Keep it up," Reid said. "It looks like you’ve planted some doubt in his mind about his own plan. You can keep going in that direction, just please, please, be careful..."

"Reid," Hotch admonished him.

You took a deep breath, your mind was working so fast that it was starting to go blank. You had to say something more before it consumed you entirely.

"But... but I'm sure that if you had met under different circumstances, outside the museum, he would have been able to extract the chip..."

"No! I've waited too long, I can't stand having this crap under my skin for another minute! He'll take it out now, or he won't leave here!"

Allen's raised hands trembled at those words.

"How can we communicate with the police? Is there a phone here?" he asked his companion.

"Are you fucking out of your mind..."

"They'll bring us the equipment. A scalpel. They won't have a choice, or I'll shoot them all, one by one."

"We should focus on how to get out of here..."

"I DON'T CARE ABOUT THAT!" the unsub roared at him. Fueled by this outburst, he shoved Allen away so forcefully that the man fell to the floor. The startled man took a step back, unable to hide his fear. It was clear who had the final say in this duo. Erick was not only physically larger, most likely more ruthless, but above all, incredibly unpredictable. Without looking at you, he issued an order.

"Everyone sit against the wall, you too." Allen awkwardly got to his feet and almost ran to the indicated spot.

You didn't want to sit, to put yourself in an even more vulnerable position. But when a man with a submachine gun and a completely deranged gleam in his eyes is standing in front of you, you don't have much of a choice. Slowly, you sat down on the floor, surrounded by all these terrified people.

You studied the faces of everyone around you—scientists and random people who had ended up here simply because they were intrigued by the exhibit's theme. And that innocent curiosity had led them into such a hopeless situation, where each breath, drawn into trembling lungs, could prove to be the final one. What terrified you was the fact that the only thing distinguishing you from them was the tiny microphone pinned to your clothes and the earpiece in your ear.

The woman sitting next to you, so close that your elbows were touching, looked as though she was about to faint. Without hesitation, you offered her your hand, which she took with no resistance. In situations like that, the escape from fear was desperately sought wherever it could be found—even among strangers.

“What’s happening in there now?” Hotch asked.

You explained the situation to him as clearly and logically as possible, correcting anything they might have missed due to their lack of actual insight into what was happening inside the museum. The woman beside you looked at you strangely, smudged mascara around her eyes.

“Please don’t worry,” you whispered, making sure none of the attackers could hear you. Though maybe you shouldn’t have, you felt you needed to reveal yourself to her, to help her survive the nightmare she had found herself in. “I’m... a federal agent. I have contact with the team outside, they’re working on how to get us out of here.”

You didn’t know if those words had particularly soothed her fear—just as you spoke them, Allen practically pressed himself against you, trying to whisper something into your ear.

“Give me your gun,” he practically ordered.

You looked at him with your eyebrows raised in shock. No words were needed. Your face clearly expressed one big what?

He looked like one of those people going on and on about a newly invented device they had been working on for years, staying up every night. In his eyes was a comparable crazy but incredibly self-assured gleam.

“I know you have it, but you won’t use it. Because you're scared. And I don’t blame you!” he quickly added, moving slightly away from you. Still, your faces were tilted toward each other in a conspiratorial whisper.

“But listen to me. He cares about me, right? Or rather, he cares that I get the nonexistent chip from him. He won’t hurt me when I get closer, he’s too desperate, in his eyes, I’m his only chance…”

“You must have lost your mind,” you said through clenched teeth. Was he really willing to take such a risk and play the hero when he and his fiancée were expecting a child? “And what about the other guy, huh? Do you think he’ll just stand there calmly when...?”

“Then I’ll shoot him first. I used to go to the shooting range, I was pretty good at it. The other one will be too scared to hurt me, and then I...”

“Absolutely not,” Reid interjected.

You snorted.

“As if I would even consider it…” you muttered. Looking at Allen, you tapped your forehead. “No way. You’re not risking your life on such a stupid plan where everything could go wrong…”

“Do you think I’m asking for your opinion?” he hissed, clutching his head in desperation. “The answer is no. I’m just saying, give me your gun. Where is it?”

As he said this, he grabbed the fabric of your blazer, searching under it for what he so desperately wanted. You tried to catch his hand, but he trapped it in his grip, digging through the layers of your clothes, under your skirt. You jerked your whole body in an attempt to break free.

“Leave me alone, they’ll notice us soon…”

“What’s he doing?” Reid asked sharply. Although he couldn’t see what was happening, his voice was not only confused, but also clearly worried, maybe even angry.

“Just give it to me, what the hell does it hurt…”

His hand, despite your resistance, finally reached the grip of your gun, slightly sliding it out from beneath your skirt. You shot a quick glance toward the attackers, still engrossed in their conversation—or rather, argument. Terrified by the thought that they might notice what Allen was pulling from under your clothing, you instinctively swung at his face, causing his head to snap back with a muffled cry of pain.

“What language do I need to speak for you to understand? What you’re planning is idiotic,” you said, your words flowing together with a surprisingly calm yet furious ease. You struggled to keep your voice low, feeling as though shouting might make him grasp it faster. But that wasn’t an option. “You’d risk not only your life but everyone else’s,” you said, gesturing toward what you now had no choice but to call the hostages. “And no one wants to die because of some brainless idiot with a hero complex.”

After you hit him, Allen backed away to a distance that no longer invaded your personal space. With your breath quickened, you adjusted the position of the gun, suddenly panicked that it might fall out during his attempt to grab it against your will. Despite yourself, a strange feeling overcame you. Out of everyone—of all the people trapped in the museum—you were the only one with even minimal knowledge of what to do in this situation, the only one with outside communication to the police, and, most importantly... a weapon. And yet, with that arsenal at your disposal, you were doing embarrassingly little to improve the situation.

Your jaw tightened at the thought, your fists clutching the fabric of your blazer so hard that your knuckles turned white. It was astonishing how much that small action helped you regain your composure. Not just the feel of the fabric but also... the scent. You could almost imagine you weren’t entirely alone in this. And though you wouldn’t trade places with Reid or anyone else from the team for anything, you couldn’t shake the feeling they would handle this far better than you were.

And speaking of Reid...

"Are you okay?" he asked again, his tone much softer than before.

"I'm fine," you tried to give your voice a casual, almost dismissive tone, though you doubted you fully succeeded in masking the tension. You let out a helpless scoff in an attempt to lighten it. "I mean, fine as much as one can be fine in this situation..."

You trailed off, and he hesitated before replying.

"Hang in there, okay?" he said, so quietly you thought you might have misheard. It made you wonder if it was because he didn’t want anyone else to overhear what he was saying into the mic. If that were the case, was it because he didn’t want anyone accusing him of chatting with you when he should be doing something more important? Or maybe, he just didn’t want this simple yet anxious message to reach unwelcome ears and lose its sense of privacy. You heard him swallow. "We’ll get you all out of there soon. Garcia got the phone number of one of the attackers, the delusional one—his name’s Erick Larson, by the way. If he has it on him..."

As if on cue, the sound of an incoming call rang out. They stopped talking, and the surprised man reached into his pocket.

"What are you going to do? Negotiate?" you asked.

"Hotch is going to talk to him. The main goal is to get the hostages released."

The word hostage sounded so strange to you; you couldn’t connect it to your situation. A hostage didn’t have a gun tucked under their clothing or communicate with an FBI team through an earpiece. Those people, holding each other's hands in fear and huddled on the floor, were the hostages. Not you.

"Can you stay on the line?" the words slipped out before you could stop them. "Just, I don’t know... tell me how it really is with those ants or something." You squeezed your eyes shut as a wave of embarrassment crashed over you. You were acting like a scared child who needed a bedtime story to forget the monster under the bed. "Forget it, that’s stupid. You’ve probably got your hands full. Focus on helping us, on the negotiations."

"I'm still on the line," he reassured you, even before the echo of your last words faded. "And I’ll stay on it the whole time. And since talking to you might help you not lose your mind in there... well, I guess that counts as helping all of you. The information you’ve given us, everything you’ve told us... you’re playing a crucial role in all of this."

"I don’t think so. I could be doing so much more."

"Like what, something that idiot was planning?" he asked, stressing the word idiot. "Please, don’t even think about it. You’re doing exactly what’s needed. You’re not sticking your neck out, you’re staying in contact with us. You’re calming the others down, like that woman. That... that’s heroism, not blindly rushing at two armed men."

Moved by his words, you weakly smiled. You’d forgotten again that he couldn’t see you, or maybe it was just automatic.

"Stop, I’m going to blush. But... but thank you, Reid."

"You don’t need to thank me. Oh, he picked up..."

And indeed, Erik pressed the phone to his ear, probably realizing that it was the police trying to make contact. You fixed your gaze on him.

A completely new stage of the robbery was beginning, one on which everything depended—negotiations.

*

Spencer had never had a particular obsession with control. 

In the vast majority of crisis situations, all he needed was a deep understanding of the causes and course of events. A thorough analysis of what had happened so far, drawing conclusions based on that, and then coming up with possible solutions, each with its pros and cons, which he also had to consider.

It involved emotionally distancing himself from the situation and relying on advice from his trusty friend—logic. And when he was guided by that cold logic, he didn’t feel the need to actively participate in what was happening around him or take any direct control. But in that particular moment—ever since he had heard the first shot coming from inside the museum, shortly after losing access to the cameras—he was almost losing his mind over how little he could do. Powerlessness was the first blow, the fact that her life, and others', depended on a man with probable schizophrenia, driven by dangerous delusions, the second, much stronger one.

As with every hostage situation, a makeshift operations camp was set up outside the building, where all necessary units gathered. Garcia stayed at her post, but he saw no other option but to go there personally. The rest of the team quickly gathered, and Hotch arrived so fast it seemed like he lived just around the corner. After all, there was a member of his team inside, the one he had sent there, never expecting such a turn of events. The two perpetrators, who were working together, seemed to have two completely different goals. One, apparently, was persuaded to go along with a simple robbery and escape. The second, Erick, however, had a different, more complicated desire from the start. He wanted Allen, who was supposed to extract a non-existent chip from his body, allegedly implanted by the government.

Allen. He spoke that name with an incomprehensible bitterness and disdain. He was disgusted by his thoughtlessness, pure stupidity. Though he was familiar with his achievements in the field of neurotechnology, he couldn't call him a scientist, really not anything other than an idiot. And it was all because he had nearly put her and everyone else in danger, because he pressured her so much that she had to defend herself by striking him in the face. He remembered how once they had slept in the same bed, so small that they almost fell off it and were forced to lie literally on top of each other. By accident, he had jabbed her with his elbow in the ribs, and before he could even whisper an apology, she hit him with such force that he lost his breath. He hoped Allen had taken an even harder blow.

He forced himself back to reality, as everyone gathered around Hotch, who was leaning over the phone. The unsub had answered, and the discussion began.

"We'll deliver what you need. All the equipment. But first, you must release the innocent people inside and promise you won't hurt anyone else. Not Allen, or anyone."

They argued, a lot. Of course, they wanted him to let everyone go, which was, realistically, impossible. Eventually, the number sixteen was agreed upon, a little more than half of the people present.

Through the microphone clipped to her clothes, they could hear him pointing at the people who were to be released. The second perpetrator seemed to have completely given in to his paranoid companion, and stopped trying to convince him to escape. He must have realized it was already too late for that.

“You’re the one who’s leaving,” he said, his words very clear, suggesting he was standing very close to her, pointing at her.

Spencer straightened up, a sudden rush of premature relief washing over him. Premature—that was the key word.

“No,” she protested sharply. “No, let her go instead of me. She’s older and not feeling well. I should stay…”

He pressed the microphone to his mouth, trying to talk her out of it.

“Do what they say, resisting might make him angry…”

“No, Reid, she’s right,” Hotch interrupted him. Spencer looked at his boss in surprise, shaking his head in confusion. Instead of explaining his decision to him, Hotch turned to her.

“You have to do everything you can to stay inside. You’re our only source of information, our access to what’s happening in there.”

“Hotch…”

Someone, JJ, placed a hand on his shoulder, stopping him from protesting further. It dawned on him that they were right, but... it was hard for him to accept. It was true that, as an FBI agent, part of her duty sometimes meant risking her life for the greater good. Still, this decision made his hands ball into fists, and he had to take a deep breath to steady himself. Suddenly, it struck him that if an unfamiliar agent, not a member of the BAU, not his friend, and someone who hadn’t shared a bed with him when his fear of the dark grew stronger, were in the same situation... he would have agreed with Hotch without hesitation.

“I told you to leave, so you leave. There’s gotta be sixteen people, or they won’t bring it to me, goddammit.”

“So let someone else go…” She cut off abruptly, a rustling sound echoing through the air, as if— as if he tugged at her clothes. Spencer almost spoke again but stopped herself. The same thought had crossed Hotch’s face, he saw it. 

“Seriously, this will be better. I... I can help with removing the chip...”

“Allen has to do it.”

“Yes, but…” her voice grew more desperate, trying to come up with something more, an excuse to fulfill her duty.

“Oh, what don’t you understand, you stupid bitch…”

Spencer anticipated the sudden outburst of aggression, he had felt it building for a while. Though the unsub was unpredictable, his anger rose and fell within mere seconds, Spencer knew it was all heading in that direction. So, he squeezed his eyes shut just before the horrible, dull thud rang out, followed by a muffled cry of pain. Then the sound was drowned out by a rush, something like a thud, and he could only guess that she had fallen to the floor.

He didn't open his eyes, but something pricked at his chest. He knew that if he looked at Hotch, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from giving him a big, i told you so. It wasn’t even about being right—he didn’t care about that, not at that moment. What mattered to him was that nothing happened to her, and that was exactly what had just happened.

No one from the team said a word, though Derek turned his gaze away from the speaker, his expression one of discomfort, like someone averting their eyes from an unpleasant scene. Hotch stared at some fixed point ahead, his face unreadable, before leaning into the microphone just as—

“What the hell is this?!” the unsub suddenly screamed. “A gun? Why the hell does she have a gun on her?!”

Reid’s eyes shot open as he nearly dropped to his knees by the microphone, as if somehow that could help. The weapon must have slipped out when she fell, sliding free from where it had been concealed beneath her clothes…

He noticed Elle nervously biting her thumb, her face pale as a sheet. He read the same grim, terrified realization on her face that had already taken root in everyone’s minds. She was burned. Her cover as the assistant was completely blown.

“He can’t find out she’s FBI,” Gideon declared, leaning heavily against the edge of the table. “He’s a paranoid maniac who thinks the government is after him. If he realizes a federal agent has been in there the entire time…”

“Wait!” the second attacker spoke up. He had long since given up and was now quietly following his partner’s orders. “I heard the hostages talking... something about there being someone from the FBI among them, someone who’s in contact with the cops. I thought they were just talking crap, but...”

“How does he know that?” JJ asked, her lips slightly parted in shock.

“She told one of the women,” Spencer blurted out, though it felt like the words came from someone else. Some part of him—still detached from the full realization of what her exposure meant—clung to the fragments of logic not yet consumed by his nerves. “To calm her down... but that woman must have passed it on to someone else.”

“FBI?” the unsub repeated, almost in a daze. “Fucking FBI?”

The sound of something slamming echoed sharply—an explosion of frustration and shock. Every pained whimper, every labored breath she took, reached Spencer with cruel clarity, amplified by that damned new microphone clipped to her chest, capturing every sound in merciless detail.

He wanted to cover his ears, to block it out, but he couldn’t. His lower lip trembled, caught between screaming or vomiting the moment he opened his mouth. 

Covering his ears would have been a selfish gesture, one that would only bring relief to him. She didn’t have that option; all that was left for her was to endure, as he assumed, the next kicks...

He lowered his head, not looking at the others, not wanting to see their equally helpless expressions. And although he hated himself for even thinking about it, he took two steps to move away. To escape from this place, from these sounds. Because he simply couldn’t bear them.

However, he didn’t get far; he staggered as if drunk and had to grab the table tightly to keep from falling. JJ, in some protective impulse that she probably wasn’t even aware of, reached out her hand, wanting to touch his shoulder, but he pushed her away.

“I’m calling him,” Hotch announced, immediately moving into action. “Maybe that’ll stop him…”

“Check if she has a microphone on her. If she’s with the FBI, she could have been spying on us the whole time,” suggested the second attacker, in a strangely satisfied tone. He was probably some sadistic bastard who enjoyed this turn of events.

This caused Erik to stop his attack. He completely ignored the incoming call. She took a breath, inhaling deeply, though it clearly caused her pain.

“She has…”

The unsub’s voice became very clear, he must have located the microphone and then disconnected it from her clothing, carefully watching him.

“We need to go in, we have to do something,” Elle said desperately, but it didn’t stir anyone else. 

Yes, they needed to do something, but... what? Going in meant putting the hostages at risk, and their survival was the priority.

"I knew the government was spying on me," Erick muttered to himself, the microphone had probably slipped from his hand and fallen to the ground. "Not just with the chip, but they also sent that fucking..." He kicked her. "...agent."

"Give it to me," Spencer requested, exhaling with a resigned hiss. He was, of course, referring to the microphone. She still had the earpiece in; she could hear him. He didn’t yet know what he intended to say. Maybe he’d ask her to stay strong? Assure her that it would all be over soon? Would that even count as a lie if he had no real certainty they could take any action to save her? Or was this one of those morally gray situations where a lie was better than the truth?

Without protest, someone handed the microphone to him, practically shoving it into his hands.

But then they lost the connection.

The unsub must have destroyed it, stomping the microphone underfoot.

And before it happened—before the static filled the line—a gunshot rang out.

Spence found himself sitting on a chair. Not that he’d blacked out in the literal sense, but one moment he was standing upright, and the next he was slumped onto the seat—probably the only chair in their makeshift camp across from the museum. It was one of those folding chairs made of black metal and unbelievably uncomfortable. For some reason, their look always reminded him of golf courses in the blazing sun. Sometimes they’d be there… wait, why the hell was he thinking about chairs?

Disoriented, he lifted his gaze. Derek was pacing back and forth, his hands on his head, while Elle and JJ were nowhere in sight. Hotch stood in front of him, turned slightly to the side, eyes fixed on the ground, a phone pressed to his ear. His rolled-up sleeves exposed tense veins on his forearms, his hands clenched into fists.

“You killed a hostage,” Hotch said the moment the attacker picked up. Hearing the words spoken aloud, the gunshot echoed again in Spencer’s mind. He flinched, though he hadn’t the first time it happened for real.

It really happened. This wasn’t some hysterical thought creeping into your mind when someone you care about is late to a meeting and doesn’t pick up their phone, the kind of thought where your brain starts whispering that something terrible must have happened. It wasn’t a dream either, nor a nightmare blending with reality. And it wasn’t some devastating novel, a climactic moment designed to shatter the reader’s heart into pieces.

This

really

happened.

"I’ll remind you of the terms of our agreement," Hotch continued. His tone was usually sharp, leaving no room for argument. But now, having just lost a member of his team and addressing the person responsible for it, his words didn’t just cut—they sliced. Spencer fixed his gaze on him, unable to comprehend how Hotch could remain so composed in the moment. He himself…

“You don’t harm anyone else, and in return, we provide you with the necessary tools. Shooting that innocent person…”

How did it come to this—that the person who, just that morning, ordered Chinese food with him to calm her nerves; who had teasingly told him to clip the microphone onto her, leaving him flustered; whose sweet scent of hair lingered so strongly in his senses that he had to hold his breath just to focus; who, one moment, could make him laugh until tears blurred his vision, and the next, worry so deeply about her that he felt feverish with concern; who listened, truly listened, even when he had grown tired of his own voice; who helped him discover pieces of himself he hadn’t known were there; who revealed, day after day, some new and enchanting fragment of her soul; and whose laughter made him want to capture its melody, bottle it, and keep it for eternity—was now reduced to the cold, detached phrase an innocent person shot dead?

He realized his mind had become entirely consumed with replaying those moments. Thanks to his eidetic memory, each recollection was painfully vivid, yet at the same time—perhaps due to the awareness of what came next—filled with a paralyzing void. Detached from reality, he wasn’t even listening to the ongoing negotiations, only snapping back when the shadow of someone’s figure fell over him.

“Spencer,” Gideon called his name, alternating between looking at him with concern and averting his gaze, as if unable to bear the shattered expression on his face. “Did you hear what Hotch said?”

He couldn’t bring himself to shake his head, though he doubted it was necessary. Rarely did something fail to interest him, especially something Hotch had said, but whatever it was, it had landed firmly in that narrow category. After all, what could Hotch possibly have said? That he’d reached an agreement with the murderer, who would now release eighteen hostages instead of sixteen? Or perhaps, in an act of twisted mercy, he’d declared that once they brought the requested items, the killer would allow one person to go inside and retrieve her body?

He had seen many bodies with gunshot wounds to the head in his life. A vision of her with similar injuries haunted him, so vivid and detailed that he closed his eyes in an attempt to escape it. But the moment he did, the image only grew stronger, searing itself into his mind with unbearable clarity.

"He wants you to go inside pretending to be a surgeon. That’s what the unsub is asking for in exchange for the hostages. Your task would be to fake removing a chip from his body, pulling off one of your magic tricks," Gideon explained matter-of-factly, though his expression betrayed a certain doubt about the plan. He suddenly fell silent, hesitation creeping into his voice. "If you can’t do it… this isn’t an order, kid. No one will blame you if you say no."

“We didn’t know it would be such a terrible mistake,” Gideon said quietly.

“Well, that’s the thing about mistakes,” he scoffed bitterly. “You don’t usually realize you’re making them. But you should be able to predict them, especially when someone’s…” His voice broke, and he looked away, his anger momentarily crumbling into something rawer.

Even though he had lashed out at Gideon, the older man didn’t react with anger. Instead, he stared at Spencer with a calm, almost sorrowful expression. When Spencer stood, he felt the weight of Gideon’s hand resting on his numb shoulder.

“I’ll do it,” he declared after a moment.

There was no fear in his voice, no visible sign of stress. Under different circumstances, he’d likely have been unraveling, nerves fraying at the thought of entering the building with the task of saving her. But now…now all he wanted was to stand face-to-face with the man inside. More specifically, next to his neck. With a scalpel in hand.

There was no time to waste. He practiced his sleight of hand trick—making the chip suddenly appear in his palm—a few times. It had been a while since he’d done it, but even so, it came off flawlessly every time. He clenched the small device tightly in his hand and, before he knew it, found himself standing at the foot of the museum steps.

The doors opened, and the first hostages began to emerge. Their reactions followed the same pattern. First came the shock—the struggle to process that they were truly stepping outside again, alive. Then, as they began to accept it, their terrified, hesitant steps turned into a relieved jog, and their eyes brimmed with tears of gratitude.

Spencer stopped, his gaze fixed on the faces of random strangers as they rushed past. Somewhere, deep down, he held onto a foolish, fleeting hope that she might appear in those doors as well. She didn’t, of course.

But if she had… he thought, his chest tightening at the mere idea. If she had, he wasn’t sure he’d ever stop being thankful. Not necessarily to God, but to everything—every twist of fate—that had brought her back.

He had seen the interior of the building on the camera footage and had managed to memorize it. He knew exactly where to head to meet the unsub. The unsub was standing right in the center of the room. Spencer knew there had to be a second shooter somewhere, but he was afraid to look around. If his gaze happened to land on her, not only would his chip trick fail, but he was also certain he’d never be able to shake the image from his mind. It would embed itself in every cell of his brain, one after the other.

He focused all his attention on him, on Erik. He turned to him trustingly, showing the spot on his neck where he believed the chip was located. Everything about his posture radiated the peak of madness. His voice and expression oscillated between hope, desperation, paranoia, and much more that could be listed.

Spencer tried to concentrate on the chip in his hand, not on the scalpel in his other hand. He knew it would be incredibly foolish, but as he was so close to this man's throat, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He realized that the only thing holding him back was the awareness that the second shooter was likely keeping him in their sights. It was almost certain; he didn’t need to look around to know that. But as soon as the blade touched the man’s skin at the back of his neck, his gaze, against his will, began searching. He looked at the wall where the remaining hostages were gathered, the ones who hadn’t made it into the lucky sixteen. He didn’t find the shooter.

But he found her. If he weren’t wearing his glasses, he might have assumed he’d mistaken her for some other woman. He could only blame his brain and possible hallucinations... but before he could entertain those thoughts, one simple sentence took over his mind.

She was there. Blood dripping from her nose, clothes torn, curled up on the ground among the rest of the hostages, but she was there. She was there, alive.

*

When you stood up for that woman, a brief struggle broke out between you and the unsub. He ordered you to go outside, but the voice in your ear told you to stay inside at all costs. Unsure of what to do, you started mumbling excuses and explanations, leading to an argument... during which he swung his weapon at you, aiming for your face.

As you fell, your weapon—clumsily shoved into your clothing after an argument with Allen—slipped out. And then things escalated rapidly.

Upon learning you were with the FBI, the unsub went into his usual paranoid frenzy. He dropped the microphone he had taken from you, and the heavy kicks of his leather boots landed on your body, on your ribs, on your back. You could barely keep up with protecting yourself, as the blows kept coming faster and faster.

And in that moment, something happened that probably saved your life. But at the same time, it cost another man and his family everything.

Allen sprang at the second attacker, who was almost hypnotized by the injuries being inflicted on you. He seized the moment of distraction, yanking the weapon from his hand and turning it against its owner. You remembered the fleeting look of triumph on his face as he aimed it at Erik. And then, the look of confusion when he was overtaken and the bullets tore through his body.

Somewhere in that moment, your microphone must have been destroyed, leaving you without contact with the team. And without it... you were just like any other hostage. Beaten, forced to stem the blood running from your nose with your blazer. You remembered glancing at it, running your finger over the fabric soaked in crimson, and thinking you'd have to wash it before returning it to Reid. Then, the hopeless realization hit you that maybe you wouldn’t get the chance to do that, and helpless tears filled your eyes for the first time.

It was strange that the unsub decided to spare you. Was it the incoming phone call that distracted him? Or perhaps the death of Allen? Was he the reason for this whole attack? You weren’t sure, maybe both at once. But you managed to return to your spot against the wall, where the other hostages had moved as far away as they could from the two lifeless bodies lying in a pool of blood.

Behind your back, the unsub was arguing with the police, probably Hotch. You weren’t paying attention to their negotiations, instead kneeling beside Allen. Completely staining your clothes, you reached for his hand. His eyes were wide open, his chest... maybe rising slightly, or maybe it was just your perception. In any case, you didn’t grab him to check his pulse, to see if there was anything that could be done to save him. You knew there wasn’t. You took his hand in a gesture of gratitude for everything, filled with sincere and deep compassion, despite everything that had happened between you. Maybe he turned out to be a jerk in that one, crisis situation where it’s normal for people to lose their minds. But what mattered was what kind of man he was in everyday, calm conditions. What kind of friend, fiancé, father he was.

You froze in place, staring at his face, his messy red hair. You snapped back to reality only when you realized the unsub was releasing the hostages. You weren’t part of that group. He didn’t look at you, or Allen, or his dead accomplice, as if you didn’t exist. The people were let out of the building, and then…

You nearly jumped to your feet at the sight of Reid, but the sharp pain in your ribs stopped you. Instead, you stared at him, confused as to why he’d gotten himself into such a messed-up situation alone. No one was with him, and you couldn’t even tell if he was carrying a weapon. Why was he taking such a risk? Couldn’t they have sent someone else?

Although your gaze bored into him, asking without words, he stubbornly avoided looking at you. It took a while, but then it hit you—he’d probably been told to hide the fact that you knew each other. He was pretending to be a surgeon, you realized.

You watched in shock as the unsub dropped his weapon and turned his back to Reid, begging him quietly to remove the chip from his body.

Before Reid touched the scalpel to his neck, he looked straight at you. You couldn’t read the expression on his face, but you knew there was a lot going on. It was a long moment of eye contact, which he broke to get to work. Focused, brow furrowed.

You shook your head in disbelief when he really pulled the tiny device from his body. Wait, so what? It had really been there all along? The unsub wasn’t a paranoid delusional?

At the sight of the chip, Erik staggered with a mix of hysterical joy and relief, and after a moment, he literally collapsed to his knees, burying his face in his hands. His body was shaken by sobs as he muttered his thanks. He was... absolutely harmless. The hostages took advantage of his vulnerability, using the opportunity to silently leave the museum. You found yourself among them, even helping those who, due to shock, struggled to move. How? With your injuries? You had no idea.

You pointed one woman toward the ambulance waiting outside the building, ready to take any injured hostages. Around you, sounds echoed, people were running in all directions. A sense of disconnection and disbelief washed over you, as if you couldn’t quite grasp that it was all over.

You turned around, sensing someone's presence behind you.

The first thing you noticed was that Spencer was still wearing his blue rubber gloves. Strange, but the first thing that came to your mind was to focus on that detail. You even opened your mouth to speak, but stopped when he gently cupped your face in both of his hands. As if you were a fragile relic, he tilted his head slightly from side to side, almost as though he was trying to deny the fact that you were standing before him.

"As if you saw a ghost," you whispered, a faint smile appearing on your face.

Taking advantage of the fact that he was leaning toward you, you pressed your forehead against his. With your eyes still open, you saw his eyelids tremble. When he closed them, you caught sight of that single tear beginning to form beneath them.

*

"Reid," you said, as he and the rest of the team were heading towards the exit. All heads turned in your direction, but you only cared about that one. "Can we talk?"

He opened his mouth, seemingly surprised by the request, but then swallowed and nodded.

"Sure. If... just, sure."

You couldn't help but let out a small laugh. Since your rib injuries were numerous, you had to be taken to the hospital for an X-ray. Your face wasn’t looking too good either. Only a few hours had passed since everything happened, and all your wounds were fresh and painful. After taking a decent amount of painkillers, you felt a bit like you were floating. You were sitting on the hospital bed, your legs resting on the floor as if on a bench. You made space beside you, and although he hesitated for a moment, he sat right next to you, so close your shoulders almost touched.

What you wanted to say, everything you felt, was hard to put into words. So you spent a few minutes in silence, during which you concluded that the simpler, the better.

"Thank you, Reid."

His dark eyes narrowed slightly, and he shook his head dismissively.

"Thank you? For what? I should be thanking you."

You knew this would happen. That he would downplay what he did, and it would be incredibly hard for you to express all the gratitude you felt towards him.

"For what? For everything," you stated briefly. He was preparing a response, but you beat him to it. You even raised a finger decisively, signaling for a moment of silence. You had a lot to say. "Not just for pretending to be a surgeon and getting into that museum. And don't shrug it off like it was a small thing! You saved those people."

"Maybe a little, but…"

"But that's not all. You were… you were with me the whole time. You kept talking to me the entire time…"

"Just like everyone else…"

"Everyone else gave me orders. Told me what to do to survive and what not to do. And of course, I'm incredibly grateful to them—if it weren't for them, I would have probably pissed off that unsub after less than fifteen minutes and we'd all be dead by now."

Reid flinched when you said that. Maybe you should hold off on such words, while the whole situation was still so fresh.

"You... you kept asking how I was feeling, talking to me, just... your voice, the fact that I had you on the other end, it helped me not panic. When, at the very beginning, you asked me to breathe with you..."

You shook your head, holding back the involuntary recollection of that moment, that memory when you were still trapped in that building with two armed men. Helpless and lost, clutching his jacket with all your strength. 

You realized with growing difficulty that you were holding back tears.

Reid had been listening to you quietly the whole time, but suddenly, he lowered his gaze. His hand found yours, hesitated for a moment, then gently grasped it. You immediately squeezed it tightly. Something came to your mind.

"And what did you want to thank me for?" you asked, referring to when he interrupted you the first time.

"It's not... I don't have as much to say as you do," he confessed, circling the topic more than addressing it directly. He still hadn't let go of your hand, and as he thought, his thumb seemed to absentmindedly stroke its surface.

"Wow," you murmured. "I never expected Spencer Reid to say something like that in my presence, but here we are. So?"

He smiled for a moment at your comment. However, that expression quickly gave way to a more serious one, carrying with it the unburied remnants of the horror you had both endured just a few hours ago.

"Just for you being alive," he said. Your brows furrowed slightly when you heard that. It wasn't what you expected. "For a while... when you were still inside, and your mic was destroyed..." With a sigh, he tilted his head back, holding back from returning to that moment. It couldn't have been easy for him, referring to exactly the moment that caused him pain. "We heard a gunshot. Everyone thought it was you.  That's why... that's why I just wanted to thank you for that."

Given that you had absolutely no control over it, those were the strangest thanks anyone had ever given you. But still, they squeezed your heart like no others ever had.

You leaned in to place a kiss on his cheek.

taglist: @she-wont-miss @mggslover @nyeddleblog @dylanobrienswife0420 @wmoony

@heddgie @khxna @marauder-exe-old @yujyujj @charleyreid @kitty-kai @sp3ncelle @pleasantwitchgarden @beesin03 @misserabella @re1dsb1xch

[shroomyv]

ᢉ𐭩-LET ME FINISH!

Pairing: mark Grayson x f!reader

Synopsis: your cooking and mark won’t leave you alone. He’s all cheesy trying to get you out of the kitchen and into bed, but you gotta get em away. You know just the trick.

Warnings: some cheesy dialogue, tit sucking (m!receiving), overstimulation!, cum consumption 😼

A/N: 2 fics in one day, wowza. Honestly was tryna pump these out incase my weekend is more packed than I expected it to be. Also also, thanks for all the love on the last 3 fics wthhhh im literally so fckin grateful dudes and dudettes 😞. I hope you enjoy this one as well but ngl it’s a bit all over the place. Trying to get better at writing I promise I promise. (Tryna get a bit better at describing some of the shi to, cus u guys can’t see my lil mind visuals)

Dishes piled in the sink, pots warming ingredients on the stove, and the aroma of something sweet floating through the air.

You are Mark were cooking together—usually you’d have takeout but tonight you wanted to get your hands messy and show off your cooking skills to your boyfriend. “Hand me that.” You say asking Mark to hand you any ingredients you need at the moment. He was zoned out, his mind on everything but the food. “Mark?” You say in a louder but curious tone.

“Huh, yeah?” He said finally snapping out of whatever trance he was in as he handed you the ingredient.

“You ok?” Usually, when he zoned out he always worried about something. For once it wasn’t that. He had something a bit more risky on his mind.

“Mhm, sorry I was just thinking about you or something.” He said with a soft smile before walking behind you. He towered over you—wrapping his arms around your waist as he started placing kisses on your neck and cheek. “Mark, I'm cooking, be normal. We can do whatever you're planning on your little brain later—just lemme finish cooking.” You said knowing how he got whenever he began kissing you up. Once he got started—there was no stopping him.

“What am I doing…?” He said cheekily as he kept going—beginning to suck on your neck now. You felt yourself starting to grow a bit weak to his lips, they were warm and it felt like your neck was just inviting them there. He was distracting and it honestly seemed like he was trying to get you out of the kitchen.

“You said you were hungry, if you do this I can’t cook mark.” You said trying to shew him away. You were failing miserably since you were just leaning into his lips more and more. It felt so nice—it felt right. However, you knew if he won this one he’d just keep it up. You had to figure out something fast to keep him satisfied and continue cooking.

“Yeah, I'm hungry…but I can eat other stuff too…” Mark was making hints about eating you out once again. He was so corny but you liked every second of it. You two eventually backed away from the counter as you leaned into his kisses more. You finally had a plan in mind—all you had to do now was put it in motion.

“If that’s the case, I wanna eat some other stuff too.” You said in a passionate tone as your positions were now changed. He went from behind you with his arms wrapped around your waist to behind the one pressed against the counter as you were in front of him.

You knew he was sensitive—it was honestly one of your favorite things about him. If he wanted to start something, you’d gladly finish it for once. “Well…what do you wanna eat.” He asked in a bashful tone as if he was ready to back out now since he was practically cornered.

“Just wait and see…” you say blissfully as you get his shirt off of him. His chest was practically staring at you as if they needed to be sucked. His eyes shot everywhere around the room trying his best not to freak out and cum on the spot.

“Mark…you gotta look at me or I'm not doing it.” He was in a tough spot now but he did exactly as he was told as his eyes tried his best to focus on you. Your mouth went to his chest as they softly began licking at the nipple. He gripped onto the counter beginning to whimper already. That’s what you liked to hear, it’s what you wanted to hear.

“Oh, oh fuck-“ he groans out as his head rolls back a bit. He was such a sensitive boy. You use your free hand to start rubbing and twisting at the other nipple feeling it perk up in a meer seconds. He was squirming a little bit already. He wanted this, he wanted to distract you from cooking. You’d give him what he wanted since he did exactly that. You kept sucking at his nipple moving your tongue around it

Pop—smack

The sound of your mouth on his chest as he was struggling for dear life. You could see his legs getting a bit shaky already and you loved the sight of it. “Baby…please-“ he said in a whiney tone—he was struggling to keep it together as you made sure you worked him up.

“You wanna cum?” You say in a snarky tone as you continue sucking at his nipple. You liked how pink it was like a little strawberry. He was so sensitive in this area—like a delicate little flower. You’d use that to your advantage. You move one hand off his chest—slipping it down to his sweatpants as you try to get it off. He begins to wiggle and squirm helping the process go faster as they slide down to his ankles.

The same process was repeated with his boxers until you were finally able to see his cock. You could see the precum already dripping down from his pretty pink tip. God, you were obsessed. First, you teased, softly moving a finger up and down his cock.

“Cmon…please don’t…” he cooed out as he felt like he was gonna explode already. You liked seeing him like this. You liked seeing him beg to keep going—it brought happiness to your horny little soul. Your viltrumite boyfriend was now at your whim just from your simple tongue on his chest. Finally, you cut the teasing out.

You began softly stroking his cock using any of his precum as lube while you kept sucking at his tit. You loved looking up and seeing his struggling face trying to keep any bit of composure. He kept squirming and twisting—he didn’t even try to keep in noises anymore. He moaned and whimpered so loud you wouldn’t be surprised if the whole world heard. You loved it so much though, it was perfect.

“Nngh- oh…oh fuck-!” He huffed n whimpered out as he began to cum. Your mouth makes a popping sound as it lets go of his nipple. You bring your cum soaked hand up to your face licking it off each finger. Mark just stared in complete awe and astonishment. He was entranced.

You knew he had at least one more in him. You had to get it out of him so he could stay out of the kitchen and let you finish cooking.

Your lips popping back on his nipple—this time you give attention to the one you ignored the first time. Everything felt more intense to him this time. He felt like he was melting into the counter.

“Baby…f…fuck-“ he moaned out struggling to form full sentences. Your hand got back to work on his cock except this time, you wouldn’t let him cum as quickly—you had to make sure he was a little exhausted when you were done with him. Your hand going fast, then slow, then speeding up again as it teased the hell out of his cock. You could see tears swelling up in his eyes from being edged by you. He was biting his lip, trying to keep in any noise as your mouth popped off his nipple for a second to speak.

“Ah ah, lemme hear all of it” you commanded softly before going right back to sucking his chest. “Can I…can..” Mark was trying to huff out some wish. You began moving a bit faster by stroking his cock as you could just feel he was struggling. He felt overstimulated already but knew it wasn’t over.

“Can you what mark?” You said in a muffled tone as your mouth was stuffed with his nipple. You were honestly starting to grow wet from this yourself. Seeing him like this was like a reward. He was starting to become a pathetic little mess.

“Can…can-“ he couldn’t even form a full sentence. You saw drool seeping from the side of his mouth as he struggled to try not to cum. He knew you wanted him to ask for it first but it was so fucking hard. His hip staring bucking into your hand—fapping for dear life as if he was ready to explode.

“Can…can…I cum- ngh- please? I need…to finish-” He said with a tear of pleasure rolling down the side of his face as you began sucking harder and stroking as fast as you could. If he was about to finish, you were gonna make it worthwhile.

“Sure you can…”

You said with a smirk as you sucked harder on his nipple one more time before he came. He was practically laid out against the

counter. “Since I let you finish, can I finish to mark?” You asked in a teasing way as you did want to finish cooking with him trying to fuck or distract you now. He just gave a shaky thumbs up before trembling his way to the bathroom to clean himself up.

You licked the cum off your hand before washing it anyway since you had to finish cooking.

You finally got to finish not only that you got a little treat—overstimulating your boyfriend.

“Mark! C'mon come eat.” You call out to him from the kitchen as he comes. Before you could even set plates out he grabs you up—pinning you against the counter now.

“You finished cooking like you wanted…my turn!” Mark let you have a moment/second to win. Now he was coming back to redeem himself. You just leaned back into the counter knowing it was your turn now and he’d finish whenever he wanted to…